𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ Vimiti ⭑.ᐟ

⭑.ᐟ she/they . multi-fandom . infj . writer . most of my life is spent consuming media

[honeyxmonkey]

I understand why some people think Kara killing Krem at the end invalidated what she spent the whole movie telling Ruthye—but hear me out

Krem didn't deserve to live. He was a pedophile, a murderer, and a sex trafficker

Kara Zor-El knew that he shouldn't be allowed to live bc he'd just keep doing what he was doing

But does her murdering him in place of Ruthye invalidate her teaching Ruthye "murder is wrong"?

Well, no bc i dont rlly think the message was "murder is wrong"

It was "dont let your grief and rage consume you"

If Ruthye had murdered Krem in her grief and anger it would've consumed her. Kara didnt want her to live with that. She sacrificed a part of herself to kill Krem, so Ruthye wouldn't have to be the one who did it

Yes, Krem was a piece of shit who deserved to die

But that doesn't mean the 13 yr old girl whose entirely family was murdered should've been the one to kill him. Lets not put that on her to do. She shouldn't have to. Kara knew that, its why she did it instead

[agnustar]

I LOVED “Thats my chore 😩😩”

Now imagine that but it’s something they’ve been putting off for long enough that you say ‘Fuck it’ and do it yourself, only to get hurt, but also they told you not to do it so you gotta try(emphasis on try) to hide your injury from them 🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾

ACCIDENTS HAPPEN | ft. bruce wayne, dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake

contents :: smau. established relationship. fluff. gender neutral reader. some suggestive content in jason & tim's. tim is a perv and a little freak but he's cute and loveable so it's okay ^u^ ... sort of a part two for this post

lambie's notes :: this was so much fun !! and my first request everrrr ! i hope i did it justice, i soooorta went off a bit, especially in tim's ^^7

— BRUCE WAYNE

— DICK GRAYSON

— JASON TODD

— TIM DRAKE

[acanfullofspiders]

Old habits die hard...

[medusas-daughter]

Of course they don’t like Milly Alcock’s Supergirl. She’s a grown ass woman with zero love interests who spends the movie saving her dog, casually dismantling a sex trafficking ring while she’s at it, and preaching the importance of being good, not nice or smiley or cheerful but good. I for one adored the movie and I really hope I’ll get to see more of Alcock’s Supergirl she’s now my favorite iteration of her and I love her so dearly.

[zucchnini]

if you have any recs please link them!!!

[mcrdvcks]

touch down .ᐟ

summary: Kara asks you to babysit Krypto while her and Clark deal with some business elsewhere. Turns out, Krypto has a hard time staying clean. word count: 3.7k+ pairing: kara zor-el x fem!reader notes: uhhhh... hello??? this is my first full wlw fic and it's inspired by my own dogs. also, why do the supercousins both have to be so hot?????? i'm dying over here warnings/tags: no use of y/n, fluff fluff fluff, kara and clark live together, krypto is a menace, bath time!, clark is awkward as usual, idk really know what to tag so yeah

It wasn’t much of a problem when Kara asked you to watch after Krypto while her and Clark handled some super-business elsewhere; you had done it many times before. Kara handed you the keys to their apartment, kissed you and Krypto goodbye, and flew off into the sky with her cousin.

Normally it was simple: you would take a good long walk with Krypto, let him tire himself out as much as possible, and by the time you got back to the apartment he would fall asleep as soon as he laid down.

Except this time he seemed intrigued by the dog park you normally pass by and you decided to make a pitstop, and that’s where it all went downhill. Krypto didn’t want to play with the other dogs, he instead broke free from the leash and started to chase squirrels around the small park, landing himself in mud on more than one occasion.

So by the time you got back to their apartment, you knew you couldn’t let Krypto touch anything. The second the elevator doors opened, you planted both hands on his muddy chest and gave him the kind of look you had seen Kara give him when he tried to bring a piece of satellite debris inside like it was a toy. “No couch,” you warned, already struggling to keep him in place because Krypto was vibrating with the kind of joy only a dog covered in mud could feel. “No bed, no rugs, no flying onto the ceiling, no shaking, and I know you understand me.”

Krypto blinked up at you with wide, innocent eyes, his white fur now several different shades of brown, and then his tail wagged hard enough to thump against the hallway wall. He took one hopeful step toward the apartment, and you immediately tightened your grip on the leash. “Don’t even think about it,” you said, fumbling with the keys Kara had given you while trying to keep his muddy paws from touching the door. “Clark already looks like he’s one surprise away from writing a formal apartment rules list, and I’m not being the reason he has to mop muddy paw prints off the ceiling.”

The door opened, and Krypto tried to bolt inside like he had suddenly remembered every soft surface he had ever loved. You caught him around the middle with both arms, which would have been more impressive if he hadn’t been a super-dog and if your shoes weren’t slipping slightly on the floor from the mud already dropping off him. “Bathroom,” you grunted, practically dragging yourself more than him. “We’re going straight to the bathroom, and you’re not going to act like I’m betraying you, because this is entirely your fault.”

Krypto made a small, offended sound, but he let you guide him down the hall, mostly because you kept one arm hooked around his muddy chest and the other hand clamped on his leash. He kept looking over his shoulder at the living room like he was deeply considering making a run for it, and you kept steering him harder toward the bathroom. “Do not look at the couch like that,” you said, breathless by the time you reached the tile. “That couch has done nothing to you, and Clark is probably attached to it.”

The bathroom was clean in a way that made you feel instantly guilty for what was about to happen to it. Clark’s towel was folded neatly on the rack, Kara’s things were in a little pile near the sink, and there was a bottle of shampoo sitting beside what you were pretty sure was Lois’ hairdryer from the last time she had stayed over and left half her things behind. You stared at the bathtub, then at Krypto, then at the mud already caking around his paws. “Okay,” you said slowly, rolling up your sleeves. “This is fine. This is very normal. People bathe dogs every day.”

Krypto sneezed, which sent a tiny spray of mud onto the lower cabinet, and you closed your eyes for one long second before pointing at the tub. “In,” you told him, using your sternest voice, the one that usually worked when he tried to sniff your food too closely. He stepped one paw into the tub, then another, and for one beautiful moment, you thought he was going to cooperate. Then he lifted his head, looked directly at the shower curtain like it had personally challenged him, and floated three feet into the air.

“No,” you said immediately, reaching up and grabbing him around the stomach before he could drift any higher. “Absolutely not. Kara trusted me with you, and I am not explaining to her that you escaped bath time by using aerial superiority.” Krypto huffed, his paws paddling gently in the air, and you pulled him back down into the tub with a wet squeak of mud against porcelain. “Thank you,” you said, still holding him down with both hands. “You are so brave… but you’re also disgusting.”

You turned the water on carefully, testing it with your wrist first because Kara would absolutely know if you gave her dog water that was too cold or too hot. Krypto watched the stream hit the tub like it was a brand-new scientific discovery, then stuck his nose under it and immediately sneezed again. “Don’t inhale it,” you said, grabbing the detachable shower head and trying to wet the muddiest parts of him. “You’ve flown through space and fought criminals, I know running water isn’t where we fall apart.”

The mud started sliding off him in thick brown streaks, turning the bottom of the tub into something that looked deeply unfortunate. Krypto lifted one paw, stared at the dirty water, and then began trotting in place, splashing water up the sides of the tub and all over your shirt. “Krypto!” you said, trying not to laugh because laughing would only encourage him. “No running in the bathtub! That feels like a rule I shouldn’t have to say out loud.”

He trotted faster, delighted by the splashing, and the water slapped against the curtain, the tile, your jeans, and somehow the mirror, while also making the shampoo bottle fall right into the tub, making bubbles start to form. You reached for his collar, but he ducked his head and spun in a tight circle, creating a tiny muddy whirlpool around his paws. “Stop!” you said, laughing now despite yourself as water dripped down your face. “Oh my god, Kara is going to come home and think I wrestled a swamp creature in here.”

Krypto barked once, sharp and happy, then snapped his mouth toward the bubbles gathering near the drain. You moved the shampoo bottle out of reach just in time, because his attention shifted to it with alarming focus. “No, you cannot eat that,” you said, holding the bottle high above your head while he stretched his neck toward it. “This is not a snack, this is literally shampoo, and I don’t care if it smells like coconut, you are not eating Kara’s shampoo.”

He made another offended noise, then licked a cluster of bubbles off the side of the tub before you could stop him. “Krypto!” you said, wiping bubbles off his snout with your wet sleeve. “You are making this so much harder than it has to be. I need you to understand that this is a five-minute bath if you behave, and a forty-minute bath if you keep trying to consume soap like it’s part of your diet.”

Krypto stared at you, bubbles clinging to the fur around his mouth, and wagged his tail hard enough to send another spray of water onto the floor. You sighed, squeezing shampoo into your palm and working it carefully into the cleaner parts of his fur first. “Your mother is so lucky you’re cute,” you muttered, scrubbing behind his ears while he leaned into your hands like the entire bath had suddenly become his idea.

He seemed to love the ear-scrubbing part, at least, because his eyes went half-lidded and his body finally relaxed under your hands. You took advantage of his temporary peace and washed his neck, chest, legs, and the underside of his paws, rinsing away as much mud as you could before he remembered he had free will. “See?” you said, working your fingers carefully through a stubborn patch of dirt near his shoulder. “This is nice, we can do nice. We don’t have to turn Clark’s bathroom into a disaster zone.”

The peace lasted until you rinsed his back, because the second the water ran down his spine, Krypto sprang upward with a startled bark and hovered above the tub again. Water poured off him in sheets, dripping all over the bath mat and your socks. You grabbed his front legs and stared up at him, soaked from your hairline down. “I swear, if you touch that ceiling while covered in shampoo, I’m telling Kara you tried to frame me.”

Krypto whined softly, not guilty in the slightest, and you used both hands to pull him back into the tub. He landed with a splash that sent water over the edge and across the tile, and you stood there for a moment, dripping and exhausted, holding the shower head like you were negotiating with a tiny god. “Okay,” you said, breathing out through your nose. “New plan, you stand there, I rinse you, and nobody flies unless there is a building on fire.”

He actually stood still after that, though you suspected it was mostly because he liked the way you were scratching under his chin with one hand while rinsing him with the other. The brown water gradually turned clearer, and the white of his fur came back in patches until he looked like Kara’s dog again instead of something that had crawled out of a construction site. You rinsed him twice just to be safe, because if Kara buried her face in his fur later and got a mouthful of coconut shampoo, you were never going to hear the end of it.

When you finally turned the water off, Krypto shook himself before you could stop him. The spray hit you full force, splattering the mirror, the towels, the sink, and probably places you wouldn’t discover until Clark asked about them three days from now. You froze, eyes closed, arms slightly out, while Krypto jumped out of the tub and stood in front of you looking incredibly proud of himself. “Thank you,” you said flatly, wiping water from your face. “That was incredibly helpful.”

You grabbed the biggest towel you could find and wrapped it around him before he got another chance to shake. Krypto leaned into the towel immediately, wagging his tail as you rubbed him down, and you had to admit he looked painfully cute with only his nose poking out. “Oh, now you’re sweet,” you said, scrubbing the towel over his back. “Now that I’m soaked, the floor is soaked, and the bathroom looks like a pond exploded in it, now you want to be adorable.”

He licked your wrist, and you rolled your eyes while rubbing the towel over his head. “Don’t try to charm me,” you told him, though your voice had already gone soft. “I’m immune to that… Mostly… A little.” Krypto shoved his face against your stomach, still wrapped in the towel, and you gave in long enough to kiss the top of his damp head. “Fine, you’re forgiven, but only because Kara loves you and because you’re cute when you’re not trying to eat soap.”

The towel helped, but Krypto was still damp enough that letting him loose in the apartment felt dangerous. You glanced around the bathroom and spotted the hairdryer on the counter, half-hidden behind a brush and a bottle of lotion that definitely didn’t belong to Clark. “Okay,” you said, picking it up and checking the settings. “This is either Lois’ or Kara stole it from Lois and forgot to return it, which is a problem for them and not for us.”

Krypto watched the hairdryer with interest, his head tilting to the side as you plugged it in. “Don’t bite this,” you warned, aiming it away from him first. “This has electricity, and I’m pretty sure even you shouldn’t chew on electricity.”

You turned it on low, expecting Krypto to bark, flinch, or fly straight up again. Instead, he went completely still, ears perking as the warm air blew against his chest. You moved it a little closer, careful not to make it too hot, and his eyes widened like you had just introduced him to the greatest invention Earth had ever created. “Oh,” you said, watching as he leaned toward it. “You like that?”

Krypto took one careful step closer, then another, then he pushed his face directly toward the warm stream of air, his damp fur ruffling back from his snout, and you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing too loudly. “No, not that close,” you said, gently guiding his face back with your free hand. “You cannot become one with the hairdryer, we need reasonable distance.”

He disagreed, very strongly, apparently, because every time you moved the hairdryer to dry his side, he shuffled after it, pressing closer until his nose nearly bumped the end. You adjusted the angle, and he followed, you moved to his back legs, and he turned so the warm air stayed on his chest. “Krypto,” you said, laughing now. “I am trying to dry all of you, not just the front half of you.”

He wagged his tail, utterly content, and leaned his whole body toward the hairdryer with the kind of devotion he usually reserved for Kara walking through the door. You worked around him as best you could, one hand rubbing through his fur while the other moved the dryer over his back, neck, and legs. He kept trying to scoot closer, and more than once you had to press your palm to his chest and gently push him back. “Personal space,” you reminded him. “You and Kara both struggle with it, actually.”

By the time you heard the apartment door open, the bathroom floor was covered in damp towels, your clothes were wet, and Krypto was sitting next to the tub like royalty, eyes half-closed while you blew warm air over his chest. You were kneeling beside him, one sleeve pushed up and the other hanging wet around your wrist, trying to dry the last stubborn damp spot behind his ears. “If that’s you, Kara,” you called, raising your voice over the hairdryer, “before you say anything, he was brown when we came in.”

There was a brief silence from the hallway, followed by Clark’s voice, cautious and already concerned. “Brown?”

Kara appeared in the doorway a second later, still in her suit, her hair a little windswept from flying and her expression shifting instantly from confusion to amusement. Clark came up behind her and looked over her shoulder, eyebrows lifting as he took in the wet floor, the muddy towel pile, the shampoo bottle sitting safely on the sink, and Krypto trying to inch his face closer to the hairdryer. Kara’s mouth twitched. “What did my dog do?”

“Your dog,” you said pointedly, because that part mattered, “discovered mud, tried to eat shampoo, attempted to flee bath time vertically, ran laps in the tub, and now apparently believes this hairdryer is the best thing on the planet.” You angled the dryer away for one second, and Krypto immediately leaned after it with a soft, needy sound. “See? This is who you raised.”

Kara stepped fully into the bathroom, biting back a laugh as she crouched beside the tub. “Krypto,” she said, and he finally looked away from the hairdryer long enough to perk up at her. His tail thumped against the floor, sending a small splash of leftover water onto the tile, and Kara reached out to scratch under his chin. “Did you behave for her?”

“He did not,” you said at the same time Krypto barked proudly.

Clark made a quiet sound that was very clearly him trying not to laugh, then looked at the water on the mirror and the damp pawprint on the side of the tub. “I’m guessing the dog park was involved,” he said, leaning one hand against the doorframe while staying far enough back that Krypto couldn’t shake water onto him. “That’s usually where these stories begin.”

“The dog park was involved for maybe ninety seconds before he decided the squirrels were fugitives,” you said, turning the hairdryer back toward Krypto’s shoulder. “And before anyone asks, no, I don’t know how a dog with super-speed still managed to land in every muddy patch individually, but he did. It was honestly impressive.”

Kara looked at you then, really looked at you, taking in your wet shirt, damp hair, bare feet, and the stubborn concentration on your face as you tried to keep the dryer at a safe distance from her extremely spoiled dog. Her expression softened in that way that always made your stomach flip, warm and amused and a little too fond. “You gave him a bath by yourself?”

“I had limited options,” you said, trying to sound casual even though Kara was looking at you like that. “It was either this or let him jump on Clark’s couch while looking like a chocolate lab, and I didn’t think any of us were emotionally prepared for that.”

Clark nodded solemnly from the doorway. “I appreciate your service.”

“You’re welcome,” you said, pointing the dryer toward Krypto’s side again while he tried to follow it. “Also, I used the coconut shampoo, and before you blame me, he did try to eat it twice, so honestly I think I handled that pretty well.”

Kara laughed, low and warm, and reached over to scratch Krypto’s damp head. “He likes coconut.”

“He likes consuming things that aren’t food,” you corrected, moving the dryer away when Krypto pressed too close again. “There’s a difference.”

Krypto whined as the warm air shifted away from his face, and Kara’s grin widened. “Oh, he really does like that thing.”

“He’s obsessed,” you said, letting the air blow gently against his chest again. “He has never been more cooperative in his life. I’m pretty sure if we ever need him to sit still during a crisis, we just bring the hairdryer.”

Clark looked between Kara and Krypto, his expression turning thoughtful in a way that made you instantly suspicious. “I don’t think a hairdryer would be standard field equipment.”

Kara glanced back at him. “You carry tiny snacks in your belt sometimes for him.”

Clark straightened a little. “That’s different.”

“It’s not,” Kara said easily, and you pressed your lips together, trying not to smile too hard because Clark looked like he regretted walking into the conversation. Kara turned back to you, her shoulder brushing yours as she leaned closer to inspect Krypto’s fur. “He’s clean, though. You did good.”

“I did good?” you repeated, arching a brow at her. “Kara, I look like I lost a fight with a sink.”

“You look cute,” she said, like that settled it.

Clark immediately looked at the ceiling, as if he had just remembered he was related to one of the people in the room and did not want to be legally present for flirting. You felt your face warm, but Kara only looked more amused. “Don’t start,” you muttered, turning the hairdryer off for a second so you could hear yourself think. Krypto instantly nudged your hand with his nose, offended by the loss of warm air, and you sighed. “You too? Really?”

Kara leaned in and kissed you quickly, soft and sweet, one hand brushing the side of your damp jaw. It was over before you could fully react, but it still made your breath catch in the embarrassingly easy way she always managed. Clark made a strangled sound behind her and lifted one hand to cover his eyes. “Okay,” he said awkwardly, turning his head toward the hallway. “I’m just going to give everyone privacy. Including the dog, apparently.”

Kara pulled back with a grin, completely unbothered, while you tried not to look as flustered as you felt. “You’ve seen us kiss before,” she said over her shoulder.

Clark kept his hand over his eyes. “That doesn’t mean I need to stand in a bathroom and watch it happen next to a wet dog.”

Krypto barked loudly at the sound of Clark’s voice, then shoved his face toward the hairdryer again like he was trying to remind everyone what the real priority was. You huffed out a laugh and turned it back on low, and he immediately settled, eyes going soft as the warm air ruffled his fur. Kara watched him for a second, then looked at you with that same affectionate little smile. “He might like you more than me now.”

“That’s not true,” you said, even though Krypto had fully leaned his weight into your arm and seemed unwilling to move unless the hairdryer moved with him. “He loves you. I’m just the person currently holding his new favorite object.”

Kara rested her chin lightly on your shoulder, careful not to get too close to the dryer, and Krypto’s tail started thumping again as if he had successfully gathered his two favorite people in one place. “Still,” she said, her voice quieter near your ear, “thanks for taking care of him.”

You softened despite yourself, letting the dryer move slowly over Krypto’s side while Kara stayed tucked close to you. “Yeah, well,” you said, glancing at the soaked towels and the disaster of a floor, “next time you ask me to dog-sit, I’m charging extra for mud removal.”

Clark, already halfway down the hall, called back, “I’ll pay it.”

Kara laughed against your shoulder, and Krypto barked once like he agreed. You looked down at him, at his bright clean fur and his ridiculous, blissed-out expression as he tried to press even closer to the warm air, and shook your head. “You are so lucky you’re loved,” you told him, keeping one hand firm on his chest before he could climb into the hairdryer. “And you are never going to the dog park without Kara again.”

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes @macbaetwo @demiebarnes @angel113431

[torupng]

#drabble.ᐟ ⸝⸝ bf!wally west ⸝⸝ clingy!wally ⸝⸝ fluff ⸝⸝ established rs ⸝⸝ sfw ⸝⸝ fem!reader.

───〃★ dc masterlist !

the house was weirdly quiet. rarely happened when your boyfriend was a living, breathing and walking sound machine.

no alarms blaring, no city-shattering crises, no speedster-induced whirlwinds tearing through the living room at mach speed. just the soft scratch of your pen against paper, the occasional flip of a textbook page, and the golden glow of the bedside lamp.

you were deep in it. so deep that the words on the page started to blur together and you had to read the same sentence three times, maybe even more, before it actually registered. your highlighters were scattered across the duvet and your notes were a mess of margin scribbles and underlined key terms, and your brain was running on caffeine and sheer determination.

the test was in two days. you were going to annihilate it.

or at least, that had been the plan. looking at it now maybe it’ll annihilate you instead.

the first sign that something was wrong was the complete lack of dramatic entrance. no sonic boom. no flash of red lightning zipping through the window. no obnoxious call of "honey, i'm home!" that you could hear from three blocks away.

instead, there was just a sudden, heavy weight crashing onto the bed next to you.

you flinched, nearly sending your highlighter flying across the room. "what the—"

but the words died in your throat.

wally was sprawled out on his stomach beside you, face half-buried in your pillow, one arm already snaking across your waist like it was always there. his suit was smudged with ash and dirt, the fabric torn in a few places, and his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat.

he didn't move. didn't crack a joke. didn't even make a smart remark about how your highlighters looked like a kindergarten art project.

he just… lay there, breathing slow and deep, utterly still.

and that was when your heart clenched.

because wally was never still. the man was a perpetual motion machine, a human manifestation of restless energy and nonstop chatter. even when he was supposedly "relaxing" on the couch, his foot would be tapping, his fingers drumming against whatever surface was closest, his mouth running a mile a minute about anything and everything that crossed his mind.

this version of him—this quiet, limp, completely drained version—was wrong. so utterly wrong.

you set your highlighter down carefully, your eyes scanning his face. the usual mischievous glint was absent from his closed eyes. the easy grin that defined his entire existence was nowhere to be found. his shoulders, normally so loose and carefree, were tense even in sleep.

"walls?" you said softly, reaching out to brush a strand of sweaty hair from his forehead.

he let out a low, muffled groan into the pillow. "mmph."

"eloquent as always," you murmured, making an attempt at a joke, though your voice was gentler than you intended. "you look like you went ten rounds with a building."

"felt like it," he mumbled, his voice thick with exhaustion. "there was... a lot of fire. and running. so much running."

you felt a pang of sympathy so sharp it almost hurt. "was it bad?"

"bad enough." he cracked one eye open, just barely, and the green of his iris was duller than usual, lacking its typical spark. "but i'm here now."

"yeah?" you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips. "and what exactly are you planning to do now that you're here?"

instead of answering, he tightened his arm around your waist and pulled. you let out a surprised yelp as you were dragged down onto the mattress beside him, your textbook sliding off your lap and landing with a soft thud on the floor.

"wally!" you protested, but you were already laughing. "my notes."

"your notes can wait," he mumbled, immediately burrowing his face into the curve of your neck. his breath was warm against your skin, and you could feel the tension slowly bleeding out of him as he melted against you. "this is more important."

"you're impossible," you sighed, your hand already finding its way into his hair, fingers threading through the sweat-damp strands in a calming rhythm.

he hummed in approval, the sound vibrating against your collarbone. "that's me. impossible. your favorite impossible."

"the jury's still out on that one," you teased.

he huffed a weak laugh, but didn't argue. his arm around your waist tightened by a little bit, pulling you impossibly closer until there was nearly no space left between you. his body was warm—always warm, running at a constant temperature that should have been uncomfortable but was somehow the most comforting thing in the world.

you lay there for a moment, letting him bask in your presence and feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat against your side. it was slower than usual. calmer. like he was finally allowing himself to just... stop. which wasn’t common for him.

but your eyes kept drifting to the textbook on the floor, its pages splayed open and vulnerable. your meticulously organized notes were probably getting crumpled. some of your highlighters had rolled off the bed. and somewhere in the back of your mind, a little annoying voice was screaming about chemical equations and reaction mechanisms.

"you know," you said carefully, "i really do have to study. this test is going to be brutal."

"no."

"wally—"

"later." the word was muffled against your skin, but there was no mistaking the stubbornness behind it. he wasn’t gonna let you leave. "you can study later."

"i can't study later. the test is in two days."

"and the world almost ended an hour ago," he countered, tilting his head up just enough to fix you with a sleepy, pleading look. "the least you can do is provide your favorite hero with some well-deserved post-apocalyptic cuddles."

you snorted. "the world didn't almost end. it was a fire demon."

"same thing," he insisted, his voice taking on that whiny, petulant tone that always drew giggles from you. "there was fire. there was a demon. there was a distinct possibility of catastrophic property damage. i deserve compensation."

"oh, you deserve compensation, do you?"

"extensive compensation." he punctuated the statement by pressing a sloppy kiss to your shoulder. "preferably in the form of your undivided attention. for at least the next hour. maybe two."

"you're annoying," you said, followed by a chuckle. you were already giving up. your hand continued its path through his hair, and you could feel his muscles loosening further, his breathing evening out into something deeper and more peaceful.

his eyes fluttered closed again, and a small, contented smile finally tugged at the corner of his mouth. "you love it."

"i tolerate it," you corrected. the fondness in your voice was impossible to miss.

"same thing," he mumbled again, already half-asleep.

you shook your head, a laugh bubbling up from your chest. "you're impossible."

"you said that already."

"because it bears repeating."

he hummed in response, too tired to muster a proper retort. his grip on your waist slackened slightly, his body going heavy and lax against yours. the tension that had been wound tight in his shoulders finally released, and he let out a long, shaky exhale that seemed to carry the weight of the entire day with it. and it probably did, too.

you looked down at him—this ridiculous, impossible, utterly lovable man who could outrun sound but couldn't seem to outrun his need for you. his face was loose with exhaustion, the worry lines smoothed away, and he looked younger in this state.

your heart did that stupid little flip it always did when you looked at him like this.

carefully, you reached for your phone on the nightstand, ignoring the textbook still lying abandoned on the floor. you'd study later. like he said. the equations would still be there tomorrow.

right now, your priority was making sure this reckless, self-sacrificing idiot of a man got the rest he so clearly needed.

he shifted in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible, and you smiled down at him.

"sleep, speedster," you whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "i'll be here when you wake up."

© nagumolvr , you do not have permission to translate, steal, repost, or feed my work to ai.

: @flufy6836 @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @rosieposiediditagain @ninininini08

[dorims]

dejame untarte sunblock pa' que no te quemes.

despite wally west and the sun never seeing eye to eye, he's loyal to his futile attempts at getting a tan. or, who were you to deny your boyfriend a helping hand when facing the consequences of his actions.

pairing. wally west x reader wc. 1.9k warnings. maybe insecure wally? a little suggestive at times but nothing graphic, 90% sure it might be ooc wally a/n. so...i said i was gonna post this a while back and then i didnt! but i am now!! and i hope you enjoy!!!

dividers by @/pixopix

“Princess angel baby.”

The tip of the pen you held dangerously close to your waterline stills, not wanting to poke your eye out. You hum, instead of turning around, listening intently as your boyfriend makes his way inside the bedroom. 

“Please, help me.” 

His urgent plea trickles down your spine like a splash of freezing cold water.

Before you know it, you are facing his way.

You cover your mouth with one hand, as if that could dampen the dread harboring inside of you at the harrowing sight.

It should be impossible for him to move in the state he’s in, but pain has never stopped Wally West from seeking you out when he needed it the most.

Each step he takes towards you is slow and calculated. The creaking floorboard underneath his weight gives his discomfort away. 

“What happened to you?”

Your free hand stretches limply in front of his chest as your brain catches up to what you were about to do. Running your hands in a soothing motion all over his skin is all you wanted, it’s what you always did, but right now you know it would do no good. Your touch would only hurt him even more.

“Baby, what happened?”

Wally sighs, flinching as if breathing itself hurt. 

“I took a nap.”

He tries to bite the sheepishness away, letting his upper teeth graze his lower lip. The pain that shoots up his body, however, is too much. 

“Where?” he tries to avoid your gaze; you tilt your head to try and meet his. “On a grill?”

“Why would you joke about my suffering!”

Wally furrows his brows, and his mouth falls open in disbelief.  Still, in spite of his hundred-per cent valid and absolutely and most definitely real outrage, the corners of his lips draw upwards.

“Because you know you’ve never been on the bestest of terms with the sun.” Now that the initial shock has partially worn off, you let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding. “C’mon.”

He watches you walk around him, towards the ensuite bathroom, and lets his head fall back. That doesn’t last long. He straightens his neck back as soon as the skin at his nape starts to burn.

No one could fathom how arduous the trek back to the house had been, nor the herculean effort he was forced to muster just to climb up the stairs, swallowing down the sickening ache behind his knees every time he took yet another step. 

After all those adversities sucked the will to keep going out of him, he is sure he isn’t going to be able to make it to the bathroom. At least not without looking like an absolute fool

Earlier, as he had been walking back to the beach house along with a wheezing and stupidly tanned Dick Grayson, he had learned that the most comfortable position he could stand in was with every limb spread far, far away from the sizzling heat that threatened to melt his skin together. 

That, however, made him feel like a bad remake of Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man and, to him, looking like a cooked crustacean was enough of a humiliation ritual. 

“Okay,” he sighs “but you gotta promise you’ll keep your eyes closed until I get there.”

“What?” You peek your head in from behind the door frame, looking at his unmoving figure standing in the middle of the room, his back to you. “Why?”

“Because…” He shifts in place, stalling until the silence stretches out for far too long that he has no choice but to explain, “I still want you to be attracted to me after today?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You're gonna, just,” this time, instead of his lip, he bites the tip of his tongue, “you're gonna get the ick.”

You shake your head in confusion, “I’m not gonna get the ick”

“Oh, you will.”

“I won’t though.”

“You will— OW?!”—The habit he has of resting his hands on his hips betrays him there and there, and he flinches away from himself once. Then a second time after he tries to soothe the pain by rubbing on the spot—“Fuck! I would give me the ick.”

“Wally,” your voice is stern, but not unkind. Grounding in a way Wally recognizes as home. “You’ve done some weird shit before and I didn't get the ick, it'll be fine.”

He groans, with a hint of self-satisfaction and an eye-roll he forgets you can’t see, “just do it, please? I really don't want you to stop wanting to fuck me”

“Fine, but just so you know, I will never not want to fuck you”

“Okay.” The sound of your bare footsteps as you dramatically turned around makes him smile a little bit more; you can hear it in his voice. “Thank you.”

Which is something he can’t help mumble over and over again. 

After you start a bath with cold water for him. After you help him get undressed, which is something he would normally be thrilled for but not when he has to stand completely still to avoid the fabric of his yellow striped swim shorts from brushing against his skin. After you help him dry himself, patting against his skin gently and apologizing whenever he flinches in pain. All while you put cold aloe vera gel on his skin.

“You’re lucky we put this in the fridge before we left.” You tease, squeezing some product on your hand. The gel looks like it feels divine, and Wally swears his eyes water in excitement at the semblance of relief.

Against his will, his eyelids drop down. It does feel absolutely divine. A whine almost spills from his lips the moment the tips of your hands touch his pecs and he has to fight the urge to rest his forehead against you when you wander up his shoulders, down his arms and then back up again.

You take a step back from him—to which he huffs—and hop on the bathroom counter. “Now turn around.”

“Damn,” he whistled. “And here I was, worrying that you wouldn’t wanna fuck me anymore.”

“See?”—you squirted more aloe gel on your hands—“you had nothing to worry about, now please, actually turn around.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Gently lathering him up and blowing on any spots that are particularly sensitive, you take your time on his back. That is until you get close enough to his tan-line, though you aren’t sure if it could be classified as a tan-line if there is no tan to begin with. 

It lays perfectly straight, no matter the angle you look at it from, almost like he spent the same amount of time facing the sun both from the front and from the back.

You laugh under your breath. There is no way it was an accident, it almost looks like he had periodically adjusted the elastic waistband of his swim shorts. You are sure of it: He had willingly attempted to get a tan.

“What’s funny?”

You shrug, “you kinda look like the Indonesian flag.”

“Take that back!”

“Would comparing you to the Singaporean flag make you feel any better?”

He groans, “are you done?”

“With your back? Sure, face me again real quick.” 

Obedient as always, at least whenever you have your hands on his naked body, he follows your instructions. His dramatic stomps make your cheeks hurt with the grin you were holding back. He can see it in the way you puffed them out slightly, and how your lip purses itself into an odd shape. 

You look cute, extremely adorable and pretty as always. That doesn’t deter him from playing the annoyed charade for a little longer.

“You need some on your forehead, stop frowning.” You were gentle before, but unlike now, letting the pads of your fingers dab the gel on his skin like he was made of glass

It reminds him of the spa days you do together back at your shared apartment. With candles, low lighting and bubble baths. Of course those days include a face mask, one that you make sure to apply while straddling his lap, his hands resting on your hips. The products you choose, however, didn’t sting against raw skin, usually they go on more smoothly than this.

“How long were you tanning for?”

For a second, Wally refuses to respond, preferring to enjoy your touch against his cheekbones, but your eyes are locked on his, looking up at him through your lashes and he swears they force him to speak. “I wasn’t.”

“Wally.”

“I wasn’t! Why would I-“

“Wallace.”

“You know, I usually hate it when people call me that but I think it’s hot when you do.”

You don’t give in to the smirk he sends your way. Your eyes pierce through his, and just like before, they force a confession from his lips.

“Okay! Fine! It was supposed to be an hour on each side! I just kept falling asleep, thought Dick would wake me up but he didn’t.”

“Did he fall asleep as well?”

“Yeah but he looks, I don’t know, caramelized?”

“Unlobster-y, you mean.”

“Exactly!” He exclaims, almost like he was making a valid point, “And I’m sure there’s a way I can look unlobster-y as well, I think I’d look pretty hot with a tan, dont’cha think?”

“You are unbelievable.”

“Is it wrong to dream big? To have goals in life?”

“Just dream of something else! You have plenty of options that don’t involve the sun,” the conversation teeters on the edge of absolute absurdity and you are laughing. “You’ve never gotten along with it, and you know that.”

“Hey!” Momentarily, he forgets about the ache as he leans forward, rests his hands on either side of you on the counter, and childishly, he smiles, “The sun has never gotten along with me, mind you, I’ve never done anything to make it hate me.”

Bonus:

richard.grayson mentioned you in a story

Wally, doomscrolling as he is too uncomfortable to sleep, clicks on the notification and then opts to groan loudly instead of screaming.

You shuffle closer to him, eyes still closed. “Whats wrong?”

“Dick recorded the ick.”

“What?”

Kindly, he lowers the brightness of the screen before showing you the video. It has you squinting. You can barely see anything, the camera is too shaky, but you still manage to make out Dick’s muffled laughter and Wally’s groans in the background.

Can you turn that off and help me?

This is just too good [laughter]

[groan] stop it!

you, you, [wheeze] just, you walk like 

Dick can barely finish a coherent sentence before he pans to a full body shot of your boyfriend, standing like— 

“Hey!”

“Yeah, no, there’s no way you’re watching the end of that video.” He pulls away the phone from your line of sight. It's his turn to squint at the tiny screen, “I can’t believe Dick recorded the ick.”

You watch him close the video just to play it again a couple times. He zooms in on himself, you guess; on his face, his body. You can see it in the way his brows furrow, bothered by how much second hand embarrassment the shaky image gave him. 

In return, you chuckle. His thumb presses onto the screen, pausing the video, as he looks down at you. 

“What?”

“You know I can still watch it on my own, right?” He stills. The sheets rustle as you nuzzle closer to the pillow, a smug smile plastered on your face. “Dick’s my friend too, he’s got me on his close friends as well.”

Wally wants to hide his face against the pillow. 

He can’t. 

There’s too much aloe gel on his face.

a/n. i love wally west so so so so so much thats my baby girl :( pls let me know what yall think about this one!!

[froggibus]

— 10:57PM

Pairing: Wally West x gn! reader

Summary: you get jealous of wally's flirting and leave the party early, but he won't let you go that easily

CW: 1.3k, alcohol, wally and reader are somewhat drunk, friends -> lovers, jealousy, pining,

froggi yaps -> sorta based on the events of last weekend, a little self indulgent of me but i needed to write smth for myself between these reqs <3

The shot of tequila you just downed still burns in your throat as you slump in your chair. The alcohol burns but the bittersweet taste in your mouth isn’t from the liquor, it’s from the sight laid out in front of you.

The party is dark, the walls freckled with orange and purple lights that dance through the house. Ten feet in front of you, at the far end of a fold out table, are Dick and Wally. 

The people who’d dragged you to this party, who’d pregamed with you before cramming into the back of a cab to get here. The people who are now playing beer pong with two of the prettiest girls you’ve ever seen. 

Part of you wishes it was darker in here so you didn’t have to see it. So you didn’t have to watch them grin and holler, flirt with the girls on the other end of the table between shots. 

Bile rises in your throat—or maybe it’s alcohol, it’s hard to tell. All around you, people are having fun. Dancing, drinking, singing obnoxiously to the music. You should be up there with them but you’re rooted in place, butt glued to the chair, forced to watch. 

Wally sinks another cup, cheering. The girl says something snarky, the flirtatious undertone burning your ears, and chugs the alcohol from the cup. 

For a second, Dick meets your eyes across the room and offers you a smile. You force one back, ignoring the way the backs of your eyes burn. It’s not him making you feel this way, it’s not even the girls they’re playing with. 

They don’t know how you feel. They’d only met you tonight, and they’d been nothing but kind to you. They chatted about your interests, complimented your costume, one even helped you apply your lipstick. No, it wasn’t their fault at all. 

The only person to blame here is you. You, for falling in love with your best friend. You, for coming to this party with him and thinking you had a chance. You, for not having the balls to go over to him and ask for his attention. 

More cheers, more drinks, and your stomach churns with nausea. You’re not drunk enough for this—or fuck, maybe you’re too drunk for this. The room is swaying, your heart aching in your chest. 

And before you can think, you’re rising to your feet. You stumble slightly, the floor wiggling tilting you. You blink back more tears, forcing your face to be as neutral as possible as you walk past them, through the crowd of bodies, and to the stairwell. 

You just need some air. That’s all. Once you’re outside, the cold air will snap you out of it and you’ll feel good enough to head back into the party.

But the outside air doesn’t soothe you so much as it suffocates you. It pricks at your skin, seeps into the places your clothes don’t cover. You’re breathing but your lungs only fill with sand, each breath getting shallower and shallower. 

And then the garden gate blows open.

The world around you fades away. The thrumming bass of the party, the flashing lights, it all disappears. 

You don’t even realize what you’ve done until you’re a block away, tripping over your own feet up a sidewalk. The party is far behind you now, replaced by freezing night air and dull streetlights.

Guilt chews at your insides with each step you take but you can’t bring yourself to stop because the guilt feels better than the all-consuming jealousy you’d felt earlier. 

You’d made them promise before you left. Promise not to leave you. Promise to help you get home safely. And here you are—leaving them instead. 

It’s been ten minutes since you left the party, maybe less, and now your phone is blowing up. Wally’s contact pops up, your phone buzzing incessantly. Every missed call leads to another, along with a barrage of texts. 

You freeze reading them over. The guilt burns now, floods you, threatens to eat you alive. The tears you’ve managed to keep at bay flow freely, coating your face, closing your throat with unspoken sobs. 

You don’t answer, instead, you send him a picture of the road in front of you. You mean it to be: I left early, I’m almost home, I’m fine. 

He leaves you on read and you breathe a sigh of relief, only for a streak of lightning to come crackling up beside you. 

Wally’s gasping, his cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling harshly. He stands in front of you, blocking your way forward. “Where are you going?”

Your voice is shaky. “Home.”

His brows furrow, eyes zeroing in on the tear stains on your cheeks. “You’re crying,” he frowns. “Are you okay? Why are you crying?”

You sniffle, wiping your tears onto the back of your hand. Twenty minutes ago, you would’ve died to have his attention on you. Craved it, even. Now it’s like a cosmic smack in the face. A reminder of how pathetically jealous you feel. 

“I’m fine. Just…going home.”

He sighs, placing a firm hand on your shoulder. “You didn’t tell me you were leaving. I-I was worried.”

“I didn’t think you would notice,” you say quietly. 

Your words hang in silence, thickening the air between you. Wally’s fingers flex, frown lines only deepening.

“That’s just silly,” he says. “Of course I would notice. I-I always notice.”

You didn’t notice when those girls were there.

“Talk to me,” he pleads. “Please, tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.”

That only prompts you to cry harder, the burning in the backs of your eyes increasing tenfold. You shake your head and try to turn away so he doesn’t see you cry but instead he pulls you into his chest. 

“Hey, it’s okay.”

He smooths a hand down your back, the warmth of his palm soothing away your chill. You let your head fall into his chest, his t-shirt soaking up your sobs. It’s bittersweet having him hold you like this.

Wally’s heart breaks seeing you cry like this. It hurts him, tugs on something in his chest that he didn’t even know was there. “You’re okay, it’s okay,” he draws circles along your spine. “I’m here, I’ve got you.”

It’s silent for a beat. Just the two of you hugging on the sidewalk, Wally holding you like he’s afraid you’ll run again, like you’ll slip through his fingers and disappear. And you, leaning against him like you’ll fall if you don’t, like he’s the only thing keeping you steady.

“I was jealous,” you say finally. 

He pulls away only slightly, just enough so he can meet your eyes while his hands remain on your hips. “Jealous?”

You nod solemnly. 

“Of what?”

“I-I don’t know. Of you, those girls—it’s stupid. This is stupid.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, “you like me.” 

You shake your head but both of you know it’s a thinly veiled lie at best. 

“You like me and you wanted my attention,” he teases, eyes practically twinkling. “Well, this is one hell of a way to get it.”

You slap his bicep. “Shut up.”

“Not until you admit it.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “But you like me.”

You groan. “I don’t. I really, really don’t.”

He lets his hands drop from your waist, looking nonchalantly over your shoulder. “Then I guess you wouldn’t mind if I went back to the party?”

And that alone is enough to set that spark of jealousy ablaze once again, your hand fisting in his shirt and pulling him close to you. 

“No. Don’t go,” you look at him through your lashes, “please.”

“Fuck, don’t look at me like that.” His eyes meet yours, “I’m not going anywhere, I’m all yours.”

It’s hard for you to believe that when he was flirting with other people thirty minutes ago. As if he senses the doubt in your mind, Wally kisses you. 

He closes the gap between you and cups his hands on the back of your neck and presses his lips against yours like he’ll never get the chance again. He tastes like booze—both of you do—but it’s so Wally that it hurts. 

You drop your hand from his shirt, grabbing at the loops of his jeans instead. The world falls away from beneath your feet and the only thing keeping you here is Wally, always Wally. 

When he pulls away, you’re shaking. No—he’s shaking. Vibrating.

You blink. “Wally…”

“I like you too, by the way.”

dc masterlist | navigation

thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡

froggi's all-stars! ☆˚.⋆ (taglist) -> @gtwtina @vanillakirstein @skyy-baby @Allycat4458 @cassiecasluciluce @jasontoddswhitestreak @stilestotherescue @snowysoups @rqwrsh @kr0kak @daddyjackfrost @lailqll @Envy-kitty @mxxnechos @deadbuttalkative @k-tblog @g0thamgirl

[supermenz]

if you're done with your ex, move on to the next!

summary: Being rejected from Metropolis University? Humbling. Your boyfriend of four years dumping you a year later thanks to his dead parents? Even worse. But when your friend tries to get you out of your dorm after two weeks spent bed-rotting and takes you to a photoshoot audition — "Just to try something new!" — you find yourself with a lot of attention you didn't want and a billionaire playboy on your tail.

pairing(s): bruce wayne x reader, (ex) clark kent x childhoodsweetheart!reader

word count: 21.7k (my longest fanfic yet)

warnings: inaccuracies regarding the position of the towns (used this map for reference) and college admissions, if you don't really understand why reader is beware of bruce then you might want to go and read a little sumsum about epstein island (my girl is right not to want anything to do with a billionaire), bruce is so not nonchalant, he's also kinda bi (OF COURSE HE IS HE'S A SLUT!!! AND OF COURSE IT'S WITH HARVEY), no trouple sorry, blood, one (1) gunshot as well as one (1) scott pilgrim reference, bruce and reader trauma bond over their weird exes, merry christmas/please don't call trope, suggestive maybe, swear words, angst and fluff, dick makes an apparition at the end (if there's anything I'm forgetting pls lmk)

author's note: credits to @lovingyoulovinme for the concept, taken from this post! bruce and clark can be imagined as any transposition of their characters, but honestly I tried my best not to think of david corenswet while writing this cuz I'd NEVERRRR let that man go. EVER. english isn't my first language so construcitve criticism is always welcome!!

dividers from @uzmacchiato! <3

You’ve known Clark Kent all your life. 

That happens when he’s the only kid in a three-mile radius near the house you were raised in — and that also happens when your mothers have been best friends for more than twenty years. There are pictures of him, barely one year old, sitting on the couch of your parent’s living room while cooing at the pink bundle in your mother’s arms — you. From then on, it’s unusual to see a photo of the two of you not together. 

He’s there when you start crawling, clapping his hands in encouragement, a picture showing him smushing his cheek against yours in triumph as you smile with the only two teeth you have. He holds you steady as you take your first steps, a bit wobbly himself, and you both fall into a fit of uncontrollable laughter as you crumble down to the floor. He teaches you his name as soon as you start talking, and when he’s over to your farm you end up following him like a lost puppy, chanting ClarkClarkClarkClark! loud enough for your father to take a peek out of the living room to make sure you’re okay. 

You’re four when you participate to your first dance recital, grinning wildly while wearing the pinkiest tutu your father could find at the only costume shop Smallville has, and when you get off stage after a choreography only the parents of the kids doing it could enjoy, you find a red-cheeked Clark holding a bouquet of flowers almost bigger than him. Your parents watch with knowing smiles as you squeal and topple him to the ground, smooshing your cheek against his. 

“You shouldn’t have, Jon,” your mother whispers to Pa Kent, “I know flowers are getting expensive these days.”

He barely brushes her comment aside, “Oh, shut it, woman, he wanted to. ‘Sides, Eleonor from the flower shop already owed us a favour.” he chuckles quietly, “Why, you tellin’ me it bothers you to see her so happy with her itty-bitty pink tutu and her bouquet?”

By this point, both you and Clark are back on your feet, and you’re jumping around — showing off your flowers to the friends you’ve made in the dance class while dragging Clark along by the hand. The kid is as red as a tomato, shuffling his feet awkwardly as you hold the bouquet like it’s an infant. 

Safe to say, you and Clark are thick as thieves growing up: it’s rare to see him around without you and vice versa, aside from school hours — and even then, you’re always together during breaks and such, and given that you take the same school bus and even get down at the same spot there’s never a day where the seat next to you or next to him is empty. 

Since the Kent farm and yours aren’t that far away you’re both often found wandering in the fields between your houses, sometimes even bringing your lunch lovingly wrapped in an embroidered cloth by your mum, who — same as Ma Kent — always packs not one but two meals; one for you, one for Clark. Of course, you both take advantage of the situation and always end up eating the whole feast without leaving a single crumb, only to then pass out for usually two or three hours after the ordeal on your little beaten up blanket. 

When everybody starts picking on him when he gets glasses — horrendous, thick-lenses ones — you just hold his hand while laying together on the hammock that hangs on two of the trees outside his farm, probably older than Pa Kent himself. “Who cares?” you mumble over his muffled sobs, hugging his side tight. “They all suck anyway. Besides, if they think the glasses look bad on you, maybe it’s their eyes that need fixing.” 

You’re nine when you first see him fly. It’s an accident — he thought you were in town with your parents, but opted to stay home instead and went to the Kent farm for a surprise visit — and he doesn’t talk to you for a week, too scared of confrontation. Things slide back in place as soon as Martha understands what happened and gives him a stern talk about friends and secrets; not even an hour later you’re aware of all his history — the meteor shower of ten years ago actually being his space pod entering the atmosphere, him coming from another planet and having freaking superpowers. 

You’ve always known Clark was special — always thought that he was one of a kind, a boy too gentle to be like everyone. You just didn’t know that special would have meant from another galaxy. 

Not a lot changes by the time you start going to middle and then high school — Clark’s one of the few boys in town that growing up didn’t have a phase or permanently turned into a dickhead. The Kents raised him well, making sure he never disrespected anyone without a good reason to, and even then he’s often too nice to act on it — unless it involves someone other than him. If there’s someone who’s being given trouble at school, he always finds a way to help — even if he himself isn’t really one of the popular kids either. 

That’s what you like about Clark. The ability to look bigger than he is if needed to and a heart of gold that would make the nicest man on Earth look pale in comparison. 

Of course, it’s not a surprise to anyone when you two start dating — it was just a matter of time, clearly. The only visible change is the hand-holding and kissing; when you tell the Kents, as Martha squeals and jumps up to hug you, Jon just sits there with a confused look on his face while scratching his chin. “You tellin’ me you two weren’t together this whole time?” 

Those are definitely the best years of your life, you think one summer evening as you lay on the same battered blanket of ten years ago in the same tulip field with the same boy. It’s just that this time he’s double the size and officially your boyfriend, who holds you tight against his chest while basking in the blazing sun. 

“Will you ever take me flying?” you ask, eyes barely open — just what you need to look at him, golden and smiling. He chuckles, “You’d like me to?”

You nod enthusiastically. You’ve rarely ever gotten out of Smallville, aside from school trips and a couple of vacations with your parents, so it’s safe to say that you’ve never even gotten on a plane in your entire life, with the closest airport being in Metropolis. Clark, you guess, is the next best thing you have to a plane. 

“Dunno, sweetheart,” he presses a kiss to the crown of your hair, “If Pa saw me fly with you, he’d yell at me to get down and start a long lecture about being seen and the dangers of it. Maybe when they’re out of town, mh?” 

You hum, almost half asleep, lulled by his hand gently caressing your back under your shirt and the warmth of the sun. “I’ll hold you to that one.” 

But as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end — and just two years after that conversation in the field you find yourself in Clark’s room, holding back your tears as you help him pack his things for college. You should be happy for him — he’s been accepted into the Journalism course, which has been his dream for years — but you just can’t shake the thought of him being so far away in the big city while you’re still stuck here for another year. 

You like Smallville — you love the farm, the animals and the constant fresh air — but there’s basically nothing there aside from fields and the school. You and Clark have never been so far away from each other for so long — you honestly don’t know how you’ll manage without him around. Sure, you have other friends, but nobody could ever make up for his absence. 

And that’s why you’ve been spending the last two weeks tied to his side — helping him get ready for his move and packing old shirts and jeans. You almost burst out in tears when you see him sneaking an old picture of you in a tutu and a bouquet in one of the boxes. 

He notices you staring  — of course he notices. He’s already noticed how on edge you’ve seemed in these last few months, and if he’s right the dam is about to break in a million pieces right in front of him. 

Clark gets up from his place on the floor, wiping his hands on his jeans, “Everything alright?”

You look at him– really look at him. Your lips tremble, tears begin to form in your waterline and judging by the rapid beats of your heartbeat you’re about to have a complete breakdown. Finally, you whimper, “I don’t want you to go,” 

The dam breaks. You start ugly crying, full-on sobbing as Clark hugs you and holds you tight against his chest, “No– I mean– I want you to go, it’s– it’s a great opportunity– but I don’t want you to leave me here all alone–” your sobs rattle against his chest and your words are barely understandable, but for someone with super empathy — you’re sure that’s a real thing and an actual true power of his — and super hearing it’s pretty understandable. 

His eyes soften. “I wouldn’t leave you here if it was my choice,” he murmurs, “I’d take you with me in a heartbeat, but we’ll have to start somewhere if we want to eventually move out of here together. In a year you’ll finish high school, and until then I’ll still visit constantly.” he smiles sweetly, “You could come to visit me too. Did you know that they just finished building the railway connecting Midvale to Metropolis? How convenient is that?” 

His heart breaks even more when you don’t stop crying. His shirt is damp by now, and you are starting to hyperventilate — sobs becoming more drawn and hoarse. “Hey, hey,” he takes your face in his hands, wiping away your tears with his thumbs, “we’ll be okay, alright? Nothing will change. We haven’t been friends for seventeen years only for things to change because of– what, a hundred miles of distance?” he starts peppering your damp cheeks with kisses, managing to get a strained laugh out of you. “I didn’t come all the way here from another galaxy just to forget about you the second I move out of town.”

You’re back in the Kent’s farm two days later to say goodbye to Clark along with some close friends of his, and you cry more than you’d like to admit — but for now it doesn’t matter, because he’s still here and still able to wipe your tears with a gentle hand and dry the dampness on your cheeks with kisses. The real problems will arise when he won’t be able to do that anymore — and it happens soon after: he and Jon get on his truck and start driving towards Metropolis.

You stay seated on the Kent’s porch until Clark’s truck isn’t visible anymore, and Martha gently puts a hand on your shoulder. “Want a slice of pie? Lemon blueberry tart, your favorite. I made it… well, I kind of knew this sadness was coming.” she gives you a tight-lipped smile, teary herself. “I’ll miss him too. But it’s not the end of the world, is it? It’s just a new beginning. Besides, a couple of months and it’ll be Christmas. And you know we always spend Christmas together, hun.” 

The next few months are spent between your studies for the admission tests for University and hours-long calls with Clark, who’s enthusiastically adapting to life in the big city as you try not to give away too much that you’re rightfully sulking back at home. Christmas is a nice break from your longing, and you barely spend any time apart from each other, but after that it’s back to square one. 

Much to your displeasure, the calls start to become less and less long — and you really don’t want to be the type of girlfriend that stalks her boyfriend’s every step, but you really miss him, and it’s hard staying in Smallville without him when you’ve only known the town with him in it. He’s just starting to make new friends and getting to know the city, and you know that, but you wish you could be there with him instead of being stuck in the middle of nowhere. 

Spring break comes, and with it your train ticket from Midvale to Metropolis and your hunk of a boyfriend waiting for you at the arrival station. You nearly tackle him to the ground — and that says something, because he played football in high school — and kiss him fervently right here and there, not really caring about being in public. He takes your luggage like the real gentleman he is and tries not to laugh when you take his hand and start skipping like Heidi as he leads the way to his apartment. 

It’s definitely the shortest week of your existence — you get to have a preview of the life you’ll have with Clark in Metropolis, but not really the whole thing. You try to forget about how soon you’ll have to be back home as he shows you around and introduces you to his friends, and try to ignore the fact that while you’ve been wallowing in your own pity and having breakdowns weekly he seems to be just fine — peachy, even. As you barely manage to adapt in an environment without him, he’s thriving without you — and you know it’s not specifically because of your absence, but still. It drives you crazy, the way you seem to cling on him for everything as he manages to handle even the most complicated things alone. 

The week ends, and you go back home — maybe it’s for the best, you try to reason with yourself. You’re not sure of how much you could go on without going crazy while seeing him being perfectly fine without you as you’re spending every day missing him, and you’re starting to doubt yourself. Maybe he just doesn’t need you as much as you need him, and that hurts, because you’ve spent all your life by his side and don’t really know how to change that.

You still try to put up a brave face when talking to him on the phone, even though you’ve been counting the days that remain until your graduation — and thus Clark’s next visit — and try to hide your anxiety about your college applications. Veterinary Science, you’ve chosen — pretty predictable for a farm girl who was raised around animals, really. Metropolis is your first choice, of course, but what you haven’t really told Clark are the other options — Gotham University, Central City College, and countless others that you don’t really want to mention to him. 

Truth is, you’re not sure you’ll be accepted into Met U, and even if you did — you’re still not sure it would be the best option. Clark seems to be holding up the fort just perfectly without you — and since you’ve visited him in Metropolis, you’ve had this horrendous itch that you just aren’t able to actually scratch. Would you be able to create the life he’s having, alone? Are you melancholic just because you’re in Smallville, and to you Smallville has always meant Clark Kent? Would it be the same if you weren’t here but somewhere else, like Gotham? 

Graduation day comes and goes, and not even Clark’s presence is able to bring you out of the existential crisis you feel you’re living in — because the thing is, you don’t really know how you would manage in a new city alone. You’ve never explored the idea because you’ve always taken for granted that Clark would’ve been there for you, but seeing the acceptance rate at Met U really gave you a reality check. 

You spend the day throwing mostly fake smiles at everyone that congratulates you and going back to frowning at your shoes once they notice Clark at your side, not able to ignore the pit that’s formed in your stomach at the thought of not being accepted at Metropolis University anymore. But why do you really want to go there, anyways? Because there’s Clark? As much as you love him, you don’t want to live your life tied to his side only to then discover you can’t actually function without him. 

And when, inevitably, the admission letters come back in, you try to act like you can keep it together — like you’re not nearly combusting at the mere idea of opening them. Clark comes over in the evening and you open them together, hearts thumping and feet tapping nervously against the ground. The first one you open, of course, is from Met U. 

Dear miss, this is in regard to your application to the Veterinary Science program at Metropolis University, Delaware; we regret to inform you that… 

You don’t even want to read the rest of the letter, immediately dropping it on the table and getting up from your seat to go take a breath of fresh air on the porch — trying to avoid the inevitable nervous breakdown waiting for you if you dare to look into Clark’s eyes. You don’t want to see the disappointment in them — you know he’d never really blame you, but you’ve been waiting for this moment for a whole year, and despite all your doubts you still wanted to be admitted. It’s, honestly, so humbling. 

Clark is smart enough to give you a couple of minutes to yourself, coming to sit beside you on the porch when he’s sure you won’t burst out crying as soon as he mentions the subject, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “It’s not the end of the world,” he hushers, pressing a kiss to your temple, “you’ve been accepted to GCU, which is still closer to Metropolis than Smallville. Or– or Star City, too, even if that’s a bit far– whatever makes you happy, I’ll support that.” 

You sniffle, rubbing the palm of your hand on your face. “You opened the other letters?” 

He chuckles quietly, “Wouldn’t rob you of the experience. X-ray vision, remember?” 

A small, broken laugh escapes you. “Oh, you and your outer-world powers.” he shares the laugh with you, the air lightening for just a moment before it goes back to heavy. “I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?”

He flinches. “You– oh, sweetheart, no,” you can tell that he’s, for maybe the first time in his life, at a loss for words. “It’s… it’s just a mishap. They happen. It’s not your fault.” 

You hide your face in your knees and hug them tight against your chest. “I was already imagining us two happily living together in Metropolis.” you're now imagining yourself not able to live alone without him and ending up all alone in the new city, whatever one it’ll be. 

“And it will happen,” he assures you, “just, in… a couple of years. As soon as they let you transfer to Metropolis University.” 

Life goes on. You choose to pursue Gotham University, even if your parents are a little worried about the percentage of violent crimes there, and find a little apartment near campus in a complex that’s owned by the School Department and offered to the students for a modest price in one of the relatively safest areas in town. Clark helps you pack and even drives you all the way to Gotham when it’s time for the semester to start, unloading all your things in his truck and carrying them up the stairs to your unit. 

That being said, your roommate’s already there when you enter. “Jenna,” she introduces herself, enthusiastically shaking your hand as you let Clark do all the work in the background. She’s got a shirt with the drawing of a bat on and looks already settled in. “Heard you weren’t from around here, so I got you a little welcome present!” she passes you a glittery pink box with a bow on it, smiling excitedly. 

You blush, hesitantly accepting the gift, “Oh, there was no need–” 

She brushes you off with an easy smile, “Nonsense! Now, open it and tell me if you like it,” she’s buzzing with joy, and Clark curiously joins your side while wiping inexistent sweat from his forehead. You cautiously untie the ribbon, then open the box to reveal the gift, “It’s a…” you’re trying your best not to seem rude, but you’re really confused. “...A weirdly shaped bat?” Clark tries, not unkindly. 

Your roommate doesn’t seem too disheartened by the inexistent recognition of her gift. “It’s a Bat-taser!” she says it like there could be no doubt ever about it. “They’re really popular these days. Trust me, you’ll need it.” a fucking taser. Shaped like a bat–

Clark perks up, “Oh, yeah– is it from the guy that goes around dressed like a bat?”

Jenna claps like he’s won the lottery. “Batman, yeah!” 

You frown, “I’ve heard of him. Guys playing dress-up are getting really popular these days, aren’t they? Heard about a guy floating around in a horrendous green suit in Star City.” you lower your voice, making sure only Clark can hear you, “You sure he isn’t from your planet?” 

“I sure hope not,” he whispers back, “would really taint the whole mysterious thing about being from an unknown planet, you know?” 

Bat-taser aside, you find out pretty soon that Jenna’s actually really cool. She was born and raised in Gotham, apparently, and lunged at the idea of moving into a safer area of the city when given the opportunity. “Things are actually crazy around here,” she tells you as soon as Clark leaves — thank God, because the last thing you want is a far-away worried boyfriend that shriekes in fear every time you have to go out. “Got even crazier when Batman started going around. We’ve got so many insane criminals that a whole island’s basically dedicated to them.” 

“You mean Arkham,” you recall, slouched on the couch beside her, “so the stories about the asylum are true?” 

“Probably even watered down,” she muses, “the city’s had more lockdowns than sunny days these last few years.” 

Well, isn’t that exciting. Something tells you that soon, you’ll learn exactly why Bat-tasers are so popular these days.

You adjust to life in Gotham pretty well — to be back home before the sun sets, to use all the locks on the door even if it’s still just noon and never ever leave a single window open. You and Jenna have the disadvantage of the balcony — a tiny little crane that looks onto the street below —, disadvantage, you learn confusedly, because apparently Batman and his friends (aka the lunatics that he follows around in the city) often swing by those and either break the rails (in Batman’s case) or straight up break-in (in the lunatics' case). 

Adapting to Gotham is hard — but still easier, you must say, than adapting to a Smallville without Clark. It’s a new city, after all, void of any memories and full of new things, and soon enough you’re too immersed into your studies and the new city to constantly miss your boyfriend's presence. 

It’s not that you don’t miss him — you do — it’s just different than in Smallville. It doesn’t feel like something — someone — is constantly missing, and you have enough things on your mind to keep Clark’s absence out of your mind until mid to late evening, when usually one of you calls the other to talk about how things are going. 

Jenna helps, too — you find yourself being more close to her than you could ever imagine. It’s more like having a sister rather than a roommate, really. She manages somehow to get you a job at the same animal clinic she works at, and you've discovered more things that people can do in the last few months in Gotham than in your eighteen years of life, and that’s probably where farm life has stunted you. 

She offers you your first cigarette — not really a cigarette, she specifies, it’s made out of natural herbs that should taste like strawberry or something like that — and soon enough you purchase two ten-dollar fold-in chairs from Target just for the thrill of sitting in your little hazardy balcony while gossiping about the other students or one of her fifty family members. 

“And you?” she asks during a Saturday night in October, spent happily freezing outside while bundled up in a blanket each, “I bet at least one interesting thing happened in your eighteen years spent in your little farm town.”

You think about Clark flying and holding up cows and tractors like they’re berries, “The most interesting thing that can happen in Smallville is a particularly nice harvest. Even though I do recall that the milkman’s wife cheated on him with the mailman a couple of years ago.” 

For Christmas, obviously, you go back home. Jenna tells you that she’ll take care of the plants and make sure that nobody dares to break in, even if she’s back to her parents in Chinatown. Clark picks you up at the Metropolis' train station, greeting you with a tight hug and a loving kiss, and you make the two-hour drive to Smallville together, chatting quietly about how the last few months have been. Not surprisingly, even with the distance between you two shortening to eighty-seven miles rather than the hundred from Smallville, you haven’t really had the time to see each other. 

Something’s going on with Clark. You’re not really sure what it is, but the look in his eyes troubles you. He looks dazed, almost dull, and he isn’t anything like your usual loverboy Kent is. 

“Hey,” you whisper to him on Christmas Eve night, as everyone chatters happily while waiting for midnight to open the presents, “everything alright?”

“Mh?” he looks taken aback. “Oh, yeah, I’m just…” he sighs, slumping his head against your shoulder, “lost in my own thoughts, I think.” 

“Well, what about them?”

His brows furrow. “Not sure yet.” he looks up at you, pretty blue eyes shining under the dim light of the living room, “Do you ever think that my powers should be used for good?”

You stay silent for a moment. “I think you’re too kind to use them in any way but for good. Why?”

“I don’t mean ‘helping my parents in the farm’ good,” he nuzzles his nose on your shoulder, leaving a faint kiss there. “I mean, like, ‘helping citizens during a crisis’ good.” 

You blink. “You’ve got a heart of gold, Clark Kent,” you hush lovingly, pressing a kiss into his curls, “but as much as I love that about you, I don’t think you should put that burden on your shoulders. If you could, you’d help everyone, but that can’t really be possible. There’ll always be an old lady you couldn’t help walking the street, or a girl you couldn’t save from a mugger.”

His eyes are so soft that they might melt you too. “Why are you telling me this?”

You frown in the most gentle way possible. “Because I’m worried that if you start being like Green Lantern or– or Batman, you’ll never be able to come to terms with the people you weren’t able to help.”

“I still could try to help,” he argues without any spite. 

You study his face — oh, your sweet, sweet boy… “Jenna told me stories,” you murmur, “about Batman having to crawl back to his car, bloodied and barely alive, and sometimes even fainting in some God-forgotten alley — saved only because of some good samaritans that helped him get back up on his feet. I… I know that you might feel like you have a mission, Clark, but you have to consider the downsides of it.” you shake your head gently, “I don’t want you to be the man lying half-dead in a dark alley while I wonder why you’re so late to dinner.” 

Of course, none of you knows the true extent of Clark’s powers — that happens when someone has to hide them for all of his life. When the winter break comes to an end, you go back to Gotham with Clark like always, but this time the car ride is silent. He drops you off at your apartment, carries your luggage up the stairs and kisses you goodbye like nothing’s wrong — like the air isn’t heavy with something. 

Your days go on like always — you listen to your lessons, study, have a half-decent lunch with Jenna, listen to some more lessons, do your shift at the animal clinic and get back home before the sun goes down. The calls with Clark have slightly lessened, and you’d like to think that the blame can be put on the shoulders of the exam season, which — you are sure of it — is kicking both of your asses. Everything continues just fine until April comes. 

Clark calls, which by now it’s unusual because it’s always you that calls him. “Hello?” Your reply comes after a few rings, because it’s 10 a.m. on a Sunday and you sure as hell weren’t thinking about getting out of bed before it was time for lunch. Silence meets you on the other end. “I said, hello?”

“Hi,” Clark’s voice is the tiniest squeal, a very unusual thing for him — he’s never insecure about something, and when he is, you talk it out like the responsible people you’d like to think you are. 

You sigh softly on the phone, already fighting back sleep, “Hi, baby,” you yawn loudly, “what’s up?” 

“I, um…” he stutters for a bit, maybe unsure of where to start. “I’m in town for a couple of commissions. Are you up for a coffee?” 

Well, if that doesn’t wake you up, you don’t know what would. “You’re here? In Gotham?” 

“Yeah.” you do hear the ever persistent GCPD sirens screech on his end of the line. 

“Not that I’m mad about it, but why?” 

Another weird silence. “I told you, had a couple of commissions to run.”

It confuses you — what kind of job would Clark have to do in Gotham, and why didn’t he even tell you about it before coming here? — but you just shrug it off, taking for granted that he’ll explain everything about it when you see him. You get ready to meet him downtown quite happily, thinking about maybe a surprise, but nothing could really prepare you for what’s about to come. 

“I think we should break up.” 

The words ring in your ears. You’ve never pondered about the option of Clark and you breaking up — honestly, you’ve known him for so long that it just wasn’t even a thought in your head. Ever since you were little, you’d dreamed of the day you’d finally be able to marry Clark Kent and have the life you’d always fantasized about with him. 

The café he told you to meet him in is nice. Not one of the fancy ones in uptown Gotham, but not even one of the worst ones down in Crime Alley. You’re pretty sure you’d actually be able to enjoy it if it wasn’t for the fact that your boyfriend of four years is dumping you in it and you have no idea why. You can’t even form an actual thought, let alone an intelligent one, so the only thing that escapes your mouth is, “Uh?” 

He doesn’t look so comfortable either. It’s your first time getting dumped, but it’s also his first time dumping someone, you guess. “I just think it’s not working anymore between us. That we may need some time to figure things out on our own.” the shock must be written on your face, because he almost flinches. “Don’t look at me like that, please.”

“A cappuccino, an espresso and a croissant,” the waitress pretends not to listen as she brings you guys your order, but you saw her staring earlier. You shake your head in disbelief as soon as she leaves, pinching the bridge of your nose to try to make sense of anything that’s happening right now. “So you mean to tell me that the commission you had to do in Gotham… was to break up with me?” 

He grimaces. “Don’t say it like that,” 

“How else should I put it?” you hiss, “Clark, we’ve been together for four years — friends for all my existence even before that. You’ve been in my life since I can remember and you want to break up with me with the whole ‘I don’t think it’s working anymore’ bullshit? No, my guy, you’ll have to tell me a lot more than that. What is up with you?”

He presses his lips together for a brief moment, “I managed to get my degree earlier than I expected,” he almost stumbles over his words, “I… it was always my intention, but I didn’t think I’d actually manage to do so in such a brief period of time.” 

You blink. “You never told me that.” 

“I– I never told anyone, actually.” now he’s actively avoiding your eyes while nervously playing with his fingers, “Clark, it’s not a thing you just casually avoid to mention. You turned a three to four year program into a year and a half course. That’s a big thing. You should’ve told me– I would’ve done my best to support you.” 

His eyes are shiny, and it’s not just because of the light hitting them in just the right way. “I’m leaving.” 

You blink. “What?” 

He gives you a sad smile — and that makes you shudder, because in your entire life you’ve never ever seen Clark Kent smile like that. It’s honestly scary; he’s made for happy smiles, not for sad half-crapped ones. “I’m leaving,” he repeats gently, “I want to find out more about my biological parents — about my home planet. I think I’ve just found a way to do that, and I don’t know exactly for how long I’ll be gone.” he blinks away the tears, “And I can’t leave if I know that I’ve left you behind waiting for me.” 

“How long will you be gone?” you almost don’t hear yourself asking — it’s like that’s not even your voice. You have no idea how you still haven’t started crying. 

His voice is almost as little as yours. “I don’t know. I’d like to think it could be just a few months, but… something tells me it’ll be years.” 

You’re not sure how you get back home, but you somehow do. Jenna is on the couch, eating ice cream for breakfast, and chirps happily when she sees you. “Hey, I was getting worried! How did it go with Prince Charming?" you make it to your room before you throw yourself on the bed and start ugly crying uncontrollably. 

You don’t know life without Clark Kent. You’ve been inseparable since forever, and you always thought he’d be one of the only constants in your life — turns out, he had other plans. Yes, it’s true that you wanted to experience life in the big city without him, but that doesn’t mean you wanted him completely out of your life — you just wanted to see how well you’d do. (Ditched for unknown and dead parents, by the way? That has to be a new low.) 

Jenna tries her best to boost your morale — even buys you that one Ben & Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream that she hates with passion but that you love— but in the end, everything proves to be useless, and you end up going on with your life while trying to pretend that you have it all together. 

Class. Study. Lunch. Class. Work. Back at home. Repeat. 

Of course, you barely manage to keep it together. Every hour not spent doing the things you have to do is spent in bed contemplating your life and the exact moment where it got real shitty. Somewhere along the first week Ma Kent calls, probably alerted by your mother about the break up, but you really don’t have the heart nor the strength needed to respond to her call. You’re relieved when she avoids calling a second time — probably knowing that you need some space and that she’s not the first person you’d want to hear after something like this — because you don’t really know how you could’ve avoided to reply for a second time while watching her name grace the screen. 

Week two passes and things get even worse for you, so much so that you have to call in sick to work thanks to the sore throat that you find yourself with after crying uncontrollably for almost all night every night. You can tell Jenna’s fed up, because even with all her strength, it seems as if she can’t help you at all. 

“You know, I once broke up with an italian guy over distance,” she tries to reason, sprawled on your bed as you lie face down as if dead — you have yet to actually explain to her why you and Clark broke up, so she’s still thinking that it was because of all the miles separating you. “He has yet to tell his mother– and it’s been two years. She still sends me a whole box of Italian cheeses for every holiday.” she suddenly perks up, “Maybe I’ll be graced with some of the famous Ma Kent pie one day. I hope she sends a piece for your birthday.”

Your hiccup is muffled by the pillow. “Right, yeah, sorry. Not the best thing to say right now. You don’t need to mourn Ma Kent’s pie too. You’ll do that once you’re ready.” 

“I’ll never be ready to mourn Martha’s pie,” you groan. You could get over Clark Kent, but not his mother's pies. Your ma's still friends with her, so you doubt that you’ll never eat it again, but you’ll have no reason to come over to the Kent’s farm as much as you did before. 

Two days later, entering the third week post break up, Jenna has had enough — and she barges into your room with a plan. “We’re going out.”

As always, your reply comes out muffled, “Ion wan’ to.” 

“I didn’t ask if you wanted to,” she tears off the duvet from your body and takes a hold of your ankles, literally dragging you out of bed as you shriek, “I just said that we are going out!”

She makes sure you dress up decently before dragging you out of the house and into her car, making sure the child lock is on — wouldn’t want you to jump out of the vehicle as she’s driving — before starting the engine. “I signed you up for an audition.”

You look at her, frowning, pretty sure your ears have betrayed you and made you hear wrong. “I’m sorry, what?”

Her smile is so genuine that it would be hard to find the will to smack her. “I signed you up for an audition,” she repeats without any sign of remorse, “you know Flowers n’ Kisses? The shop uptown? They’re looking for new models to renew the brand, make it younger. And you, my dear, with your little sad eyes and red cheeks from all the crying, will be perfect.”

You stare at her, bewildered. “Are you well?”

“What? It’s true that you look your best right after crying!” 

“Are you saying I should be sad more often?”

“Of course not! I’m just saying that at least one good thing should come out of this situation — besides, don’t look at me like that, you know you’re already sad all the time. I just think that we should take advantage of your puffy, irritated, cute face. Besides, it’s just to try something new! Who knows, maybe you’ll like the lights of the camera and having to pose and all the pretty dresses they’ll put you in.” you highly doubt that, but you let it go in favour of your remaining sanity.

There’s at least twenty other people at the audition when you arrive to the location — and this is only the three PM slot, Jenna whispers to you conspiratorially — and you raise an eyebrow when you see the other girls there, because they’re gorgeous and you’re starting to wonder if there were any demands for this interview. “Jenna, are you sure there aren’t any requirements for this kind of thing?” 

“Oh, there were,” she assures you, “I had to put a couple of your pictures in the form before they gave me a time for your audition. I tried to apply too, but they rejected me.” she sighs dramatically, clinging to your arm, “But if I can’t chase my dream of marrying a ninety-year-old multi-billionaire and living the rest of my life filthy rich, then you might as well follow up for me! And don’t forget about me when you’re going on vacation to Tenerife with your boyfriend’s super expensive and huge yacht…” 

“You’re sick,” you mutter, completely fed up, “and not in the good sense. I’m sure there’s people in Arkham down on the worst levels that are much more reasonable than you.” you sigh, feeling the by-now familiar punch to the gut that follows every single thought about him, “I don’t care about yachts. I would’ve been just happy with a little apartment in Metropolis with Clark.”

She groans dramatically, “Oh, please! What was so great about this guy? Was he the genie of the lamp or something? Was he that good in bed?”

You sniffle. “You’re so cruel. He was my everything.”

“He’s a guy! An average one, at best!” 

“You take that back–” you’re about to strangle her because Clark Kent is definitely above the average male population but get conveniently stopped by the call of your name. It’s the PR manager, you assume, and he smiles kindly at you when Jenna takes your hand and raises it up like he’s a teacher making a difficult question and you’re a student eager to reply. “Please come with me, this way.” 

You find out his name is Roy and he’s better at make up than you are — you stare at his perfect eyeliner with envy as he leads you to a room with a camera set up and a table with other people quietly chatting. You already feel awkward just by standing there, and you’d be lying if you said that you were ready for this thing, so you find yourself thinking about Jenna’s dreams to force yourself to go on. Think about Tenerife and a yacht. Think about Tenerife and a yacht. Think about– 

“So, miss,” a redhead at the center of the table smiles at you, leaning her chin on her intertwined fingers, “are you ready to start?”

You'd be lying if you said that you got out of there without feeling stupid. They made you walk into a straight line with music in the background, asked you to pose, took a few pictures and then just started asking questions about your life, saying something about wanting to know the personality of the candidates. You feel so relieved when you walk out that room that suddenly being single doesn’t look as bad as staying ten minutes more in that hell hole. 

Jenna doesn’t seem to be too worried about your relief about being out of there. “So?” she asks excitedly, “How did it go?” 

“I doubt they’ll call back,” you weren’t that terrible, but you’re sure that much more qualified people auditioned for this thing — and even if they didn’t, you’d seen at least fifteen girls that look like they could rock the style of Flowers n’ Kisses way better than you, “but if they do, I’m not replying. Please don’t make me do that again, like, ever. We don’t need an ancient husband to have a yacht, we can just steal one. Seems way more doable to me.” 

Except that they actually call back. And you hadn’t put into the equation the fact that while registering you for the audition, Jenna was smart enough to put her cellphone number in it instead of yours. 

“You signed me up for another thing?”

“I had to! They were happy about your audition and wanted to schedule the day for the shoot of the campaign!”

“What campaign–”

“The one for the summer collection! Aw, c’mon, they’ll pay you eight hundred something dollars and give you some free clothes too–” 

You want to smash your forehead into the wall — but then again, she wouldn’t let you do that, because your forehead is on your face and your face will be on an ad of some kind. “I wouldn’t risk having a restful sleep if I were you,” you hiss, “because I think that one of these days I’ll become one of the many maniacs that help the violent crimes rate be so high, and rest assured that you’ll be my first victim.” 

Jenna doesn’t seem to worry about that, and as it turns out she’s right to be — because on the day pre-established you still make yourself presentable and head to the studios where the photoshoot’s supposed to be at 7 a.m. sharp like requested. 

The same PR guy you met at the audition greets you first with a smile and a hand shake, “Roy Chamler,” he introduces himself — you only notice you didn’t know his full name when he says it. You were so nervous at the audition that you barely introduced yourself, let alone asked the name of the other people there. “PR manager and guy in charge of the campaign. Is this your first time participating in something like this?”

You cringe. “Yeah, is it that obvious?” 

He shrugs, smiling at you. “I’ve made it work with worse in my hands. You were chosen in the end, weren’t you?” 

The day starts with a worryingly high stack of paperwork in need to be signed. “Your contract,” Roy explains, patting it, “the rights for your image and copyright, parties involved, payment times, everything.”

You frown, “Is it normal for employees to sign their contract on the first day of work?” 

It’s his time to cringe. “No. It’s just that… the owner of the brand — Mrs Livvie, she was at the audition — is a very demanding woman. She called me a month ago about making the campaign and I have barely a week left to organize the rest. So, please, even if the conditions of this job are weird, please bear with me.” 

You sigh. “Alright. Where will the pictures of the shoot be exposed, exactly?” 

He cringes even more. “I… it’s all in the contract. You know, before Mrs Livvie, it was her father who thought about the brand. Then it was passed down and she wanted to do a lot of things, but it’s clear that she still doesn’t really know her way around. So, the thing is, it will depend on how much her and the other owners like the shoot.” he tilts his head, “I wouldn’t say more than a couple of posters around town and maybe some internet ads, though.” 

You sign the contract while not trying to overthink too much about your face being splattered around the internet, and as soon as Roy gets his hands on the paperwork you’re dragged into a room that positively looks like a spa. A girl gets immediately around to work on your hair as another worries about your nails, and you have to admit that if submitting to this thing meant a free manicure and hairdo you’d have gotten here even earlier than needed to. The make-up is the last thing on the list, right after the clothes, and then you’re ready for the shoot.

The whole ordeal lasts about five hours — five grueling hours, during which you have to change outfit, make up and hairdo one time too many for the day to still be considered relaxing. You go back home with your hair still in the last slickback they gave you, mascara a little smudged from all the times you rubbed your eyes during the train ride, and a bag full of clothes to wear this summer. Roy tells you that the ads should be up somewhere between next week and the one after that, takes your actual phone number and promises to call you if any problem with the campaign emerges. 

Meanwhile, you're surprisingly starting to accept the fact that Clark dumped you and probably will never get back with you, that he’s now who-knows-where doing who-knows-what with who-knows-who. Actually, you’re starting to get mad — how dare he not tell you about his plans? For how long was he thinking about just disappearing? You were out there dreaming about a future with him and he just–

“Yo,” oh. Is your mental health that bad that now your dreams are angry about Clark, too? Because you’re in bed, it’s been a little over a week since the shoot and Jenna is shaking you awake. “Yo. You did not tell me the campaign was so serious.” 

Still groggy, you barely find the strength to raise your head from the pillow, “Whatcha mean?”

“The billboard,” she hisses, “you didn’t tell me they were going to put your pictures on a billboard.”

That wakes you up instantly. “They what?” 

Sure enough, there’s a big ass billboard with a picture of you in a strawberry shirt and a pair of low-rise jeans while subtly smiling at the camera from the side (under the brand’s name and motto, of course) right in the middle of Union Square — literally the most trafficked place in all of Gotham. You’re about to slap yourself in the face because there’s simply no way they actually put a whole billboard of you when they said it was gonna be just a couple of ads online and maybe some posters around town. You suddenly fear what they’ll do with the pictures of you in that one blue tankini.

“Dear God,” you utter in disbelief. 

Jenna blinks. “If it reassures you, you do look good. It’s the sad eyes, I think. They give you depth.” 

“I don’t think I’ll be able to show my face around ever again,” you’re on the verge of tears, “how will I manage to get around on campus again? No, Jenna, I’m finding a house in the Appalachians and hiding there for the rest of my life–” 

“But you can’t! This is one picture and you’re really shining in it– why can’t you embrace this? Maybe it’s a good thing! Do you know how much models make–”

“Jenna!” you shriek, “My photo is on a fucking billboard right in front of Wayne Tower! Can’t you understand I just want to bury myself in the ground and die?”

“Well, maybe it’ll make Bruce Wayne fall in love with you as he’s forced to see your face every day.” she jokes, “And then I’ll be able to get my vacation on a yacht–”

“We are not going on vacation with Bruce Wayne,” you hiss, “have you seen one footage of him with any woman? God knows what he puts in their — and his — drink to act like that.”

“I think of him as someone who’s actively drunk all the time without even drinking, and his company is surely not better than him.” she shrugs, “Besides, he’s not that older than you. You would be happier with him rather than with the ninety-year-old billionaire."

You blanch. “I’ll be happy if they both leave me alone.” 

They will, unfortunately, not leave you alone, you find out soon. Because thanks to the spike in sales, not even two weeks after the ads are made public the management of Flowers n’ Kisses organises a gala with all of its associates and investors, and you — just like the other models who do runways and are the face of previous campaigns — are contract-bound to participate, because– well. Your face is scattered all over the city while wearing their clothes — it would be weird if you didn’t show up, no? 

And guess who is one of the biggest associates of Flowers n’ Kisses? Exactly. Fucking Wayne Industries. Guess your dream of not becoming one of Bruce Wayne’s victims as the latest coming model — not that you would describe yourself as one, but you guess that his definition of model is much more wider than yours — in Gotham may be a little more difficult to achieve, since if they could talk, he would probably try to have one-night stands with walls too. 

Roy calls again to arrange for you to get a dress, one from the newest collection that you hadn’t had the chance of trying out, and thankfully he doesn’t seem too mad about the last time you called him — you had insulted him so much about the billboard that you almost discovered new curse words. “You know, I got a few calls about you,” he says, ecstatic, “people love you! I’ve got the list of a few other brands that would like a contract with you–”

You shut the idea before it gets a little too deep into his head. “No. Bye, I have an exam to study for.” 

The event’s in some fancy, fancy rented mansion’s ballroom — incredible that they still have those, by the way — and the timing’s just right, because tomorrow morning you have a test, and you’re already mumbling names and descriptions under your breath before they even get you in that evening dress. And about the dress– it’s dark blue, with little embroidered silver stars around your hips, tight where it needs to be and softer as it reaches your legs. They give you a pair of silver kitten heels to match the stars around the dress, and even if they do kill your feet a little, you have to admit that you look good. 

Getting out of the room where they dolled you up, you immediately notice another woman at the end of the hallway — probably one of the other models of the brand, hopefully one more experienced than you. She seems to notice you too, and waves a hand up to catch your attention, “Hey! You must be the new girl they told me about,” 

She’s stunning, with chocolate skin and honey eyes and a dress that — you guess — is made to be worn right next to yours, because while your gown resembles the night, hers resembles the dawn, with an embroidered red sun on her waist. She offers you her hand, which you shake without any questions, “I’m Kelly,” she introduces herself, “Roy asked me to keep an eye out for you — didn’t want you to feel lost. She knows these types of gatherings can be scary, and I’m happy to help a new recruit out.” Kelly does look a bit older and experienced than you — early thirties, at most, even if she does carry them well. 

“Thank God,” you can’t really hide your relief, “I was afraid I had to do all of this alone.” 

She giggles, “I remember being this scared too. You’re doing it well, though, from what I have seen — you came out perfect in the pictures, I really couldn’t believe it was your first shoot,” 

You feel your face get hotter at her words, “Thanks,” you manage to squeal out as she guides you into the ballroom, where the main event is held, “It’s the sad eyes, I think.” she adds. You’re one more comment about your sad eyes apart from imploding. “I don’t tend to like these events, but usually the food is pretty nice, so that’s a plus. I’d avoid any drink already served if I were you, though,”

Thankfully, you soon find out that you two were put at the same table — great thing for you, because you really don’t want to socialize more than you actually need to. The other people around the table are mostly boring investors and owners of shares, who don’t seem interested in asking anything more than what’s expected in a common conversation — your name, age, what do you do in life. One kind old lady asks you more about university and looks actually interested in hearing you repeat the subject of your exam tomorrow, until you are rudely interrupted by a voice calling out for you just as the dessert is being served. 

“Oh, there she is!” you’ve only seen her once, but you do recognize Mrs Livvie from the audition — you did not forget those striking red hair of hers. Beside her, your latest possible obstacle: in all his striking glory, Bruce Wayne. “This is our latest golden girl, miss…” it’s clear that she has forgotten your name, which you kindly suggest to her, “Right! A real sweetheart. Anyways, this is Kelly Th–”

“I know Kelly,” he interrupts her, giving her and your — hopefully — latest friend a kind smile. “I remember her from the runway for the autumn collection.” he turns his gaze to you, “I’ve never met you, though, which is really a shame because you’re stunning. You know, the billboard with one of your photos is right in front of my office, which is the motivation to get on time around the office I just needed.” well, if this isn’t your nightmare come true. 

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” Mrs Livvie looks at you, “this is Mr Wayne–”

“Please,” he looks directly at you in a way that would normally have you swooning, but that from him just makes you quite worried. “Just Bruce will go.” 

You give him a tight-lipped smile, “Sure.” 

“Weird that I have never seen you before,” he continues, “usually models start young, but I’m happy that Nina found you — you’re a real jewel, miss. May I ask why you — or your parents — never thought of putting you out there?” 

“Well, I never knew about this talent of mine until now.”

He smiles, chuckling quietly, “Well, you don’t sound like you’re from around here, either, am I right?”

You nod. “Yessir — I’m from Smallville, a little farm town a couple of hundreds of miles from here.” you hope that being the daughter of farmers will scare off a playboy that is known to socialize with rich people. It doesn’t. 

“Well, if you ever need anything,” he takes out a business card from his breast pocket with a pen and scribbles something on it, then gives it to you, “please don’t hesitate to call me. I’m at your disposal.” 

You don’t reply, getting a weird look from all the people on the table before Mrs Livvie quickly brings his attention elsewhere — hopefully away from you. Kelly looks at you, delighted, “Well, miss girl, that is the offer of a lifetime.” 

You snort, looking unamusedly at the private number scribbled on the card. “I doubt I’ll ever use it.”

Summer break comes a lot faster than you’d expected. 

You’re not sure it’s a good thing. You still haven’t exactly come to terms with what happened with Clark now almost three months ago and the thought of seeing your parent’s farm draped with pictures of you and him from when you two were kids nauseates you. Besides, you just know that your mother talked to everyone who willing to listen about your newfound talent as a model, even if you only did one shoot. It’s also your first time doing the trip from Gotham to Smallville alone, and you opt to just use the train after seeing the whopping prices for a taxi.

Your father picks you up at the Midvale train station, teary eyed and with arms wide open to hug you. “My baby,” he says trembly, once you are in his arms “oh, it seems like it’s been years since Christmas,” 

You laugh tearily. “Oh, trust me, I know.” 

The car trip is filled with conversation and love. “Oh– did your mother tell you we adopted a dog?”

You perk up. “Oh, did you, now?”

Your father nods, “Dunno what kind o’ dog he is. All I know is he’s yellow. We found him on the side of the road to the farmer’s market a coupla’ weeks ago and he won’t leave your mother's side since then. We tried to ask around, see if he was someone’s dog — nobody knew anything, so her resolve was just to take him home.” he looks at you, cracking up with laughter. “You wanna know what she called him?” 

You grin, loving to see your father so serene. “Do tell me.” 

“Batman!” his laughter gets even louder, “Batman, you get it? Said, it’s after the psycho that runs around in a Halloween costume and makes sure that my daughter’s city doesn’t burn down. I really owe him. Have you ever even seen him, or is he just some kind of urban legend?”

You crack up with laughter too, half from hearing him laugh so openly, half for the actual story, “No, no,” you wheeze, “never seen him, but I do know people that have. I just don’t get out late enough for him to be running around yet, I fear.” 

It’s with relief that, once you enter the farm, you notice that all the pictures of you and Clark have either disappeared or been replaced. You know your mother’s too much of a sentimentalist to get rid of them, so they’re probably carefully hidden in some drawer — but that doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate her gesture. She hugs you tightly and kisses you on both cheeks before calling out for the dog — which you find out is a golden retriever — to meet you. 

The next three weeks are spent helping your parents around the farm and bringing Batman — or, as your mother calls him, Battie — in the fields so that he can run as much as he likes. You gotta admit that you also do it to try to form new memories of the place — because you simply can’t spend the rest of your life brooding as soon as you go back there to visit your parents. 

You avoid the old classmates to prevent any questions about Clark. You don’t visit the Kents. You’d like to, but honestly, you are ashamed — ashamed because Martha had called back when you and Clark had just broken up, and yet you never called her back or replied. Or sent a message. Or a postcard. Did you really ghost a nice old lady? Because that has to be some kind of new low.

It’s your mom that tries to get you back to sanity. “Martha and Jon did nothing to you,” she tells you, angered, when you refuse to take the muffins she’s just baked to their farm, “and you are going to say hi to them because they’ve always been nothing but nice to you!”

That’s how you end up at the porch of the Kent’s farm, a tray of still steaming muffins in your hands as you anxiously wait for either of them to answer the door. You almost burst out in tears when it’s Martha that greets you — because, you have to admit, you’ve missed them too. And as she invites you in and calls Jon down to say hi to you too, not mentioning that call you had completely ignored — you thank the universe that at least you didn’t lose them too with Clark. 

You return to Gotham feeling shittier than ever, but, hey! At least you got some nice pie while you were in Smallville, since you can’t really say that you and Jenna cook real food when you have to eat. The University’s not back open just yet, so you spend most of your days picking more shifts at work so that people that actually go on vacation can do it without any remorse or trouble. 

You’re worrying about getting every animal at the clinic fed when the bell of the door rings out in the waiting room. “I’ll be there in a minute!” you call out, petting a cat and putting him back into his carrier as he meowles happily around the meat stick you just gave him — a good enough treat in exchange to being neutered, you hope. 

You exit the backroom and go back to the front desk, “So, how can I help–” your eyebrows raise. “Mr Wayne?” 

In all his glory, surely. He’s right in front of you, smiling, hair slicked back and sunglasses hanging from the neckline of his shirt. “I thought I asked you to call me Bruce,” he says, not unkindly. 

You try not to grimace. The last thing you wanted for him was to find out where you worked. “Yeah, sorry,” you press your lips into a thin line, “how can I help you?” 

“I was thinking about adopting a dog.” this actually surprises you, because you didn’t think billionaires had the time for animals — and even if they did find the time to get them a petsitter, you’d taken for granted that they would buy the fancy breed ones. “I was thinking about getting a german shepherd, I told your friend Kelly at last week’s Prada runway and she suggested coming here since apparently this clinic collaborates with the local shelter.” 

“We do,” you nod, “they’re running out of space and we have a decent sized backyard for them to play in and some rooms for the animals to stay in.” you open a drawer on the desk, taking out a folder with all the registered pets, “We mostly have the injured ones that are recovering, but I’m not sure about german shepherds. I do think there’s a mixed one though– there!” you stop at one of the pages and turn the folder for him to see the picture of a dog with brown fur and a star-shaped white patch on his forehead. 

“This is Ace– he’s a retired K-9, mixed german shepherd. He’s just two, but was shot during an inspection and has been limping ever since. Nobody in the police department could adopt him, so we took him in. He’s been doing well with the recovery and we’re trying to rehabilitate him to normal as to our best abilities.” 

He nods,  “Looks like a cute dog. Can I see him?”

You show him the way to the backroom with all the strays, stopping at Ace’s crate. He immediately raises his snout from his paws, tail wagging as he sees you, “Well, this is him,” you sneak a hand between the rails to give him a pet, “one of the nicest dogs we have here — if you want, you could take him on a walk today or when you want. Usually we ask for at least four outings before permitting the adoption — to see if the owner and the pet are compatible, y’know.” 

He nods, “So, I can take him out today and then come back in the next few days to later on adopt him?” 

You lean your head, “If everything goes well, yes.” 

“Perfect– I’d like to take him on a walk right away, then, if possible.”

You get a collar for Ace and a leash for Bruce after getting the dog out of its crate, then put a couple of treats in a little paper bag with some toys. You attach the leash to Ace’s collar and give it to his aspiring owner with the paper bag, “Wait a moment, I’ll tell my coworker that I’m going out and then we can go,”

Mr Wayne perks up, suddenly interested in something else rather than the dog, “You’re coming with us?” 

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Of course. The outings before adoption are always supervised.” 

You come back after alerting your coworker that you’re going out, then exit the clinic with Bruce — who's handling a definitely too excited Ace — on tow. It’s weird seeing a blue Rolls Royce parked right in front of where you work, as usually the most expensive thing that’s parked there is a FedEx van. “There’s a dog park just around the corner — we often bring customers there for supervised outings.” 

Bruce Wayne looks so out of place in such a funny way at the dog park that you barely manage to keep your laugh in; in his Armani tailored coat as Ace, finally without a leash in the dog fence at the park, looks thrilled to play with him, it’s so obvious that he’s never been in this kind of situation. “Are you sure he’s still in rehab?” he squeals, as the dog tackles him to the ground and licks his whole face clean. “He’s– aargh!– definitely in better shape than me!”

Your laugh finally blesses his ears. “That just means he likes you, Mr Wayne! Be nice to him, or he’ll think you’re friendzoning him.” 

Ace is a good dog. It’s like he’s got a sixth sense for bad people — he never barks at kind customers, only at the rude ones, so you guess that’s kinda his talent. And since it’s never betrayed you, you admit that maybe — just maybe — Bruce Wayne isn’t that bad of a person as you thought he would be. 

He comes back to the clinic for three days in a row, just what he needed to be able to adopt the retired K-9. He always suspiciously shows up during your shifts, with mysteriously not a single paparazzi on sight and always the same Rolls Royce. On the second day he got there with brand new toys — some for Ace, some in donation for the other pets awaiting a loving owner — and a new collar with a bone-shaped metal tag with a bold ACE engraved on it.

Saturday’s the last day of the supervised period, and just as the last three days, you find yourself leaning over the railing of the fence that limitates the unrestrained dog area, watching them play like they’ve known each other for years. It’s a rare connection to see forming with a guard dog — they usually need time to adapt to new people, but apparently Ace didn’t. He took one look at Bruce and thought yeah, I want to munch on his atelier shoes for the rest of my life. 

“You know, I think it really was love at first sight,” you tell him as you walk back to the clinic.

Bruce looks at you like for a second he forgot you were talking about his dog. “You really think so?”

You laugh, “Yeah, I mean, have you seen him? He’s wagging his tail like crazy and he met you three days ago. It’s like he knows you’re taking him home today.” 

His shoulders deflate a little as he understands that you’re talking about him and Ace. “Yeah, well, I’m happy that he’s happy.” 

“Why do you want a dog, by the way?” you realise just now that you hadn’t asked, having taken for granted that he just wanted one for show, but now it’s clear that it isn’t. 

He shrugs, “To keep me company. I guess I just want someone other than my butler greeting me at the door when I get home. Besides, I liked playing with him — it’s a win-win: I get to destress about work and he gets to play catch.” he pets Ace’s head as you reach the clinic, “Don’t you, boy?” 

You go behind the desk and immediately get to work, preparing the paperwork for the adoption, “So– here, fill out this form and this one. There’s a ten dollar fee on every adoption, but I guess it shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

He chuckles. “I should have a fifty dollar bill in my wallet — you can keep the change.” he coughs a bit as he starts to fill out the paperwork, “You know, I, uh… I didn’t come here just because I wanted a dog. I wanted to talk to you.”

You square him up and down. “Yeah. We talked the last three days.”

“Oh, no, I mean–” he looks honestly embarrassed, “I was… I was wondering why you didn’t call me back after the event.”

You blink — you had completely forgotten about the business card rotting in your bedside drawer with his private number written on it. You must be the first girl that doesn’t call him back after receiving such an opportunity. “Well, you told me to call if I needed anything, and I have yet to be in need of anything.” 

“I–” he sighs, “I was hoping I’d see you at the following Flowers n’ Kisses event, but you weren’t there.” 

You raise an eyebrow in the politest way you can muster up. “Yeah. It was a lunch on a Monday. I had an exam.” you actually started ghosting Roy as soon as he started suggesting coming to events not included in your contract, but that’s a story for another time. 

It seems you aren’t really getting what he’s trying to say, Bruce understands. He takes a deep breath, “What I meant to say is… that I was wondering if you wanted to grab a coffee one of these days.” 

You stare at him, bewildered, then point to yourself. “Me?” 

He looks even more bewildered than you. “…Yeah. Would… would you like that?”

“I mean, I,” you aren’t really understanding if he’s interested you in a romantic sense — which would be absolute bonkers, by the way — or if the conversations of the last few days just made him want another friend. “Sure. As… as friends, right?” 

He winces. “Yeah, of course.” he’s losing count of how many awkward yeahs he’s mumbling. Alfred’s right; he, terrifyingly so, has a crush. 

“Wouldn’t, like, paparazzi follow us?” you really don’t want your face splattered all over the news again. 

“I honestly doubt it.” he wouldn’t waste his little chance because of a couple of gossip-hungry journalists. “When I don’t want to be noticed I use my butler’s car, so that if anyone passes by they think it’s him around rather than me, and the staff of the places I frequent can be very discreet.” he looks down to Ace, “Besides, could you really say no to seeing this cute face again?” 

No, you couldn’t. You do raise an eyebrow, though, “Your butler… owns a Rolls Royce?” 

He nods like it’s the most common thing in the world, “Yeah, it was my gift for his fiftieth birthday.” 

And that’s how you end up having coffee with Bruce Wayne in some high-end uptown cafè two days later. Then two days later after that. Then, someway, somehow— fucking everyday. And thank God that he’s the one paying, because you doubt you can even afford one of the smallest macarons they have on the menu. 

You have to give it to the man — he’s trying really hard to be nice. It’s clear he’s not good at courting — not the kind that doesn’t let him bring a woman into his bed an hour after he met her, at least — but he’s doing that while also doing his best to respect your boundaries. 

“I don’t think it’s really a great time for a new relationship as of now for me,” you explain, a little embarrassed, over the first coffee you share. “I just got out of… one of the most important connections I’ll ever have in my entire life.” 

Bruce isn’t one to give up easily, and surely not on the first person he’s actually interested in since years. Even if it will take decades — and he’ll be just as happy being just a friend during those — he won’t give up. Even if he has to be just a friend for all eternity — you and your accent really did a number on him. 

Just as he promised, no articles come out about you two, even if a couple of curious waiters do ask if you’re that one girl from the billboard in Union Square — much to Bruce’s sincere delight, because it’s probably the first time in his life that he gets overlooked in favour of his date. What’s so special about your ads to overlook a billionaire, you’ll never really understand. 

It goes on for months, and before you can really assimilate it, It’s November and it’s been eight months since Clark broke up with you, seven since the terrific Flowers n’ Kisses campaign and four since you started seeing (you’re not sure how to actually describe it, because you’re kinda warming up to him despite everything) Bruce. 

You cave in to Kelly’s constant nagging, and finally accept her invitation to go out for dinner, just the two of you, to her favourite Thai restaurant down the street from her apartment — even after almost a year in Gotham, you’re reluctant about going out at night, still a bit scared after Jenna’s horror stories about her outings during the evening. 

It’s a fun night — you chit chat about anything and everything and she makes sure you’re updated about the latest rumors going around in the modeling world (apparently, Linda Reynolds is pregnant, and the father is supposedly the son of the sixty-year-old CEO she should be marrying in a few months). You both laugh as a teenager from one of the other tables comes over and asks you if you’re the girl from that one Flowers n' Kisses photoshoot, and you almost forget about the dangers of going out at night as you exit the restaurant because — c’mon, you’re with Kelly, her car’s just a few feet away from you two and she’s Kelly, she just knows how to deal with things. That is, until–

There’s a man. He’s in front of you. He has a gun. You barely even register all that happens next. 

She pushes you behind her as he screams to give him all the valuables you have, gun trembling in his hands — is he drunk or just a schizo? — and just as she reaches for her purse — to take out her wallet, she says as she feels around for her taser — he panics and pulls the trigger. 

You don’t know when you start screaming, nor register your hands pressing on her bloody shoulder, nor the cashier from the Thai restaurant going out in the street after hearing the shot and calling the police. You barely feel Commissioner Gordon’s hands around your shoulders as he gently pulls you away from Kelly and gets you to his car while two paramedics get a stretcher ready and lift her into the ambulance, nor notice when he pulls a blanket over your shoulders and a mug of hot chocolate into your hands at the police station. “You’re trembling, kid.” you think you started when the man took out the gun, but it could be when he shot Kelly. You’re not sure. 

“Can I call anyone?” 

You snap out of your trance, looking at Commissioner Gordon with eyes that could only be described as haunted. “Huh?”

He presses his lips into a thin line like he’s been in this situation one too many times. “Can I call anyone?” he asks again, not unkindly. “To come and pick you up and stay with you for the night? It would be better for you not to be alone.” 

You blink. “Is Kelly okay?” 

Gordon sighs. “The paramedics said she should recover without any trouble. You can go visit her tomorrow, if you want.” he leans forward, putting a gentle hand on your shoulder, “Can I call someone for you?” he asks for the third time. 

You sniff — you hadn’t even realized you’d been crying. You can’t call your parents — you know they’d drop everything and come here, but you don’t want them to worry. Jenna’s out of the city for a week, having gone to visit a cousin in Blüdhaven, and terrifyingly so the only person who comes into your mind is Clark Kent– wherever he is, he does know how to fly, and if he wanted to he could just zap here. You manage to scribble his number in the post-it that Gordon hands you, and then he’s off to make the call — only to return defeated ten minutes later. 

“I’m sorry, nobody’s replying. Can I call someone else for you or would you like to try to make the call yourself?” 

You try to swallow the lump in your throat, “Can I try? With my phone?” Clark’s never ignored your calls. And, sure, you haven’t heard from him in months, but you don’t think he’d actively avoid you — he has to know that you wouldn’t call unless it was strictly necessary. Besides, he’s never turned you down in the time of need. 

Gordon nods, “Sure. I think I left your bag in the car, though, so I’ll be right back,” 

He brings your purse, and as soon as your phone’s in your hands you press onto Clark’s number and try to reach him. The Commissioner leaves you in his office, probably to try to give you a bit of privacy, and you’re quite thankful he’s not there to witness you start crying as Clark not only doesn’t reply to the first call, but also to the next five you make. 

“Clark, I know that maybe you don’t want to hear from me but — could you just please, take up the phone?” you try not to sob as you leave what must be the third message in a row, “I wouldn’t call unless I really needed you and– and I’m trying my best not to sound hysteric but please, just pick up the fucking phone.” 

You try and try and try, but lo and behold, it always goes straight to voicemail. Gordon knocks on the door of his office, opening it hesitantly when you don’t reply, “I– it’s been twenty minutes.” 

“I,” you huff tearily, slamming your phone on your thigh, “he just won’t reply.” 

You don’t want to look Gordon in the eye, because even now you can feel the pity in this voice. “Is there anyone else you can call? If… if there isn't, I could have an agent escort you home,”

“No, I–” you really don’t want to cry in front of him, even if your cheeks are already tear-streaked and your eyes are puffy, “I guess I could call someone else.” 

You hadn’t even thought about calling Bruce, having taken for granted that Clark would have replied and knowing about the late hour, but it’s not like you have any other choice. Besides, he did say to call him if you ever needed anything. You dial his phone number and have to hold back a sob as he replies in two rings, voice hoarse, “Hello?” 

“Hi, um, I…” you stumble over the words, not managing to hold the tears at bay anymore as your voice breaks. “Hi, Bruce, could you…” a hiccup interrupts you. 

“Hey,” his voice is alarmed even if it’s clear that he either just woke up or is hungover from the roughness of his voice, “is everything okay? Did something happen?” 

“I…” your throat betrays you again as you let out an embarrassingly loud sob. You hear Bruce’s worried questions on the other side of the line, but you aren’t really able to respond to any of his questions, and Commissioner Gordon holds his hand out for you in a way that says ‘If you want, I can talk to him for you,’. You don’t ask many questions and just pass him the phone. 

“Hello, this is Commissioner Gordon from the GCPD…” 

Not even twenty minutes later Bruce rushes into the office, accompanied by Gordon, and holds you tight as you rise from your chair and crash into his arms. You’ve never hugged before, but that doesn’t really matter as of now, because he’s rubbing your back and pressing his cheek on the top of your head and suddenly you feel safe. “I was so scared,”

“It’s okay,” he whispers, and something on the back of your mind whispers that it’s not fair to cry to him about your friend getting shot but surviving when he had to watch his parents die when he was just a kid, but he doesn’t say anything. He just holds you tighter, thanking Gordon and leading you to his — his butler’s, technically, as it’s still the blue Rolls Royce he came here with — car. Well, if the media didn’t know you two were seeing each other before, now they probably know, because Gotham’s cops are the most gossip hungry people in the city. 

He helps you get into the car as you sniffle, making sure your seatbelt is on before jumping on the driver’s seat and going back to look at you. “Are you okay?”

You nod. “He shot Kelly on the shoulder. Looked crazy, like a schizo maniac on drugs.” 

He sighs, a bit disheartened, “I mean, does a schizo maniac need drugs to look crazy?”

“I guess he doesn’t.” a beat passes before he reaches over to your side, opening the glovebox and reaching for wet wipes — the kind you use for babies’ butts. “Here,” he murmurs softly, “you might want to get the blood off your face.”

You didn’t even know you had blood on your face. You look at the picture of the newborn on the wipes pack, puzzled, “Is there anything you might want to tell me?”

He chuckles and starts the car. “I told you this was my butler’s car. He carries a pack of those anywhere.” 

You look at yourself in the sun visor mirror, acknowledging the fact that you look like absolute crap and definitely have splatters of blood as well as smudged make up all over your face. “Sorry I made you come all the way here so late,” you mumble, trying to wipe the now dried blood off of your face. 

“Nonsense,” he assures, “Commissioner Gordon said it would be best for you not to be alone tonight — would that be okay for you?”

You nod. “Yeah, my place’s a bit cramped but I can sleep on the couch.”

He frowns, “That’s not a problem, I’ll take it. You need a good night’s sleep. We could always go to the Manor if you want.”

You shake your head, “I need a shower and to eat the leftover ice cream in my freezer.”

Bruce smiles the tiniest bit. “Okay. Where to, then?” 

You wouldn’t say the apartment’s cluttered, but you weren’t expecting any guests over so it’s a given that it’s not tidy either — if Bruce notices it, he doesn’t mention it, something you’re grateful for. Instead, he puts a hand on your shoulder, smiling softly, “You should go take that shower. Don’t worry, I’ll be right here.” 

You take a good look at yourself in the mirror and almost start crying again. You had seen that you were covered in blood, but you also didn’t think it was so much blood — the cardigan your poor mother had hand-stitched for you is awaiting a brilliant future in the trashbin, because there’s no way that the stain will ever wash out. 

The water is soothing, even if it takes you a good half-hour to scrub away all the dried blood from your hair and neck — so much so that the skin is left red and sore. It’s your first time witnessing one of the violent crimes Gotham’s so famous for, and you gotta say, it’s even worse than you thought. 

You put on an old ratty sweater — that after a year of living together neither you nor Jenna are too sure of who it belongs to anymore — and a pair of cozy sweatpants that are definitely Jenna’s, because you would never buy such a thing as yellow pants with the bat signal print on them. 

You exit the bathroom with your damp hair still wrapped in a towel, eyes barely managing to stay open thanks to the aftermath of the shock you had been in. You find Bruce sitting on the sofa, maybe a little too interested in the news broadcast playing on the TV. “And it’s game over for Harvey Dent, also known as Two Face, who was arrested just yesterday by the GCPD thanks to an ambush coordinated by none other than Batman…”

“Wasn’t Dent the district attorney?” you’d lie if you said you were informed about the latest coming criminals of Gotham City. “Man, in Smallville the craziest guy we’ve had was Samuel Comell and that’s just because he ate nothing but corn. We’ve got clinical psychos guiding the law here.” it actually would’ve been Clark if anyone knew he was an alien, but you avoid talking about that. You aim for the refrigerator and take out the ice cream, bringing it and two spoons with you to the couch. “Ice cream?”

Bruce grimaces as he takes one of the spoons, “You couldn’t be more right about madmen in Gotham, but Harvey wasn’t one of them until less than a year ago.” 

You raise an eyebrow at his soft tone. “You knew him?”

“We grew up together.” his face falters, “He was my friend– still is.” 

You blink. “Man, the universe must be laughing really hard right now, because the boy I grew up with is also kinda weird.” sure, not a mass-murderer type of weird, but a little weird still. 

He leans to take a spoonful of ice cream from the tub you’re holding, “What do you mean, kinda weird?” 

“Oh, you can’t even imagine,” you can’t even tell him — you swore to Clark that you wouldn’t have told anyone his secret, and you don’t plan on breaking that promise now. “Remember the guy I told you I was trying to get over?”

“It was him?” 

“Yeah,” you try to laugh it off, “Clark was… pretty much everything for me. Then he dumped me to, I don’t know, disappear to find himself or something like that.” it’s much more complicated than that, but you can’t just tell him that your ex-boyfriend is an alien — he’d freak. 

Bruce’s eyes soften a bit. “Well, it’s always more complicated than that, isn’t it?” this time you can’t exactly handle your emotions well, and sputter as your eyes widen. Did he just read your mind? He laughs, “What? I know a thing or two about relationships. Well, about how they end, at least. You know, uh…” he rubs the back of his neck, “I haven’t really said this to anyone, really, but me and Harvey… let’s say we were more like you and your old friend rather than simple friends.” 

You squint, then force the ice cream tub in his hands. “Here. You probably need it more than me.” 

He stares at the tub. “It’s been years. I’m sure you need it more than me.” 

“Well, my ex hasn’t just been arrested,” your face drops, “for what I know, at least.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow at you. “He really just disappeared?” 

You shrug. “Could be in Alaska right now and I wouldn’t know about it.” 

The night starts off easy. You finish the ice cream, then put away the towel you had around your hair and get a blanket because it’s getting a bit chilly, then one thing leads to another and suddenly your cheek is resting on his shoulder as Criminal Minds is playing on the TV. 

“You know,” you mutter at some point, almost half-asleep and too cozy to muster an actual, coherent thought. “You should be detestable. You’re ugly rich, live in a mansion up on the hill and have a butler that has a car that’s probably worth more than my parent’s farm.” you poke his cheek as he turns his head to look at you properly, his arm going around your shoulder, “And instead, you’re nice — and worst of all, relatable.” you raise a hand to curl a lock of his hair around your finger, and he makes that face that men do when they’re about to kiss you — the blank stare that makes them look dumb in the head. “Now, one evil ex’s down. Do I have to defeat the other six or can we just get this over with?”

His lips slosh over yours with unexplainable easiness, like they’ve wanted nothing but to do this their whole life, and maybe you should feel a little guilty about eating Bruce Wayne’s face in your little beat-down couch, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. It’s the first time your mind finally manages to shut down — to stop worrying about anything and everything, and think about just one thing: Bruce. 

Tomorrow, he’ll worry about catching the guy that shot Kelly, he says to himself. Tonight, he worries about you and tries to make sure you’ll be alright. And he does. 

You wake up the next morning with an absolute sight — infamous Bruce Wayne, untouchable playboy and known for his one night stands, standing in your small ass kitchen in a pair of hot pink pajamas — the only thing you had that vaguely fit him — trying to cook pancakes. Key word: trying, because you weren’t woken up by the birdies singing outside of the window, but by the smell of burnt food. Badly burnt food. 

You come up from behind him, hugging his back, “Have you ever even made pancakes?”

He purses his lips like a kid. “No. What is so terrible about wanting to try?” 

You chuckle. “Nothing, nothing,” you tug him down to kiss his cheek, “I just think it’s really funny of you to try to cook when you’ve clearly had problems just with getting the stove on.” 

He rolls his eyes, “Okay, okay, I wasn’t that stunted.” 

He turns to take a good look at you — and apparently, notices your pants just now. “What’s with you and Batman?” he asks, amused. You shrug, ”More like, what’s with Jenna and Batman. When I tell you she’s obsessed with him, dude. She keeps a med kit in the bathroom just in case he falls on our balcony and we have to stitch him up.”

He shudders. “That does sound a bit manic.” 

After a definitely too cheesy breakfast and quickly getting dressed, Bruce accompanies you to the hospital — not before going to the flower shop, of course, to get the biggest bouquet you’ve ever seen and a couple of Get well soon! balloons. 

“What?” he asks. You’re not saying anything, but still clearly judging him, “I thought Kelly was your friend. She has to enjoy the flowers, especially since they’re from you.” 

“Technically, they’re from your wallet,” you retort. He shrugs, “Same thing.” 

Kelly’s still a bit pale, but happy to see you and Bruce. She gives you a look as you apologise for what happened, eyes teary as you remember that she got shot while protecting you. She swats a hand in your way, laugh full of not suggestion but knowledge — absolute certainty. “Honey, if what you two needed to get it on with was me getting shot, I’ll get shot another hundred of times.” she lowers her voice as your face burns red, “Besides, you might want to raise a little that scarf you’ve got — a hickey’s still showing. Just remember me when you’ll go on vacation with his big-ass yacht.” 

What is it with your friends and yachts? You really need to make Jenna and Kelly meet — just kidding, you take that back, the consequences of their team up for your psyche would be devastating.

Time passes quickly when you’ve got one exam after another, and suddenly — before you can actually register it — it’s December, you and Bruce have been together for a month and it’s time for the Christmas holidays. While Jenna goes as soon as she can back to her parents in Chinatown, you, of course, need to go back to Smallville — without Bruce, as it’s still too early in the relationship to meet the parents. He doesn’t look too beaten up about it — just before you told him you wanted to go visit your parents, he had suggested a skiing trip in the Alps in an all-paid-for resort. Poor him, having to go on an exclusive resort with all the comforts in the world all alone! How will he manage without you, you wonder? How will he thrive? 

(Just kidding, of course. You’re pretty sure it’ll take all of his restraint not to go back to his old playboy ways and try to seduce the first female that approaches him. He’ll be just fine.)

There’s two trains for Metropolis on the 22nd of December: you plan to take the first one, the one that leaves Gotham’s station at 8 a.m. sharp — and so you tell Bruce, who unfortunately has a plane to catch and can’t give you a ride — and of course, you just had to miss it. You wake up twenty minutes too late, and by the time you’re at the station the train has just left. 

You go back home to take a nap while waiting for it to be time for the 4 p.m. train, and wake up just two hours later with an emergency broadcast for all Gothamites going off on your phone — God forbid you have a happy holiday in the arms of your loved ones, because the corridor that connects the prison’s main structure to Arkham’s left wing — the one holding captive the major crazed maniacs — has just blown up, and now years and years of captures and police operations have ended up in a massive breakout that will probably pulverize the city in a matter of two days. You’ve never been happier to not be a police officer than now. 

The downside is that the whole city’s on lockdown. Commissioner Gordon appears on TV, warning all citizens to remain home unless strictly necessary and inevitable. A quick call to your parents later you’re fuming about your own stupidity while laying on the couch, wondering why you didn’t just wake up earlier — because now you’re condemned to a Christmas and probably New Years all alone, as all trains and planes are canceled to avoid the passengers turning into hostages or worse, victims. 

Later that night you receive a call from Bruce, voice unusually rough, who says that he’s grateful that you’re already back at home in Smallville and not in Gotham because, if you hadn’t heard, a massive breakout happened. You really don’t want him to worry, so you lie and tell him that you’re relieved too that you took the 8 a.m. train — that your parents say hi and hang up. 

The following days are weird. There’s barely anyone but cops in the streets — you wonder why — and your only interactions with a human are the ones with Nelson, the guy that works at the 7/11 right beside your apartment, and you both try your best to ignore the shotgun he’s keeping behind the counter as he scans your items and wishes you a happy Christmas. 

You spend Christmas Eve eating instant noodles and watching the old Harry Potter DVDs that Jenna left behind — Ron’s just been dragged into the Whomping Willow by Sirius when your phone starts ringing. 

You pause the movie and frown — because you’ve already heard both your parents and Jenna, who could be the only people calling at such an hour. It could also be Bruce, you guess, but you haven’t heard much from him considering the six hour difference between Gotham and wherever he’s staying in the Switzerland Alps. Except when you take your phone, you see an unknown number on the screen. 

“Hello?” you reply tentatively — you really don’t want to be blackmailed by the Penguin or one of his friends on Christmas Eve. No one responds to your hesitant greeting, so you try again, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

You’re about to close the call when you hear it — barely there, the whisper of your name by a voice you know too well. You put the phone back against your ear, eyes already twitching, “Clark?” 

“Hey,” his voice is the tiniest you’ve ever heard from him, “I, uh… wanted to know how you were holding up.”

Your hand starts trembling — if in anger or disbelief, you’re not sure. “You know, you’ve got some fucking audacity calling me now,” you manage to keep your voice steady only by some weird miracle, “when just a month ago I called you about twenty times and cried in the voice messages begging for you to come and get me.” 

He doesn’t reply, but you can almost see him grimacing. “I… I got busy. I’m sorry about that.” 

You pinch the slope of your nose, “Clark, I get it. You need to find yourself and all that but– but I needed you. Like, really needed you. Even if we broke up, I thought you would’ve always been there for me.” a grumble escapes from your throat, “I would’ve always been there for you. But you weren’t there, even with your flying abilities and supersonic speed.” 

He sniffles. God, is he crying? “I just… I thought you would’ve been able to handle it alone. I know you’re strong enough to.” 

“Well, if I call you at an ungodly hour an ungodly number of times then maybe I’m not able to handle it alone. Where are you, anyways?” 

You hear a shuffle on the other end, “Somewhere in the Arctic. Not sure I can exactly tell you where.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure your dead parents would be really offended if you did.”

Ouch. That was a low blow. He says your name as if to try to calm you down, but you shake your head even if he can’t see you, “Why exactly did you call, Clark?”

“I told you, I wanted to see how you were doing–” “Please, we both know that’s just an excuse you invented right here and now. Why did you call me, Clark?”

Silence meets you on the other end. “I… it’s Christmas. We’ve never spent a Christmas apart.” 

You check the hour on your phone, and it’s true — it is Christmas. Has been for only a few minutes, but still. “So what, Clark? It’s not like it was me who decided to break it off between us.”

Another sniffle on his end. “I guess I… I just wanted to wish you a happy Christmas.” 

You sigh. “Merry Christmas, Clark. I loved you, and I’ll always love you– but I’m trying to get over you, and you need to understand that. I can’t do that if you call me just now after ghosting twenty of my calls and voicemails. I’m sure we’ll find a balance in some years when you get back — maybe even be friends again — but please… don’t call.” 

You press the red END CALL button almost as soon as a crash comes from your balcony. You shriek and jump up from the couch, running from your purse and the Bat-taser — finally, his moment to shine. Jenna’s hard earned ten bucks will serve their purpose, maybe. You also eye the metal baseball bat sitting beside the entrance in case you’ll need it, but choose against it in case your opponent is way too strong for you to kick him out. 

You try to peek outside and see nothing but darkness. So, you do the only thing you can think of: hold the Bat-taser in front of you like it’s a gun, slowly open the door to the balcony and yell (probably sounding more shrill than you’d intended to): “GoawayorIswearI’llcallthepolice!” 

A pained groan comes from the ground, “Please don’t.” 

You have to hold onto all the self control you have not to shriek again, “Batman? Is that really you?”

Another pained groan — from the dim light, you notice him holding onto his side and trying to get back up– and also that he crashed one of Jenna’s beloved flower pots while falling here. “The one and only.” 

Now, Jenna had told you about him ending up on civilian’s balconies, but you didn’t actually think he did it. You let the taser fall from your hand and rush to his side, helping him up and then inside the apartment. “What the hell, dude? You scared the shit out of me.” 

He slips from your grip pretty easily — he’s built like a tank, of course he does — and maybe you should worry about getting him back up to his feet, but rather think about closing the balcony door behind you. “Well, my guy, I sure hope you haven’t dragged one of your nemesis right here in my poor little apartment — because I might just lose it.”

He just groans — again. He must be a real sweet talker. “You don’t happen to have something to stitch me up, do you?” 

And that’s how you end up hunched over Batman’s limp body on the tiles of your bathroom floor — you had begged him to at least get there before the living room’s carpet was ruined without any means to salvage it — with an All That You Need If Batman Crashes Through Your Window! medical kit — a wonder that they make these and that Jenna paid a whopping thirty bucks to have it — while watching the shortest video you found on Youtube teaching how to stitch an open wound. Because while you’re a vet student, you still haven’t exactly gotten to this part of the practice just yet. 

“It’s scary that you haven’t even flinched since I started sewing your side close,” you murmur — the first thing you say to him after managing to get him laid down decently. You say it just to try to break the ice, feeling kinda pressured by the awkward silence. “Sorry, man, I’ll have to cut your suit open again. You’ve got a nasty cut on your ribs.” 

“What’s scary is that you’ve got all these Batman themed things,” he replies curtly. “The Bat-taser? The Bat-signal pants? This… abomination of a medical kit? I didn’t even know they made those.” 

You would’ve laughed loudly if you weren’t trying to make the stitches as even as possible. “That’s not on me– that’s on my roommate Jenna. She’s a big fan of yours. I’ll need you to sign her limited edition iridescent Bat-popcorn-bucket before you go, by the way.”

He blinks. “A Bat… what?”

“Bat-popcorn-bucket. It’s iridescent. It makes it look like you’re wearing a rainbow and she keeps it in a display box in her room just in case.” 

You take the scissors and cut away some more fabric, only to stop and squint at his abs. Now, don’t they look familiar… “So, Batsy… how are you holding up in these fantastic days of freedom for all the Arkham prisoners?”

He grunts — does this man know how to start a phrase without an animalistic sound? “Just what I needed for Christmas.” 

You hum, scanning his abdomen as if to understand how to better close the rib wound while you try to understand if your mind’s playing some trick on you or not. “It was just so nice of them to ruin Christmas for everyone, wasn’t it?” 

You dab some hydrogen peroxide on the cut on his ribs, “Don’t you have someone to spend Christmas with, anyway?” his response is kinda quipped, and if your suspicions are true, you might just know why — after all, Bruce does think you’re in Smallville as of now. Who knows what he’s thinking right now. 

You decide to test your theory. “Oh, yeah. My boyfriend’s in the bedroom, he was so tired from cooking all day that he just collapsed after dinner.”

His entire body freezes, and as he tries to sit up, you get your answers. “I have to go,” he mumbles hurriedly, “Scarecrow’s still out there–”

You place a firm hand on his chest, smirking as you inch closer to his face. “Huh-huh,” you tut, his eyebrows twisting in confusion, “where do you think you’re going, Bruce? I just started stitching this cut right here, and you’re not getting out of here unless you take a good nap.”

He raises an eyebrow, “I don’t know what you’re talking about–”

“Please,” you push him back onto the floor, “I would recognise these abs anywhere. By the way, the only thing sleeping in the next room is Jenna’s elderly hamster. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t even have the social skills needed to cheat on someone if I wanted to.”

He sighs, then presses a hand to his forehead and decides to drop the act. “What gave me away?”

“I told you,” you tap his abdomen, “those abs don’t lie. Besides, the way you reacted when I told you my boyfriend was in the bedroom sleeping? Whoof, you slipped right into my trap. Now, can I look into your baby blues or will I have to converse all night while looking at those ugly white lenses?”

He rips off his cowl, rising to his elbows  — and there he is, your handsome, so-tired looking loverboy. “I’m mad at you, by the way,” he says while glaring in your direction, “you told me you were in Smallville. I thought you were safe, and here you are — do you know how many home invasions I had to stop just these last two days in this area?” 

You blanch. “I’d prefer not to, thanks.” but you also raise an eyebrow, because you’re not about to lose an argument to a guy that outed his real identity because of abs and jealousy, “You told me you were in the Alps, by the way. In Switzerland. About… what, four-thousand miles away?” 

Bruce sighs, resigned. “I received word of the breakout just as I was flying above the Atlantic.” 

You tie the last stitch and cut the excess string, pressing a kiss on the wounded skin. “Well, I lost the 8 a.m. train but was too embarrassed about it to tell you. I guess we’re even.” 

You lean down to his level as he holds out an arm to brush your hair off your shoulder, “Oh, sweetheart, we’re always even.” his hand rests on the back of your neck as you two kiss hard, all spit and tongue — so much so that you lose yourself in the moment and press your side a little too hard on his cuts. 

He jumps, yelping in pain as you stare bemused. “Oh, so you do feel pain,” 

He raises an eyebrow, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Thought you were some kind of robot programmed not to feel soreness for a second.” 

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “I’m still mad at you. You could’ve gotten hurt.”

“Thank goodness then that the guy crashing on my balcony wasn’t one of the Joker’s henchmen, no?” you frown, “Besides, why did you come here? For all you knew I wasn’t home.” 

“Well, missy, I wasn’t looking for you,” you feign a gasp of disbelief, “I was hoping to find that horrendous medical kid you told me about.”

You pinch his side — one of the parts not wounded, at least. “You were thinking about breaking in? What are you, a criminal?” 

He purses his lips. “I would’ve forced the lock, but I would have repaired it before you got back.” 

“Is that how you spend your fortune?” you murmur, defeated. “Fighting bad guys in your free time? That’s a pretty expensive hobby.” you suddenly remember something you had said to Clark — I don’t want you to be the man lying half-dead in a dark alley while I wonder why you’re so late to dinner. Would you look at that — you ended up with the same guy you told your ex to please not be. You’re not even too surprised about it — because sometimes, it does feel like Bruce is faking being dumber than he actually is. 

You let him go as soon as the sun peeks out from the horizon with a kiss on the lips and the promise of coming back later in the day, to autograph Jenna’s popcorn bucket, and while he later on keeps his promise, he makes sure to make you another Christmas gift other than the too-expensive necklace he already got you — and somehow manages to get all the criminals back in their cells by the time New Year’s Eve comes around. 

The lockdown ends, but all means of transportation are still off-limits thanks to a few well-placed explosions that went off in the last few days. That’s why you’re confused when Bruce tells you to pack a bag and come with him to the Archie Goodwill International Airport. “I mean, Bruce, we should be somewhere opening champagne bottles — not in a completely deserted airport looking for– what exactly are we looking for?” 

He chuckles, going for one of the hangars present at the launch track, the number 18 plastered on it. “Have you ever flown on a helicopter?”

You frown, “I’ve never flown like, ever.” you don’t have the heart to tell him that it’s because your ex-boyfriend knew how to fly and you’d always hoped he would be the first one to take you flying. 

He takes out a key and opens the sliding door of the hangar — revealing, surprise surprise, a helicopter. “Well, get ready for your first flight, then.”

Flying is much more scary than you would’ve thought — especially because you really don’t know if you should trust Bruce at the wheel. All you know is that you’re holding onto the armrest for your life, hoping that he actually got the licence for flying and didn’t randomly purchase it one day. “Wh– where are we going?” you ask him, trembling, not even managing to look down from the window. 

He sends you a look, “Don’t worry, I would never crash the helicopter with you in it. About the place where we’re going, however– it’s a surprise.”

Barely an hour up in the air later you look out the window to see the helicopter landing in a familiar — too familiar — field, with the grass cut weirdly low. “Bruce, are we–?”

“In Smallville? Yeah, we are.”

Your whole face lights up. “No, you didn’t,” you jump on him, kissing everywhere you can reach, “oh, Bruce, thank you, thank you, thank you– mwah! You’re a real sweetheart, I don’t know how I ever managed to think that you were any less of a person than you are–” 

Needless to say, your parents are elated to see you — they did know about Bruce’s plan, hence why the grass was cut so short where you landed: they were his accomplices and made sure the soil was decent to land on. You’re so happy when you take a bite out of your mother’s pie that you could cry, and your boyfriend — is he? You still haven’t really talked about labels and such — looks not too far away from tears either. 

You spend at least two hours chatting away happily with your parents before Bruce coughs, taking his coat back from the hanger at the entrance. “Well, I think it’s time for me to go.”

Your mother raises an eyebrow, “Oh, but you can’t go! I’ve just put the sweet potatoes in the oven– besides, it’s already dark out there, you seriously wouldn’t want to fly that thing in complete darkness!”

Bruce looks at you, waiting for your approval — well, it was you who said that spending the holidays together at your parents’ was a step a little too big for just a month-long relationship — but you nod, smiling. “You were the one who brought me here, Bruce. C’mon, you gave Alfred the week off– surely you don’t want to be all alone during New Years’ Eve?” 

He relents, “Well, if you say so,” 

That’s how he ends up staying at your parent’s house against all predictions — and you won’t forget the kiss he gives you when the clock strikes midnight for a long, long time, that’s for sure. 

You two spend one week at the farm and another one in the Alps’ resort Bruce had planned to spend Christmas in, spending your time either skiing — tripping over the snow, in your case — or, an activity you appreciate much more, cozied up in the jacuzzi of your private suite. It’s also during this vacation that your relationship gets leaked, but surprisingly — apart from a call from an absolutely fuming Jenna (you had somehow managed to keep the relationship a secret from her) and one from a triumphant Kelly — you take the new wave of publicity suspiciously well. 

Because for the first time in months, you’re truly happy.

It’s the summer of the year later when he appears again. 

You’re on one of the Wayne's biggest yachts in Tenerife with Bruce, Kelly and Jenna — just as the prophecies predicted!, the latter had shrieked when you’d shared Bruce’s invite with her — sunbathing on the boat’s deck as your friends play mermaids in the water when you notice an unusual silence from the upper deck. 

You get up from your sunbed, raising your sunglasses up to your hair as you look for your boyfriend. “Bruce? Honey, is everything alright?” 

You find him seated on the plush couch of the lounge room, staring intently at the TV; you hug him from behind, leaving a kiss on his temple, “Did something happen in Gotham?”

He takes the remote and raises the volume, turning to look at you with a puzzled face. “Not exactly in Gotham.”

Looking up at the screen, you frown when you see the broadcaster. “DPN? Isn’t that the Daily Planet News channel?” 

“And things apparently just keep getting weirder in Metropolis, because after scarce apparitions and helping for some minor crimes the man that the citizens have lovingly dubbed as ‘Superman’ has just shown the public what he’s really capable of by preventing a building from falling onto the passers-by after an explosion cut the structure in half…”

Your heart skips a beat, and suddenly you begin to wonder what you must have done wrong in your life to end up not only with a vigilante boyfriend, but also a vigilante ex-boyfriend. You have to hold back not to slap your forehead in disbelief — really, Clark, and the glasses should be your mask? It’s the stupidest disguise you’ve ever seen, and you have no idea how no one connected Clark Kent — just starting his career as a reporter in the Daily Planet — and Superman — just starting his career as… you don’t know what he’s trying to be. 

You seem to have a magnet for too good-hearted guys, apparently. Bruce presses a kiss on your cheek, “I’ll worry about it when we get back. Don’t think too much about it, okay?”

You’re not ready to tell him your ex-boyfriend is the guy saving old ladies from having to carry their groceries alone — that would be a conversation for almost six months later, when the Justice League is formed — so you just smile at him and pretend to your best abilities that you don’t know anything.

The first time you see Clark Kent again after that morning at the cafè is five years after the start of his crusade as Superman. 

He’s one of the six reporters who were granted permission to be inside of Wayne Manor during the engagement party, briefly interviewing anyone he can talk to and taking notes of everything he thinks valuable on his little notepad. 

You? You’re the one who’s getting engaged. 

You’re wearing a silky white dress that fits you like a glove as you stand next to Bruce, talking to some WE associates, Dick patiently waiting for the conversation to end as he stays glued to your side, hugging your waist and pressing his cheek into your hip as you gently run your hands through his hair. Clark is expecting a one-of-a-kind rock on your ring finger, but is instead surprised with a simple white pearl adorned with two smaller ones on its sides — he did hear something about Bruce proposing with his mother’s ring, now that he thinks about it. 

Lois’ gone off to interview Lucius Fox when you notice him standing awkwardly to the side, scrambling with his notebook and looking around. You excuse yourself from the conversation, giving a little smile to Bruce, nudging Dick with a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to come and meet an old friend of mine, bubba?” he nods, eager to please, and lets your waist go in favour of your hand. 

You approach Clark with the confidence of someone who doesn’t hold any grudges when they should. “Hi, Clark,” you greet him like you two are old friends that meet again — and even if you technically are, you’re also so much more than that. You hold out your hand — again, like you were just good old friends catching up — and he has to force himself to shake it instead of tackling you into a hug. “Have you seen my parents? I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you– it’s been a while.” 

You nudge Dick from behind you, gently holding him by the shoulders in front of you, “Dick, this is Clark, the old friend I was telling you about. Clark, this is Dick, my son.” 

As the child holds out a hand and excitedly says “Hullo!”, Clark tries not to think about how weird it is that he’s still trying to figure out his life while you just have a whole ass kid — adopted, but still. It’s clear how much you have taken into the role of mother. “Hi, Dick,” he says as kindly as possible, not really believing that the Robin who beats up criminals during the night beside the fearsome Batman is the same kid who hides behind his mother during formal events. 

Said kid raises his eyebrows in curiosity, looking up at you, “What kind of friends are you, anyways?” he asks, knowing all too well about your distaste for reporters and journalists alike. 

“The kind that goes way back,” you reply easily with a chuckle, “me and Clark grew up together, bubba.”  

“Oooh,” he ushers, “does that mean you also know nana and gramps?”

Guessing that he’s talking about your parents, Clark chuckles a bit before nodding, “That I do, champ.” 

“Aren’t they the coolest people you know?” Dick rambles excitedly, “last time gramps took me a ride on his tractor and it was so fun! Besides, they have this dog–” he turns to look at you, “Batman’s here, isn’t he?”

Clark’s eyebrows shoot up to his airline. He knew the kid was talkative, but he didn’t think he would be able to out Bruce like that. You laugh, “Yeah, I think I saw him earlier somewhere in the garden with Ace. It’s a miracle the both of them still have their tuxedo collars.” you then look at your old flame, a playful smirk on your face, “Don’t worry, Batman’s my parents' golden retriever.” 

“Ooh,” he sighs in relief, “for a moment there I wondered why Gotham’s most famous vigilante was playing with Bruce Wayne’s dog, and how exactly to phrase it in my article,” a terribly awkward silence follows. 

You shift your gaze to Dick, “Hey, Dickie, why don’t you–”

“Hello! Good evening!” a man with blazing red hair and a whole lot of freckles on his face runs up to the two of you, nudging Clark with an elbow as if clearly saying, please please pleaseeeee introduce me. He’s one of the reporters, you notice, with the press pass and a Canon slung over his neck. He kinda looks like a kid in a candy shop — eyes shining with excitement and almost jumping up and down on his feet. 

Clark sighs, “This is Jimmy Olsen, one of my coworkers from the Daily Planet,” 

The guy grins and holds out his hand, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” his fingers are a bit sweaty, “I’m a great fan.”

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to avoid bursting out in laughter, “Oh, I’m flattered,”

“May I take a picture of the two of you?” it’s clear it was what he had wanted to ask since he saw you and Dick talking to Clark. You look at your son, and he grins up at you with glee. You smile, “Of course,”

You lower yourself a bit and cross your arms over his chest while pressing your chin to the top of his head, smiling widely — and you don’t doubt that he’s smiling with all he’s got too, hands holding your forearms, showing the window his last canine that fell out left. Jimmy snaps a little more than one pictures, but gets interrupted by a voice from behind you, “I hope you aren’t hogging the missus too much, boys,” 

It’s Bruce — of course it is, he’s been staring since you got out of that conversation twenty minutes ago — and he slings an arm around your waist as you rise from your position. Jimmy sits up straighter like his drill sergeant just entered the room — you’re surprised he doesn’t do the salute. “Sir,” he starts, “it is an honor–”

“Clark,” Bruce casually shakes the man’s hand, to his coworker’s utter disbelief. Technically, Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne don’t know each other, but it’s another story for Batman and Superman. “A pleasure to meet you — this pretty girl right here told me a lot of stories about the two of you growing up together."

Jimmy’s mouth falls open. His gaze turns to his coworker with an accusation that could only be described as treacherous. Clark smiles awkwardly, “Yeah, well–”

“You’re a photographer, aren’t you?” the Brucie Wayne persona isn’t trained to hold his attention on just one person at once, so he immediately switches his charming smile to Jimmy, “Why don’t you take a few photos of us? We’re a real nice picture to see,” he draws you closer to him by the waist, “Especially my soon-to-be wife.” 

Jimmy doesn’t let him repeat that, snapping a couple — more like a dozen — of pictures of Bruce holding you close to him while his other hand is as occupied as yours, sitting on Dick’s shoulder as he stands between the two of you, grinning ear to ear. 

“So, Clark,” you start when Jimmy stops snapping pictures, eyeing the other reporter from the Daily Planet — was it Lane? — from the other side of the room, “is that your girlfriend? You two looked pretty close earlier.” 

It’s meant to be a friendly remark, said with nothing but a happy tone, but Clark almost chokes on his saliva. “Oh, I mean–”

You raise an eyebrow, “Please,” you laugh out, “Don’t tell me she’s just a friend, because I’d be nearly as devastated as she would.”

He huffs with a little smile. “I’m… working on it.” 

You smirk. “That’s a good thing. Bruce here has got something for you that could help in your romantic quest.” you nudge your fianceè with your elbow as Dick snickers, “Don’t you, honey?”

He grumbles, looking with a frown at Clark — it’s not that their relationship isn’t good, it’s just that… he wasn’t really the happiest with your decision. “I do, actually,” he takes out an envelope and passes it to Clark with gritted teeth. “I’m… delighted… to invite you to our wedding.”

“As a friend, and with the possibility to bring a plus one,” you add, hand squeezing Bruce’s bicep, “not as press– there won’t be any, by the way.” you roll your eyes towards your boyfriend, “He’ll insist on making you sign an NDA, but I’m sure that you wouldn’t write anything about it nonetheless.” 

He blushes deep red, “Oh, no, no, I would never–”

“Clark.” you giggle as you interrupt him, “It was a joke. Nobody’s going to make you sign an NDA,”

“Yet,” Bruce grumbles. 

You ignore him. “It was a joke between friends,” you aren’t implying anything in your words — you’re sincere. After all these years, that’s what you see Clark as, and it would be sad not having him or his family at the wedding. You’ve already sent the invites to the Kents: only Clark was missing. 

You hold your hand out to him, hopeful. “We are friends, aren’t we?” 

I loved you, and I’ll always love you– but I’m trying to get over you, and you need to understand that. I can’t do that if you call me just now after ghosting twenty of my calls and voicemails. I’m sure we’ll find a balance in some years when you get back — maybe even be friends again — but please… don’t call.

He takes your hand and shakes it with a soft smile. “Friends.”

if you've managed to read all the way down here, congratulations! have some memes:

[starl1ghtgr4yson]

“WHY???? WHY??? WHY??”

pairings: bruce wayne x reader

summary: you don’t wanna go to another boring gala, so you decide to annoy your boyfriend until he listens to you!!

You had a plan

Okay, Well, technically, Bruce had a plan. Bruce always had a plan. He had a plan for corporate takeovers, a plan for rogue gallery breakouts, and a plan for exactly how long it should take the two of you to get dressed, get into the limousine, and arrive at the Mayor’s autumn gala.

You, however, had a counter-plan. And your plan involved a level of weaponized, petty psychological warfare that the World’s Greatest Detective was completely unprepared to handle.

It wasn't that you didn't have class. You did—when you actually felt like putting in the effort. It was just that you kinda really just didn't want to have it tonight. All the fancy-schmancy, superficial fakeness of Gotham’s high society absolutely pissed you off. No, like seriously made you want to scream and then attack bruce for dragging you to another boring ass event. The fake smiles, the forced laughter, the endless small talk over microscopic hors d'oeuvres—it was exhausting. Not to mention all the self entitled men. Ugh. It was horrible.

Honestly, nobody in the city could fathom how you, of all people, were in a relationship with Bruce Wayne. To the public, Bruce was a sleek, perfectly manicured, brooding billionaire. You, on the other hand, were a chaotic burst of energy, completely unfiltered and unapologetically yourself. You hated the stuffy galas with a passion, but you loved Bruce. So, you went.

But you also loved annoying him. And tonight, the bed looked so impossibly comfy, and all you wanted to do was bug your boyfriend and hang out with him.

Currently, you were sprawled out across the center of the massive king-sized mattress. You were lying entirely stomach-down, your chin propped up in your hands, while your legs were bent at the knee, carelessly kicking your feet back and forth in the air behind you. To add an extra layer of defense, you had a heavy hardcover book propped up in front of you. You were staring intensely at the pages, pretending to read, but you had absolutely zero interest in whatever the book was actually about. You just needed a prop for your innocence routine.

Bruce, meanwhile, was standing in front of the full-length mirror, looking every bit the pristine, high-society billionaire. He was adjusting the cuffs of his bespoke tuxedo, his broad shoulders squared, his expression grave and analytical as he mentally ran through his schedule for the evening. You weren’t even ready yet.

You watched him over the top of your book, kicking your feet a little higher, before letting out a soft, heavy sigh.

"Bruce?" you called out, your voice dripping with sweet, faux-hopelessness.

“Brucieeee.”

He didn't turn around, but his eyes flicked to your reflection in the mirror, tracking the rhythmic swing of your legs. "Yes?"

"Can we just stay home instead of going?"

Bruce’s hands paused on his cufflinks. He let out a low, patient breath, turning around slowly to face you. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at you with a mix of fond exhaustion and mild amusement. "No. We can’t."

"Why?" you asked, turning a page of your book with agonizing slowness. Your head tilted to the side, your eyes wide and blinking up at him with pure, unadulterated innocence.

At the time, Bruce thought it was just a word, you unintentionally threw into the conversation— not something you had been planning to say since this morning.

"Because I promised the board I would attend," Bruce explained, keeping his voice calm and measured. "My absence would send the wrong signal to the investors."

"Why?"

there it was again. but maybe it’s just a coincidence.

Bruce took a half-step toward the bed, his brow furrowing slightly. something about the simplicity of your question was already throwing him off. "Because a lack of appearance from Mr. Wayne implies instability within Wayne Enterprises."

"Why?"

Bruce stopped. He stared at you, trying to read your micro-expressions. Your face remained completely blank, your eyes shifting back to the book as if you were deeply invested in chapter four, completely devoid of any mischief. You were just waiting for an answer like a curious child.

He took a slow breath, adjusting his posture. "Because the market relies on perception, and perception is fragile."

"Why?"

A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch appeared at the corner of Bruce’s jaw. He closed his eyes for a brief second, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, completely ruining the neat comb-over. "Because investors are inherently risk-averse."

"Why?"

"Because their primary objective is capital preservation." Bruce's voice dropped an octave, getting slightly faster now. He was a control freak; his brain instinctively demanded that he provide a logical answer to every query. He couldn't just not answer.

"Why?" you popped the question seamlessly, your feet continuing to swing back and forth in perfect, rhythmic sync as you blindly turned another page.

"Because that is the fundamental basis of capitalism," Bruce said, his hands dropping to his sides. He walked over to the edge of the bed, looming over you. His chest heaved with a silent, baffled sigh. He looked incredibly imposing in his formalwear, but you didn't even flinch.

"Why?"

"Because—" Bruce opened his mouth, then abruptly closed it. He stared down at you, his mind completely hitting a wall. The World’s Greatest Detective, a man capable of processing a million tactical variables in a split second, had just been completely short-circuited by a two-letter word and a fake book.

He reached down, gently pressing two fingers against the top of your book and tilting it down so he could see your face. You just blinked up at him, your chin still resting in your hands, looking entirely sweet and harmless.

"Are you doing this on purpose?" he asked, a faint, helpless rumble of a laugh underlying his strict tone.

"Why?" you shot back instantly, without a moment's hesitation.

Bruce officially broke. A genuine, breathless laugh escaped him. It was this amazing sound that he only ever let you hear. He shook his head, completely defeated by your absolute, unwavering commitment to the bit. The sheer, petty brilliance of your infinite loop had dismantled all his armor, melting away all the stiffness required for the gala.

"Alright," Bruce murmured, a full, beautiful smile finally breaking across his face. He didn't look like a brooding vigilante or a stiff billionaire anymore; he just looked incredibly soft, his blue eyes dancing with amusement. "Fine. You win."

Before you could ask *why* again, Bruce stepped closer, unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket as he moved. He kicked off his polished dress shoes, threw his jacket over the nearest armchair, and loosened his bow tie with one swift tug.

With a soft, amused huff, he crawled onto the bed, his large frame completely eclipsing yours as he hovered over you. You let out a squeak of genuine laughter as he snatched the book from your hands, tossing it carelessly onto the nightstand, and found your waist. He flipped you over onto your back so he could trap you beneath him, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

"We are staying home," Bruce rumbled against your skin, his stubble tickling you as he wrapped his arms around you in a heavy, inescapable, and completely comfortable hold. "The investors can think whatever they want. I'm not answering why ever again."

You smiled, your burst of chaotic energy finally settling into pure contentment. You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, holding him close as the heavy tension of Gotham finally melted out of his body.

"Bruce?" you whispered into his hair.

He groaned into your shoulder, tightening his grip. "Don't say it."

"Why?"

He answered by raising his head and kissing you thoroughly to finally shut you up.

Taglist: @leovaldez0924 @newangelle @pxrcyjcksons @rani1028 @maradcrs @purelypersistentribe @cecillia-stuff @sarahskywalker-amidala @starrydustedwinter @brucewayneisavirgin @idkwhattosaynowsorry @sexy-sadie-6505 @steadyclarityparadox @fireiyu @jaydennicole

[ohgoodlordagain]

Severitus fic where Snape is found out as a spy and death eaters are trying harder than usual to find and capture Harry. Dumbledore decides that, after Little Whinging is attacked again, the best course of action is to send the pair to a safe house outside the country. They both tried their hardest to convince Dumbledore otherwise, but in the end they both ended up in a cabin deep in the woods, far far away from Hogwarts and Little Whinging. It’s hard for them to be too mad when they’re being hidden in a picture perfect place where most people only dream of living.

It’s awkward at first, of course it is, two people who hate each other being trapped in a secluded house together, unable to do magic and basically no personal belongings besides essentials and clothes. Snape doesn’t let Harry go exploring too far into the forest, as he doesn’t know his way around and they’re not allowed to use tracking spells while in hiding, as Harry was still only 15 and the Trace would alert the ministry of their location immediately.

Still, Harry spent most of his days wandering around the woods, even if he couldn’t go very far. He didn’t know how long they were going to be stuck in the safe house, but after a few weeks they had already fallen into a routine. Whoever woke up first, usually Harry, was in charge of breakfast, which they’d eat together with usually stunted and awkward conversations. Then Harry would go and explore the outside while Snape either read a book or tended to the large garden in the back of the cabin. Harry doesn’t really understand how anything in the garden was still alive, as it looked like nobody had lived in the house for quite a while, but maybe it was spelled to stay alive somehow- he didn’t know. By the time lunch came around, Harry had exhausted himself, exploring deeper into the forest than he usually dared.

While he was out he stumbled upon a small stream, which he of course followed. He wouldn’t have dared to go that far into the forest if he wasn’t following the stream, which eventually led to a clearing and a large, crystal clear lake. He sat on a bigger rock by the shore and watched the sun reflect off the water, unsuccessfully trying to skip a few rocks off the surface. After spending a few minutes listening to the waves and various bird calls he got up and began to head back to the cabin. He wasn’t sure how long he was out, but he hoped it wasn’t long enough for Snape to come looking for him.

By the time he returned to the cabin he could already smell whatever Snape was cooking for lunch. He kicked off his shoes as he entered and washed his hands in the kitchen sink, taking a peek at stove. Snape was cooking what looked like a rice dish with various vegetables from the garden and some chicken cooking in a separate pan.

“Oh, pity,” Snape spoke up, not even glancing at Harry. “I started to think that maybe you’d gotten yourself lost in the woods, thought I’d have a peaceful meal for a change.”

Harry snorted and shook his head, grabbing two plates from the cabinet for them. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“A shame, really.” He said as he began to plate their dishes.

Harry didn’t know when that all started. The jokes and the real actual conversations they shared. It just seemed like one day their hatred for each other fell away and they were in a mutual agreement to forget about it, at least for as long as they were stored away in this cabin. Harry grabbed their plates and placed them on the table, sitting down after also grabbing some utensils for them.

They don’t talk a ton during dinner, as they spend all day together which means there’s usually not much to discuss. Harry hummed as he took the first bite, he was pleasantly surprised the first time he tried Snapes cooking as it was actually really good, not that his standards were all that high. Harry also had a slight interest in cooking whenever he’s able, so he liked to come back to the cabin early to try and help Snape in the kitchen, or at least be able to watch the process if he was allowed. There were some days where him and Snape would find their rhythm in the kitchen, perfectly working around each other to make a nice dinner to share. Those days always left him a little confused, making him think back to the days where they would fight in bicker in the potions room, clashing at every step and turn. He wondered if things would go back to the way they were whenever they had to go back to Hogwarts, and he found himself hoping that they didn’t.

Harry slept on the pullout couch in the living room while Snape took the small bedroom down the hallway, not that he minded at all, the bed was still better than the one he had at the Dursleys. Snape had given him an odd look when he took the pullout bed without complaint on their first night, storming into his room in a rage after berating him, talking about how he won’t get pity points from anyone for his humbleness. Harry had slept it off and there hadn’t been any more comments since.

Harry, like usual, was the first one up in the morning. He yawned and rubbed his eyes while willing himself to get out of the warm, comfortable bed. He slipped out of bed a few minutes later and immediately opened all of the blinds, letting the sunlight fill the cabin, he also cracked a few open to get rid of the stale air. He made his way over to the kitchen to rifle through their food to see what he could make them. He found a few potatoes from the garden and left them on the counter as he tried to grab the eggs from the back of the fridge at the same time. He grabbed a few veggies from the bottom drawer and finally, the milk.

He immediately got working on the potatoes, cutting them up into small, even squares. He threw on some salt and pepper from their extremely limited spice cabinet and threw them into a pan with oil and butter. He grabbed a large bowl to crack the eggs into, dicing up the various vegetables he got out and whisked it all together with a splash of milk. He waiting a few minutes before melting some butter in a pan, he whisked the eggs one more time before slowly pouring it into the hot pan, smiling as he listened to it sizzle. He sprinkled on a little bit of salt and pepper before he needed to flip the omelette, also stirring and mixing up the potatoes.

He grabbed two plates as the food finished cooking, leaving them on the counter next to the stove, he also grabbed two mugs and took a minute to start up the coffee maker. That’s his last step in making breakfast and usually the one that got Snape out of bed, the smell of brewing coffee filling the small cabin.

Like clockwork, the door to Snapes bedroom cracked open, the light flooding in to his pitch black room. He stepped out with a yawn and made his way into the kitchen, taking stock of everything Harry’s made for them. The coffee maker spat and sputtered as it finished brewing, steam pouring out of the top. Snape poured the coffee into the two mugs while Harry folded and carefully split the omelette into two, depositing each piece and some potatoes onto both plates.

They met at the table with their respective items and placed them in front of two chairs across from each other. Harry quickly grabbed utensils for them while Snape sat down, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, trying to make himself look presentable while Harry’s back was turned. He returned to the table and handed Snape the fork and knife he brought for him before sitting down, immediately digging into the food on his plate. He hummed as he took a bite, satisfaction filling him like it did every morning while they ate whatever he cooked. Snape nodded in return, his version of a compliment whenever Harry did something to his approval.

Snape was nice enough to do the dishes while Harry finally washed up in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and scrubbing at his face with cold water. He brushed through his hair with his fingers a few times before giving up, his hair was looking a little grown out with how long he’d gone without a haircut, the sides were almost past his chin. He sighed and blew his bangs out of his face before leaving the bathroom.

Harry liked to reset the living room every morning, folding the bed back up so they could use the couch during the day. He placed all his blankets and pillows into a basket they kept in the corner of the room. The curtains billowed as the breeze from the open window pushed through, the fresh air from the outside making him restless. He was excited to get back out to exploring.

Over the next week, Harry found himself visiting that lake at least once every day. He was definitely improving his rock skipping abilities, maybe even enough to impress Ron whenever they went back. He finds himself wishing that Ron was there to be the one to teach him, but, like much else in his life, he had to figure it out on his own.

Harry had never considered himself the strongest swimmer but he gained the courage to take a dip one day, the scorching sun making his skin red and his forehead glisten. He stayed where his feet could touch the bottom but let himself float on his back across the water, clenching his eyes against the bright sun. He almost found himself wishing that Snape was there with him, sitting on the shore reading a book or maybe even wading through the water with his pants rolled up. The thought made him laugh, thinking of Snape sunbathing, the man who wore a black cloak all year round and lived in the dungeons of a castle.

Snape obviously left the cabin, but he never truly explored like Harry did, he would never just stumble upon this lake like Harry did. He wanted Snape to be here but he also valued that this was his own private space, somewhere that no one could find him, no prying eyes or eavesdropping ears. He sighed before making his way back to shore, lying on the warm ground and waiting for his clothes to dry in the hot sun. He nearly fell asleep while waiting, nodding off slightly, but kept himself awake as he knew if he fell asleep he probably wouldn’t wake until the sun was down. He yawned before slowly standing up, groaning quietly. He threw his shirt back on and slipped on his socks and shoes before beginning to make the trek back to the cabin.

He was dead on his feet when he finally made it back, tired from all the walking and swimming. He came home later than he usually did, lunch already sitting on the table with Snape already eating. He plopped himself down in his seat and began to eat while half nodding off, nearly dropping his fork on multiple occasions. Snape didn’t say anything but silently laughed whenever Harry’s head snapped up, smiling almost endearingly at the boy. Snape stood when Harry’s head dropped but finally failed to rise, quietly making his way around the table and plucking the fork out of Harry’s limp hand. Snape gently shook him, not enough to fully wake him, but enough that he could get back to the couch with a little bit of guidance.

Harry quickly fell back asleep once he was lying on the couch, snoring quietly and curling up with his back facing the window. He disregarded any sort of blanket or cover since the cabin was already quite warm. Snape quietly covered Harry’s unfinished lunch and placed it in the fridge for him to finish later, silently tidying the place up. He pondered to himself, wondering what Harry could have possibly been doing to get himself so tuckered out. Nothing dangerous, he hoped.

With a book in hand, Snape sat down on the plush leather chair that was tucked next to the couch, facing the small fireplace. He felt a bit odd, like he was watching Harry sleep, but he didn’t fancy spending his whole day hidden away in his room so he stayed seated. There truly wasn’t much to do around the cabin, and the garden can only be tended to so many times, so Snape began picking through the stack of muggle books that were left behind in his bedroom and found that a few of them were actually quite interesting.

About an hour passed before Harry began to stir from his slumber, stretching out across the couch and covering his face against the bright light of the sun. Snape looked over Harry once again and rolled his eyes when he noticed the tinge of red on Harry’s cheeks, the beginning of a light sunburn starting to appear.

“Potter, how could you have possibly achieved getting burnt by the sun in the middle of a forest,” He scoffed, shaking his head fondly. “You’re under a canopy of shade at all times. Unless you had the brilliant idea of standing under a sun spot for an hour?”

Harry giggled tiredly into the couch cushion at the idea, feeling the heat of the sunburn radiating off his face, and probably his shoulders too. He sighed but didn’t answer, trying to decide whether or not he wanted to give up his secret hideaway at the lake.

“I was out.” He answered simply.

“Out.” Snape repeated, a small smile on his face. “What a… profound answer.”

“Mhm…” Harry mumbled quietly.

While, yes, having his the lake to himself was nice, it wasn’t like there were many people around to bother him, so there was no real point. If he ever wanted to be alone all he had to do was step outside of the cabin. He bit the inside of his cheek as he thought, thinking back to some of the late night conversations he had had with Snape over the past few months. He thought back to how he had opened up a bit about the Dursleys, how Snape silently encouraged him to continue but never pressed for answers, never pried into his life or asked questions he didn’t want to answer. It was like Snape somehow knew exactly what areas were too much and which ones he could bring up without upsetting Harry too much.

He thought about how Snape had taken Harry out into the garden and taught him how to take care of the plants, how to tell when certain vegetables or fruits were ready to be harvested, and how to keep them safe against bugs. He thought about Snape teaching him how to cook with those very vegetables, not that he didn’t know how but it was always nice to know a few more recipes. He remembered feeling weirdly happy when they had sat down for dinner that night, knowing that they had worked on it together.

Harry finally sat up, rubbing at his eyes a little. “So, there’s this lake I found…”

—

[oobas]

where r all the kara fics 💔 i dont care that the movie isnt out yet look at this

in general theres so not enough lesbian dc content on here and im so desperate

[dmdog]

It lives in the arcade and leaves sticky little footprints on the linoleum. Naming it Gumble

[poneappol]

this fanfiction shit easy

[tw1sters]

Handful

Your infatuation with one firefighter brings you to the station every day. That is, until you hear him call you a handful.

▸ PAIRING & WC: Firefighter!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader — 3K ▸ WARNINGS: Hurt/comfort, fluff, miscommunication!!! ▸ A/N: i was reading dear @heldbybarnes' delicious firefighter bucky and got hit with inspo to write this in an hour at 2am. just my good ol friends miscommunication and yearning! hope you enjoy, any comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated <3

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You meet Bucky by accident. Setting off the fire alarm in your building when you’re reverse searing a steak that billows smoke like it’s nobody’s business until it touches your finicky little thing. The alarm blares loud, waking up the entire building judging by the way your neighbors are complaining through your walls — even the ones above you. 

You’re wincing in apology as you open up your windows and your door, standing on one of your rickety dining chairs and attempting to shut the damn thing up. 

That’s when he comes in. 

Sharp lines, blue eyes that could cut you like a diamond. Shoulders that could probably body you to the ground — and you’d thank him for it. “Are you alright, ma’am?” Oh, and that goes straight between your legs. 

You’ve never really been in love before. You’ve never even really dated. Your college life was spent with tearstains on your textbooks and essay papers until each piece of work contained a fat, red ‘A’ and added up to your perfect GPA. Countless hours networking with people to wriggle yourself into your dream job and now those hours are wasted behind a desk with a career that gives you carpal tunnel. 

Point is — when you set your mind on something, you obsess over it until you achieve it.

Your current target? One Sergeant Bucky Barnes from FDNY Engine 205. 

From the moment he stepped in and delivered that question, to the second he looked into your eyes and grinned, those sapphire eyes twinkling as he said — “That dinner looks delicious, what I’d kill for a homecooked meal,” you knew you were done for.

Ask and you shall receive. 

Now, on your work breaks, you find yourself stopping by with a platter of something new you’ve whipped up. Whether it’s a hearty protein-topped salad or a smoked barbecue selection or an array of sweet treats, you bring it as an offering to the local station.

Every. Single. Day. 

The first day, one guy looks at you reluctantly at your foil-covered container and you had to stand there in shame as he told you that they couldn’t accept it due to health and safety concerns. 

Your cheeks were hot as you held the tray closer to your chest, ready to hightail out of there before you can embarrass yourself further, when that familiar voice came.

“Steak alarm.” 

Your gaze lifted to find Bucky standing there. He’s wiping his hands on a dirty dishrag, tight shirt clinging onto his body with the sweat and… general fit of the fabric, as he made his way towards you. 

He lifted the foil and his gaze widened. It felt like you were taking a nosedive straight off a cliff into the Pacific — and you enjoyed every second of it. 

“Now that’s a meal.” 

Then he was summoning the rest of the station to take a gander at what you’ve prepared and suddenly they’re all picking away at it and thanking you for the first proper meal they’ve had in days. 

And when Bucky once again flashed you that charming smile, one that would probably set off all the alarms in this station, it was over for you. 

You should be embarrassed with being so obvious — some of the other firefighters have caught on to your teensy crush. Natasha, who’s probably the most badass person you’ve ever met, shoots you lopsided smiles every time you stare at Bucky. Sam and Steve are a little less subtle as they make comments like “your wife’s here, Barnes!” and you have to flail and panic until Bucky damns them with warning glares.

It’s not as if you talk to him. They’re much too busy for that. One of those days, you walk in and they’re actually gearing up to leave. Bucky had apologized profusely before he hopped in the truck and was on his way. 

Instead, you yearn silently. You tell yourself it’s enough that you can see Bucky smile every day, that you can watch him devour whatever new thing you’ve made. 

But the more you see him, the greedier you get. 

When he does have time, he talks you through the mechanics of his job or describes the truck in great detail — until Sam yells at him, “Nobody wants to hear about your damn truck, Buck!” Then he’s flushing and saying sorry for boring you. You tell him in honesty that he could never bore you. 

Suddenly, your days seem a little brighter. Instead of the humdrum life you’ve crafted for yourself, your pulse skips every time you think of something new to make for the station. You think of them as new friends. All of them know you by name and welcome you in with no hesitation. 

It feels as if you’re making strides in getting to know Bucky, in getting him to actually like you. Not necessarily in a romantic way, just as two people becoming friends. 

However, as you’re approaching the station late one day (your oven was being difficult), you find that the team is already on the upper level of the base having lunch. You reach for the stairway when you hear it. 

“Come on, Buck, you know she’s got a crush on you,” Sam teases. The others titter in agreement. 

Heat floods your cheeks. 

“Quit it, Wilson,” Bucky growls.

“What? She too much for you?” Sam presses with a chuckle. 

“She’s a handful, that’s for sure,” you hear Bucky mutter.

You hear your heart hit the ground. Laughter ripples through the space but there’s a ringing in your ears and your feet are moving before you can think twice. 

Handful. A handful.

All this time, you thought you were doing something nice, but you didn’t realize you were actually bothering them. The street before you blurs as tears prick your eyes. Your breaths come out shallow as you trudge all the way home, the baked goods in your hands suddenly feeling like deadweight. 

It’s only when you’re in the safety of your apartment that you allow yourself to breathe. At least as much as you can. You end up clearing out that tray on your own that evening with a depressing movie on screen.

From that point, you can’t imagine coming in to face them. You can’t bear the thought of pitying looks from the team or how Bucky is probably forced to smile to welcome you. Public servants and all. The last thing you want to do is inconvenience them when they’ve got a lot on their plates.

So you stop coming. You instead bury yourself in work, taking on more responsibility to keep your mind distracted — far away from the thought of being a handful. There are some nights when that melancholy morphs into irritation, how you wish you could spite him for not telling you the truth sooner. And then you realize that it’s not on him; you chose to do this. He was simply being kind.

You had mistaken that kindness for something more. 

It’s been a few days since you last came and none of them have said a thing. It’s not as if you ever traded phone numbers. At least this will be a clean slate. You can forget this fluke ever happened.

You’re trying a new chicken recipe, frowning at your box of butter, when a knock sounds on your door. Your instinct is to sniff the air, wondering if the scent has permeated through the halls and your neighbor Mr. Tilman is here to complain again. 

Wiping your hands on your kitchen towel, you swing the door open to find… not Mr. Tilman.

Instead, Bucky stands at your door. 

He’s still in his fire station t-shirt. 

He still looks delicious.

Those eyes that you’ve grown to adore light up when they see you. He smiles softly, “Hey.”

Your throat is dry. “Uh, hi.”

He looks you up and down and you realize now your disheveled state. Hair a mess, your oversized shirt is ratty and ends at your thighs. You reach up instinctively to try and fix yourself. 

“You open your door to everyone like that?” His gaze flicks to your bare legs before going back up, cheeks a little pinker.

“Um, I thought you were Mr. Tilman. He doesn’t like it when I use too many spices.”

“You open your door to Mr. Tilman like that?” Bucky cocks an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirked up in amusement.

You fight back a smile and shake your head. “No, not usually. I was still distracted with my cooking when you knocked. Can I help you with something?”

Bucky shifts a little nervously then and you finally notice the crinkling plastic bag in his hands. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I thought you were sick so I brought over some chicken soup. I can’t cook for the life of me so I bought it. I can promise it’s safe.” 

Dammit. How are you supposed to get over this man when he does things like this?

“Oh, thank you,” you swallow thickly.

“You don’t look sick though.”

“I’m… not,” you say slowly, unsure of how to approach this situation.

“No, you’re not,” Bucky responds softly, “we missed seeing you around.” 

Your feet shuffle closer together as you look down at them instead of him. “Yeah, it’s been busy.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

You look up and laugh awkwardly. The lie goes straight past your teeth. “No, no. Just work.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, lips tightening. He knows. You should’ve spent the past few days learning how to fib instead of moping. “Is something wrong?”

“What? No. Why would something be wrong?”

Real smooth. 

Saved by the bell, your fire alarm begins beeping aggressively. You’ve forgotten your chicken. A curse slips past your lips as you hurry back in but Bucky beats you to it. He’s switching off your stove, telling you not to touch the pan, and reaching over to toggle with the alarm. 

And now the two of you are in your kitchen, standing side by side watching as the oil pops in your pan and your chicken is completely burnt to a crisp. 

“Well, guess that recipe didn’t work,” you joke to break the tension. 

Bucky is silent for a moment before he asks quietly, “Did I do something?”

“What?” You whip up to face him. 

“Is work really the reason why you haven’t been coming around?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Yeah,” you choke out a laugh again, “of course.”

The smile he gives you is almost sorrowful. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Flinching, you shift your gaze away this time. 

“If I did something, I want to apologize. I’d appreciate it if you told me so I can properly say sorry and so I don’t do it again.” 

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you shake your head, “believe me. It’s fine.”

“Then why?” 

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, teeth sinking into your bottom one. Bucky’s gaze falls briefly again to your mouth before it returns to you. “I just don’t want to be a bother.”

His eyes flicker in surprise. “Why would you be a bother?”

“You guys are obviously busy and I don’t want to intrude—”

“You don’t— you could never intrude,” Bucky interjects softly, “what would give you that idea?”

You clear your throat and shrug.

“I lo—” he stops, flushing lightly, “We love having you there. All of us. We look forward to your visits, you know. Sam won’t shut up about everything you make. We might’ve taken you for granted and I am sorry for that, but I want you to know that you could never be a bother.” 

“Thank you,” you murmur softly. “I’ll, um, come by tomorrow maybe.”

“And you don’t have to bring anything all the time. You must be busy with work too. Could just swing by to chat with us. Steve also hosts weekly game nights with Nat and you’re more than welcome to join us.”

Now it’s your turn to be flustered as you wave him off. “No, no, that’s for your team.”

“People bring their plus ones too, it’s very casual.”

“Yeah, but I’m not really anyone’s plus one,” you laugh lightly.

Bucky digs his fingers into his pockets and you see that his neck and ears are stained red. His gaze shifts around the room before they fly back to you. Honest blue eyes. “You could be mine.”

Your heart skips. 

“I mean, you don’t have to— I just, you know, it would be nice. Of course, you don’t have to be my plus one. You could be someone else’s — scratch that, you could be the team’s overall plus one, but I think it would be nice if you were mine…” Bucky trails off and his usually tanned skin flushes a deeper and deeper shade of scarlet. 

You’re not sure how to respond to this. Just days ago, you heard him call you a handful. You thought you were too much. You don’t know what to make of this.

Is he just being kind? Maybe he feels bad that you’ve spent weeks coming around and now he wants to repay the favor.

“You know you don’t have to feel bad and invite me,” you gently say. 

“I don’t—” he looks taken aback, “I’m not inviting you because I feel bad. I’m, shit, I’m inviting you because I want you there.” 

“Why?”

Bucky rubs his face aggressively, groaning silently to himself. “I feel like I’m going about this the wrong way. I… really like you.” Your heart stutters again, your breath hitching in your throat. “I wanted to ask you out properly, but I wasn’t sure if that would cross any professional boundaries, given how we met. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. If I’ve misinterpreted anything you’ve done, please let me know. I just— you were coming around and the team was saying that you came around to see me — and I guess I got my hopes up.”

You’re silent, and your nonresponse makes him squirm. 

Why would he— this doesn’t make any sense. You heard him loud and clear at the station, right? 

“But I thought you thought I was a handful,” you whisper. 

“What?” He blanches, “What would make you think that?”

“I heard you,” you admit shamefully, “last time I came around the station. I thought— I figured I was being a nuisance so I didn’t want to overstep anymore.”

The gears are turning in his mind as he seemingly retraces his steps. You see the moment he remembers. His face pales. “Oh, fuck, oh god. No, shit. No, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay! Look, it’s totally fine. I get it. I can be intense and I don’t want to put that pressure on you.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, his eyes are kind and stern at the same time as he delivers his explanation. “I only said you’re a handful because you do so much and I don’t know if I could ever do enough to return the favor. I’ve been thinking about asking you out and I haven’t really… dated in a while — or ever for that matter — and I wanted to do it right. I wanted to do right by you. Fuck, I didn’t mean handful in that way, I swear.” 

“Oh.”

“God, I’m an idiot,” Bucky moans, “I’m so sorry. Shit, you must’ve thought— I’m sorry. I never want you to think you’re a bother. You’re not. You’re the best part of my day. Every day, I look forward to coming into work knowing I was going to see you in the afternoon. I prayed so that we wouldn’t get called out during those hours.”

Your lips part.

He takes a deep breath, “That first day you didn’t come, I was worried that something happened, but the others thought I would be too much if I stopped by. Not to mention, incredibly inappropriate since I know your address from that first time. But shit, I missed you that day. I didn’t realize how much I loved seeing you every day until that first day. Then you stopped coming and I couldn’t stop worrying so Nat finally unofficially greenlit me to check on you and I came straight here. But then I thought that you were sick so I stopped by to get soup and— now I’m rambling. You didn’t ask for all that. I just need you to know that you could never be a bother to me. Never. Even if you were a handful, I can’t imagine anyone else taking care of you— I don’t want to imagine that.”

“Bucky—”

“And that makes me really selfish right? But I want to be the first person you call if anything happens. If something good or bad happens, I want you to tell me first. Because I like you so, so much. I should’ve made that clear earlier. But, again, if all this makes you uncomfortable, then tell me. I’ll leave. No hard feelings.”

“Bucky!”

“Yes,” he shuts up.

“I—” you realize now that you should’ve prepared what to say, but how are you expected to respond to that? “Thank you, um, for clarifying. I don’t even know what to say. I can confirm that I was coming around mainly to see you,” you say, embarrassment written all over your face at your confession, “you’re the best part of my day too. I should’ve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.” 

His face is marred by a wince as he offers you an apologetic look. “No, I understand why you did. I should’ve phrased it better.”

“Well, at least that’s cleared up,” you smile, “but I do… like you too, that is. Professional code be damned, I would’ve said yes if you asked me on a date.”

The smile he gives you is blinding and you vow then and there that you would spend the rest of your life making sure he keeps that expression on his face. 

“Well, since your dinner is… unsalvagable,” Bucky begins, glancing briefly at the mess on your stove, “how about I take you out for dinner? As a date.”

You smile. “I’d love that.”

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @houseofhyde @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @barnes-babydoll @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @nikkitabarnes @captain-shannon-becker @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @amoremarveloustime @avgdestitute @natskisses @sarah1barnes @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @onecojg @iamthatonefangirl @wildflowersandvibranium @stegosaurussims @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @mathcat345 @flippedccc @lynnidc @winnichu173 @singulartoast @zhaixiaowen @c3liaaaaa @Buckysdecaflove @epiphanyrogers @larissabarnes @itsmadamehydra @cutttteeee @macbaetwo @blobfishlol @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00

+ add yourself to my taglists!

[yunaflxs]

Angel is about to get hurt by some random enemy, but David—in his wolf form—jumps the enemy and takes their head off, because who do they think they are?

(someone make a fic of this or something PUHLEASE.)

We need protective David