dunbarx

[dunbarx]

the night we met

summary | an anniversary goes wrong but . . . it gets you something much sweeter, even if it comes with some conditions in the middle.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader. platonic dick grayson x kent!reader

warnings / tags | fluffy, a bit angsty because dick loses his parents and is heavily traumatized. reader tries her best.  

word count | 6k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. this can be read as part 4. you'll the other parts on the masterlist.

taglist |  @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @radenxd @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01 @shqyou @mei-simp @serendippingdots @sirlovel @aixaaingela @pjmgojo @antixsocialx2 @nisarelle @realiliumfr @gojoswaterbottle @connnn

DATING THE BATMAN WAS NOT MUCH EASIER THAN BEING BRUCE WAYNE'S SECRETARY.

At least as his secretary, you had office hours. But in love? Love didn’t punch out at five.

Especially not when the man you loved was Gotham’s nocturnal guardian, the co-founder of the Justice League, and—unfortunately for your sleep schedule—someone who regularly showed up at your apartment with a dislocated shoulder, three broken ribs, and blood in his hair at two in the morning, needing gauze and your voice.

Still.

You wouldn’t trade him for anything. Not even a normal life.

The year 2003 had been many things.

It had been historic, chaotic, strangely beautiful.

The Justice League was born. A messy, miraculous thing forged in battle after a global invasion: Superman, your brother, who still texted you pictures of cows when he got too overwhelmed to think clearly; Batman, your boyfriend, who said nothing about joining but went anyway, because the world needed it and he needed them; Wonder Woman, who introduced herself to you with both hands and the warmest smile you’d ever seen; The Flash, impulsive and very much your friend now, who called you “Miss Y/N” out of respect; Green Lantern, who asked you serious questions about your Smallville education and insisted you’d make a great Lantern yourself (“if you weren’t so blatantly Kent,” he’d joked); Aquaman, commanding and weirdly charming, who once mistook you for royalty and wouldn’t stop bowing; and J’onn J’onzz, the Martian Manhunter, who frightened you a little at first… until he offered you tea and asked gentle questions about Kansas.

And Bruce—well.

Bruce had been part of all of it. Quietly. Reluctantly.

He never talked about it unless you asked, and even then, his answers were measured, small, cloaked in deflection. But you could see it on him—how deeply he admired them. How much he needed them, even if he couldn’t say it yet.

You were proud of him. Endlessly.

Sometime near the end of August 2003, in the middle of the sweltering Gotham summer, after one particularly bad week of injuries and long nights and soft confessions, Bruce Wayne had stood in your kitchen in his bare feet and quietly asked you to be his girlfriend. “Be mine?” like it was the smallest request in the world and the biggest one he’d ever made.

You’d said yes before he even finished the sentence.

It stayed quiet at first—secret in the softest sense. You didn’t flaunt it. You didn’t hide it. But it became clear very quickly that secret wasn’t sustainable.

It was a secret for exactly three weeks.

A single photo. A single gala. A single press mention—and the media circled like vultures.

You hadn’t even told the receptionist at Wayne Enterprises, and yet Page Six ran with the headline “Wayne’s Girl?” before Bruce could kiss you in public.

The media went feral. That first month was hellish.

They clawed at everything—your name, your work history, your roots in Kansas. They tried to paint you like a schemer, a sweetheart, a nobody, a novelty. You barely had time to breathe between the flashes.

But you were a Kent. You were your mother’s daughter. And fire ran in your blood.

And when your brother—your forever protector—got word of the treatment Gotham was throwing your way, he called in favors at The Daily Planet. The result? A four-page piece in the Sunday edition titled “The Girl Gotham Got Wrong” that painted you in warm, brilliant strokes and silenced most of the critics. Not all. But most.

The rest gave up when it was clear Bruce Wayne wasn’t letting you go.

Which is how, eventually, the city adapted. Gotham’s society began to call you Miss Kent instead of “the girl.” People greeted you differently. Some were still sharp, but many softened. Some even admired you now. You… didn’t dwell on that part too much.

You just lived.

Bruce bought you an apartment in one of the most secure buildings in the Diamond District. It was in your name, on the thirteenth floor, full of natural light and views of the harbor. He called it “a necessary precaution.” You called it “wildly excessive.” But he only smiled.

He stayed with you most nights.

Others, you stayed at the Manor. You grew close with Alfred, who adored you in that polite, impossibly British way, and always made sure to have chamomile tea and strawberry tarts when you came by. You adored him. He adored you right back.

You wore a small “B” charm on a delicate gold chain around your neck—always tucked into your sweaters and shirts. Bruce found it with his fingers constantly. In the morning, at his side, he would stroke it like it calmed him. You never took it off you.

He didn’t wear any initials. But once, while paying for dinner, you noticed the inside of his wallet carried a tiny photo of you. You hadn’t even known it was taken.

And still—he kept it.

It was love. In all the strange, quiet, bat-like ways it could be.

Which brings you to tonight.

March, 2004. Your seven-month anniversary.

And for once, you managed to convince Bruce to do something completely un-Bruce.

You convinced him to go to the circus.

Haley’s Circus had arrived in Gotham for the first time in years, with bright posters stapled to street poles, a wide red-and-white tent on the northern pier, and a headlining act that had everyone buzzing: The Flying Graysons.

You were beyond excited.

Bruce was… trying.

He stood next to you in a dark but simple suit — as simple as a billionaire's suit could be — and his softest expression, a hand on your back as the crowd filtered into the tent. Inside, the lights were golden. The air smelled like popcorn and sawdust. Children giggled. Cotton candy was being spun in massive clouds near the entrance. It was joy, pure and loud.

You looked to your left.

Bruce was frowning. Not angry. Not even annoyed. Just… uncertain. Like the entire concept of a traveling circus was foreign to him.

You reached over, gently sliding your fingers between his gloved ones. “You’re allowed to enjoy this,” you whispered.

He glanced down at you, brows lifting slightly.

“Mm.”

“That’s the same sound you make when Alfred serves you tea you actually like,” you teased.

His mouth quirked.

“I’m enjoying the company,” he said.

You leaned your head against his shoulder as the usher led you both toward the reserved section—not that anyone would dare refuse Bruce Wayne front-row seats, especially not when he arrived looking like that. Dark overcoat. Black cashmere turtleneck. Gloves. All clean lines and sharp shadows. Gotham’s own mystery man.

And yet here he was, letting you drag him to a circus. Because you’d asked.

You watched his profile for a moment as he took in the interior—the swirling lights, the crowd, the giant “HALY’S CIRCUS” banner strung above the ring.

“Let me guess,” you murmured. “You don’t like clowns.”

“I don’t like being in public without a back exit in view,” he replied.

You giggled. “Romantic.”

He looked at you sideways. “You already knew I wasn’t normal when you said yes seven months ago.”

Your lips curled. “Maybe I like it.”

The tent lights dimmed. Children squealed. The announcer’s voice boomed:

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages… welcome to Haly’s Circus!”

Applause erupted all around you.

Bruce’s hand tightened around yours instinctively as the first performers entered the ring.

You leaned closer.

“Thank you,” you said under your breath.

He looked down at you, puzzled.

“For this. For coming with me. I know you’re not great with—”

He interrupted you gently. “I’d go anywhere with you.”

And he meant it.

You smiled, your heart doing that soft, achy thing it always did when he dropped the walls without warning. Then you looked back to the ring, letting your fingers gently graze the “B” charm tucked inside your blouse. His necklace. Your secret comfort.

He never said anything about it when you wore it, but he noticed.

Always.

“We bring you the stars of Haly’s Circus! The fearless, the fabulous… the Flying Graysons!”

The spotlight shifted upward. You followed it with your eyes, heart immediately clenching.

Three people stood on the high platform—two adults, strong and graceful, and one child. A little boy no older than eight or nine. He waved at the crowd with both hands, beaming. His green leotard sparkled under the lights. His black hair curled at his temples.

“God,” you whispered, breath hitching, “he’s really small.”

Bruce’s jaw had gone tight. His eyes stayed on the boy, his entire body stilling beneath your hand. “They’re not using a net,” he murmured. “Why aren’t they using a net?”

“It’s part of the act,” you said softly, although your own spine prickled with unease. “They’re famous for it. The only aerialists in the country who go without one.”

He shook his head. “That’s reckless.”

“It’s what brings the crowd,” you said, a touch quieter now.

The drums began. The lights dimmed.

You watched, heart in your throat, as the family began their act—swinging, flying, catching one another with astonishing precision. It was poetry in motion. Fearless, indeed. The crowd oohed and aahed with every leap, every impossible spin.

Then came the big trick.

The spotlight swung to the youngest Grayson, now perched high on one of the narrow platforms. His small body poised, muscles tight, smile wide. His mother moved toward him, reaching out from a swinging trapeze.

And just as she reached for her son—

Snap.

You heard it before you saw it. It was a sound that echoed in the deepest part of your chest.

A wire. A cable. Something up above.

You blinked. 

The trapeze came loose. The woman plummeted. The man on the end tried to jump for her—but the support on his side buckled too.

And they both fell.

You gasped, your hand flying to your mouth. The roar of the crowd turned to silence, a stunned, collective intake of breath that broke a heartbeat later into chaos.

Bruce’s arm shot around you, pulling you tightly to his side. He wasn’t moving. Not even breathing. His entire body had gone stiff.

The tent went silent. Utterly.

The boy screamed.

You could hear it even above the ringing in your ears. You felt sick.

Bruce’s jaw was locked. His hand gripped your shoulder like he could shield you from what had just happened—but even Batman couldn’t undo the laws of gravity.

“Stay here,” he mumbled, kissing your temple.

“W—what?” You whispered back, eyes full of tears, and turned back to follow him with your head. Bruce didn't answer, didn't even look back.

He walked into the darkness, and you didn't need another thing to know that in only a few seconds Batman would enter the circus as well. As always, you were correct. From where you stood — or perhaps because of the ringing inside your ears, still dizzy from the horrific scene —, you couldn't understand what was the boy saying to him, but you could see his tears, the hand pressed against his heart, clawing, still trying to go to his parents. 

That night, when you lay down besides Bruce, he shifted enough for his head to rest on top of your chest, hearing your heartbeat. And finally, he whispered, “I was that boy.”

Your heart cracked, but you didn't say anything back, because you both knew what he meant, what he saw in that child. You just pressed closer to him, trapping him between your legs, kissing his forehead.

And you stayed like that for a long time.

It’s before eight when you wake up, the weight of last night’s horror still pressed behind your eyes. Bruce is already gone — he slipped away somewhere before dawn — but the emptiness he left in the bed echoes in your heart.

For a moment, you wonder whether to go to work. It feels impossible right now. Your stomach twists. All you can think about is the child.

The name swept through your mind—Richard John Grayson—eight years old, orphaned at Haly’s Circus.

You make coffee, swallow it hard, and pick up your phone. You’re technically off today, but you plunge into your laptop anyway. Under Bruce’s contacts, you move a few calls—accounting, catering, logistics—around so he won’t notice the traffic. It’s the least you can do.

Then you search: Richard John Grayson AND “Catholic orphanage Gotham.” A few links spark, confirm the name and birthday: March 20, 1996. Eight-year-old boy. Stays at St. Mary’s. The same place Bruce quietly helps.

The same place where you stand now.

The orphanage stands on a quiet, tree-lined street an hour later. The Gothic façade is softened by morning light and a dozen potted plants by the door. It doesn’t feel gloomy; just quietly hopeful. You’ve done charity work here before—books, clothes, Christmas gifts. The sisters all know you by name.

You step inside and approach the reception desk, where Sister Teresa looks up from her ledger.

“Miss Kent,” she greets you, offering a gentle smile. “What brings you in so early?”

You swallow. “I’m here to see Richard Grayson—if that might be possible.”

Her face softens, but grows apologetic. “Ah… yes, oh dear. It’s been rough for him. There aren’t many visitors asking about little Richard.”

She gives you that careful look one gives a ship steering through shallow waters. “You may sit.” She leads you to a small office, folding chairs and wooden desk. You sit across from her, hands folded neatly in your lap.

“He’s… a complicated child,” Sister Teresa begins, voice soft. “He’s intelligent. Keenly aware of loss, of danger. But he’s only eight. He—” Her voice catches. “He’s so frightened. Complex.”

Heart clenched, you lean forward. “We all are. I—I just want to make sure he’s getting everything he needs.”

“He’s been withdrawn since the… accident. He’s been angry, scared, hiding, weeping. The staff are working, but… it’s hard. He’s a sweet boy. Tough, but gentle. We can’t penetrate that barrier.”

You swallow.

“Will he be okay?” you whisper.

She sighs. “He will. It just takes time.”

“What… can I do?”

Sister Teresa studies you. “You can be someone he trusts. Someone he knows is safe. He needs stability now.”

You close your eyes, exhale slowly. “I want to meet him.”

“Very well.” She stands and opens the door. “He’s in the playroom now.”

And you go, entering only to see eight or nine children scattered around—blocks, board games, coloring pages. Richard stands alone, perched on the edge of a small chair, clutching a stuffed elephant. His dark hair is damp from tears, red rims around his eyes. He glances at you—sharp, frightened. You kneel to meet his gaze.

“Hi, Richard,” you say gently, voice soft. “My name is Y/N Kent.”

He looks away, swipes at his sleeve. Nods slightly.

“You lost your parents,” you say. He doesn’t respond.

“I saw your mom and dad last night,” you continue, whispering. “They were amazing.”

He pulls the elephant closer. You hold your breath.

“They… they fell,” he says, voice quiet and trembling.

You nod. “Yes. I saw.”

Silence.

You leaned your head to the side. “Would you like to talk? Or draw? Or just . . sit together?”

He stares, then nods, eyes fearful.

You sit beside him, pulling out a small pad and crayons that Sister Teresa gives you. You sketch together—two stick figures beside a sun. You pass the crayons back and forth. He draws a house, you draw a flower. He adds two hearts.

You told him about Smallville, the farm, the pile of your books at home. He didn’t look impressed—but he listened. You told him about Gotham’s tallest buildings and its scarier nights.

And when you left, you pretended you didn't see him glance through the window, his hands clenching over the railing.

The soft patter of rain against the tall windows whispered through the cavernous stillness of Wayne Manor’s study. Gray light poured through the glass in diluted strips, painting silver patterns across the dark wood floors and heavy shelves burdened with thick books. Outside, the skies had decided that spring was a season to be ignored in Gotham. The wind tugged at the new buds on the trees, harsh and relentless, while rivulets of water ran down the stone paths and pooled under the spiny hedges lining the garden.

Inside, the air felt warm but somehow heavy — the kind of heaviness that comes from silence stretched too thin.

You stood by the window, arms crossed, shoulder pressed against the cold glass, eyes watching the restless trees sway in the distance. Your reflection was ghostly against the pale gray outside. Your breath fogged a soft patch on the pane, then disappeared again as you sighed.

Two weeks.

Two weeks since Dick Grayson’s life had changed in ways no child should ever have to face. Two weeks of hospital visits, late-night research, long drives to and from the courthouse, long talks with Alfred, and even longer visits shared between you and Bruce. 

You hadn’t missed a single day on the Orphanage. You brought him little things — soft, worn books you’d read on the Kent porch as a kid, hot cocoa in a thermos that Alfred insisted on making, a stuffed bear with flannel overalls that Ma had sewn up when you were ten. He hadn’t smiled much, not really, but when you saw the corner of his lip twitch, the way his eyes lingered on the bear longer than anything else, you knew it mattered.

Bruce was across the room, seated on the dark leather couch, hands clasped in front of him and elbows on his knees, watching the judge speak with an impassive face. His brow creased just slightly, that familiar line of tension that you could read better than any expression. You didn’t need to look at the judge to know how this conversation was going — his tone was overly polite, clipped at the edges, the kind of formal that came from discomfort.

“I understand your intentions, Mr. Wayne,” the judge was saying, his hands folded neatly atop the closed file in his lap. “And I want to believe in them, I truly do. But I have to consider the child’s best interests from every angle, and the state will not overlook… certain factors.”

You turned your head slightly, gaze narrowing, but stayed silent. Bruce’s jaw twitched. That was his tell. You’d learned it quickly. That little flex near the cheek when he wanted to explode but didn’t. Always calm. Always calculated.

His voice was calm — steady in that slow, calculated way of his. “Such as?”

The judge inhaled deeply. “Your reputation, for one. Your status, for another. You are, in legal terms, still a bachelor — which complicates the court’s view of stable long-term guardianship. Public opinion matters in cases like this, especially when the adoption is contested by background or circumstance. The state prefers a… wholesome environment.”

You blinked slowly.

The implication hung in the air like a bad smell.

You didn’t realize your hand had balled into a fist until you felt your nails digging into your palm.

Bruce didn’t flinch. “Are you implying that my home — that I — wouldn’t provide that?”

“I’m saying,” the judge said carefully, his tone softening just a fraction, “that it isn’t as simple as your resources. Or your name. You have to consider how this looks to the court. To the public. You are still a man unmarried, who was frequently in the press with… various women, and rumors —”

“Rumors,” Bruce interrupted, voice quiet but sharp. “Are not facts.”

“Be that as it may,” the judge sighed, rising to his feet and adjusting his coat, “facts don’t always carry as much weight as perception. This will be an uphill battle. I won’t lie to you, Bruce. Even guardianship may be difficult to obtain unless certain... elements change. To be more clear: until you can prove a committed family structure, preferably one that includes a maternal figure and legally recognized partnership, the court will hesitate to grant you full parental rights.”

You frowned deeply now, stepping away from the window. The cold pulled at your skin as you walked toward them, arms still crossed but jaw tight.

“Thank you for your time,” Bruce said with a professional nod, rising as well.

The judge looked at you, offering a faint smile. “Miss Kent.”

You returned the smile stiffly. “Your Honor.”

And just like that, the study fell into silence again. The rain outside had picked up, tapping harder against the glass. The door shut softly behind the judge, his heavy shoes echoing faintly down the hall.

You pushed off the window slowly, your heels clicking against the hardwood floor as you approached Bruce.

 “Well,” you said quietly, “that went about as well as expected.”

He let out a low hum, and the tension seemed to bleed from his shoulders under your touch. You felt the muscles shift as he turned to face you.

“I’m not letting him go into the system,” he said quietly, almost like a vow.

You nodded, pressing your forehead lightly to his chest. “I know.”

He slid his hands down to your hips, thumbs drawing slow, unconscious circles against the fabric of your sweater. You stayed like that for a while — him sitting, you leaning into him like the world could fall apart around you and you’d stay anchored.

“He’s trying to scare you off the idea,” you said gently. “Doesn’t mean he’s right.”

“He is, though,” Bruce said, tone low. “Legally, he’s right. No matter how wrong it feels.”

You blinked slowly. “So that’s it? You’re going to give up?”

He looked at you then. Really looked. And it knocked the breath out of you.

“Of course not,” he said firmly. “I’m going to fix it. I just... don’t know how yet.”

You softened a little at the sound of that. The weariness. The unspoken desperation. Then, without a word, he sank down onto the couch, pulling you gently with him. You landed sideways across his lap, head resting against his shoulder, legs curled against the cushions. His arms settled around you like they belonged there. Like they had always belonged there.

“We have to do something,” you murmured after a long stretch of silence. “We have to help him. There has to be a way.”

“There is,” he said. “There has to be.”

You stared at the fireless hearth across the room, the empty logs stacked neatly inside, unlit but waiting.

And then it came.

The thought was sudden, obvious in hindsight — and maybe a little ridiculous — but it rooted itself in your chest immediately, insistent and clear.

You straightened slowly in his lap, turning to face him. Your legs shifted, folding under you. He blinked, surprised at the sudden movement.

“What if…” you started, voice slow, “we change your status?”

His brow furrowed.

“You said the biggest problem is that you’re a bachelor, right?” You bit your lip. “So… what if you weren’t?”

He stared at you. “Are you proposing marriage?”

You blushed, a heat blooming in your cheeks that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with how seriously he was looking at you.

“Not marriage,” you clarified quickly, brushing a curl behind your ear. “An engagement. A… formal promise. If that’s what they need to see, then let’s give it to them. You wouldn’t be single anymore — you’d be committed. To me. On paper. We don’t have to do anything else, just… put it out there.”

He blinked once. Then again.

You shifted a little on his lap. “I’m not saying we rush down the aisle and get fitted for tuxedos. But an engagement is a legal change in status. It’s commitment. It’s a public signal. It gives us credibility.”

Bruce’s silence stretched for a moment longer. He didn’t look shocked — more contemplative. You could see the gears turning, the way they always did when he was in detective mode. He didn’t dismiss it. He didn’t laugh. He just… thought.

Then, slowly, his hand came up to cup your cheek.

“That’s... a serious step,” he murmured, voice quiet. “You know that.”

“So is taking in a child,” you said simply.

He exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth.

His thumb brushed along your jaw. “You know what people will say.”

You let out a huff. “Oh, please. They already say it. Every magazine cover calls me ‘Wayne’s secret sweetheart,’ or ‘the farmgirl tamed the prince,’ or — my favorite — ‘sleeping her way into Wayne Enterprises.’ I think we’re past worrying about public opinion.”

He smiled faintly at that, the kind of smile you didn’t get often — soft, real, and only ever for you.

“And you’d do this?” he asked, more quietly now. “You’d agree to this… for Dick?”

“For Dick,” you nodded. “And for you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was warm. Full.

You didn’t expect him to say anything right away. You didn’t rush it. Bruce wasn’t a man you pushed. You let the words sit between you like a delicate thing — real and tender and not needing to be dressed up.

After a long minute, he nodded.

“Okay.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

His arms tightened around your waist, eyes not leaving yours. “Let’s get engaged.”

You stared at him. “Just like that?”

“I’d marry you tonight if I thought it’d help Dick,” he said plainly. “But I think you’re right. Engagement’s enough for the court. If it’s the difference between him staying here or being sent into the system… we do it.”

You blinked fast, warmth blooming in your chest so quick it made your eyes sting.

You leaned forward and kissed him. Soft. Gentle. Steady. His hands curled into your sweater, anchoring you to him, as if this moment — this decision — was something to hold on to.

Then his fingers tightened slightly at your hips, grounding himself. “You’re something else, Y/N Kent.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Wayne.”

It took four days. 

Gotham bloomed. Not metaphorically. Not this time.

Because four days after the softest “yes” you’d ever said in your life, the sky itself seemed to shift. Gotham—bruised, cold, sharp-edged Gotham—felt warmer. Lighter. Even if just for a moment. Maybe it was the way the clouds cracked open that morning to spill golden light across the skyline, or maybe it was the way your name appeared on every social column in the city by mid-afternoon.

Maybe it was the flowers.

Because Bruce Wayne had sent you a bouquet so big it needed its own vehicle.

Literally.

The florist’s van rolled up to the Wayne Tower lobby with a crane-like rig and three assistants, all of whom were trying desperately to keep the bouquet upright without knocking over a column or crashing into the revolving doors. Orchids, sunflowers, tulips, dahlias, snapdragons, and roses—every color you could name and at least ten you couldn’t. There were wild sprigs of forget-me-nots and fluffy white peonies, blue delphinium that reminded you of Kansas skies, and sun-warm marigolds tucked between them like pockets of gold.

Your name was carved on a little crystal plaque at the base: “To my fiancée. –B.”

By nightfall, the entire city knew. So did Metropolis. Clark called you that evening, voice caught somewhere between “surprised big brother” and “carefully trying not to crush his phone.”

“You’re engaged?” he said.

“You sound like Ma,” you’d replied, laughing quietly as you stared at the ring on your finger. “And yes.”

“Do I get to threaten him properly now?” Clark asked. “Or is that still on hold?”

“You’ve already scared him enough by existing.”

“Good.”

The ring was custom, of course. It had to be. You weren’t the diamond solitaire kind of girl, and Bruce had known that from the first month. You’d found the little velvet box tucked into your desk drawer in your Wayne Enterprises office. Alfred swore he knew nothing, but the twinkle in his eyes gave him away. 

It wasn’t flashy—it was flawless. A delicate arrangement of precious metals braided into each other, all in soft gold, with a singular, brilliantly cut gemstone at its center—a pale sapphire, not unlike the shade of Bruce’s eyes when he let his guard down. It was the kind of ring people wrote headlines about—large, custom, clearly expensive, and undoubtedly Wayne. 

You wore it like a promise. One not taken lightly. 

You didn’t know rings could look like that. You didn’t know jewelry could feel heavy in a way that wasn't physical. You didn’t stop touching it. Every time you looked down, it was there. A promise. A shift in your world. You weren’t married, not really, but this—this engagement had weight. Gotham knew now. The socialites knew. The lawyers knew. The judge knew. The tabloids knew. Your last name was still Kent, but your address was now Wayne Manor.

Behind the public romance, though, there were papers. Concubinage documents. Domestic partnership status.

Bruce had handed them to you after dinner that night, in his office, his expression unreadable, his hand careful. You hadn’t asked why the paper didn’t feel warm. Why the ink wasn’t fresh. You’d known him long enough by now to recognize preparation when you saw it.

He’d done it days ago. Before the ring. Before the judge left. Maybe even before the accident.

Still, you signed. Not because of obligation. Not because it made the adoption easier. Because you meant it.

A few days later, a moving truck arrived at your apartment building. Big, dark, branded in neat, discreet letters. Bruce had arranged for professionals to handle everything—but you’d insisted on boxing your books yourself. You labeled every one. Some things you brought. Some things stayed. You packed the framed photo of you and Clark on the porch swing, Ma Kent’s old recipe binder, the flannel throw that always smelled like home. Your life shrunk to three truckloads and one hopeful heart.

And when you pulled up to the Manor that night, the windows glowing soft gold against the dusk, Alfred met you at the door with tea already steeping.

“Welcome, Miss Kent,” he said, with a voice so full of fondness you nearly cried. “It seems the Manor is beginning to feel like a home.”

By the next morning, everything moved fast.

The judge moved even faster.

Bruce—armed with the engagement announcement, the ring, the paperwork, the very vocal public support of the city—pressed every advantage. With Alfred’s quiet but laser-precise aid, you began preparing Dick’s room. The one closest to your shared bedroom, with double windows facing the garden. You picked the paint—stormy blue. Bruce added the bookshelves. Alfred brought in the desk and the thick curtains.

Every night for the next few weeks, you double-checked the details. The bedding. The decorations. The extra pajamas. The nightlight. You’d asked Dick once if he liked those. He hadn’t answered out loud—but he’d nodded.

And then, finally, they said yes. 

The guardianship was granted.

Dick was coming home.

And the Manor had never felt so full.

Fifty-three days.

That’s how long it had taken. Fifty-three days since Dick Grayson lost his parents. Fifty-three days in the system. Fifty-three days in that cold, gray orphanage that tried its best but always fell short.

The morning of, you barely slept.

Your stomach was a knot of nerves and hope and soft adrenaline. You dressed carefully—something warm, welcoming, not formal. You wanted Dick to see you and remember softness. You wanted him to walk through those doors and know that this was it. That this wasn’t temporary. That he was safe.

Bruce, naturally, looked like he hadn’t slept either, but still wore the sharp cut of a dark sweater and slacks like it was second skin. His eyes, though—they were gentler than usual. He stood beside you in the foyer, hands behind his back, pacing slightly in front of the tall double doors.

“They’re late,” he muttered.

You checked your phone. “Only by four minutes.”

“That’s late.”

You smiled softly, reaching for his arm. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You are.”

Bruce didn’t deny it again. Just stared at the door, jaw tight.

“Do I look okay?” you asked quietly, smoothing down your sweater.

He turned to look at you fully, stepping closer. “You look perfect, sweetheart.”

You smiled nervously, tugging your sleeves. “What if he doesn’t want to stay?”

“He will.”

“What if he changed his mind?”

“He didn’t.”

“Bruce.”

He reached out, gently cupping your face. “You are the safest thing in this house. If he doesn’t trust me yet, he’ll trust you.”

You nodded slowly. Let the words settle.

The sound of tires on gravel snapped your attention to the window. A black sedan pulled up along the main drive. Alfred appeared from the side hallway as if summoned by fate itself, his hands folded neatly.

“They’re here,” he said, voice calm.

You and Bruce stepped forward together as the social worker—Ms. Dahl, a small, determined woman with curly hair and thick glasses—stepped out of the front seat. She opened the rear door, and a small, thin figure climbed out slowly.

Dick.

His shoes were too big. His backpack was too small. His coat swallowed him, and his eyes looked older than any child’s ever should.

But he was here. And finally, finally coming home.

You were the first to move. You stepped out from the doorway, coat half-buttoned, rain brushing your cheeks.

“Hey, buddy,” you said softly, crouching a little as you approached. “We’ve been expecting you.”

There was a beat of quiet. The rain from last week was long gone. The sun shone brightly overhead, filtered slightly by Gotham’s haze. But the air was warm. And the front steps were covered in marigolds and tulips in planters, as if the house had bloomed just in time.

“Is it okay that I’m nervous?” Dick asked suddenly, voice cracking just a little.

“Absolutely,” you said gently. “I’m nervous too. Firsts are scary.”

He looked at you. You smiled, soft and slow, and reached out your hand.

“But I’m really glad you’re here.”

He looked at your hand, then at Bruce, then back at you. And he took it. His fingers were small and cold, but the grip was steady.

You squeezed gently and led him toward the front steps. Bruce followed, quiet but present. You felt the boy tense slightly when Bruce came too close—but he didn’t pull away.

Inside the foyer, Alfred bowed slightly. “Welcome, Master Grayson.”

Dick’s eyes widened. “...Hi.”

You knelt beside him, brushing his hair from his eyes. “We’ve got your room ready,” you said softly. “Do you want to see it?”

He nodded, still not speaking.

You led him through the hallways, hand still in his, watching his expression flicker from surprise to confusion to awe and back again. The house was still a lot. It would always be a lot. But you hoped the little things—the family photos on the table, the scent of cinnamon from the kitchen, the way the lights glowed warm instead of white—would help.

The door to his room opened slowly.

His backpack slid off his shoulders as soon as he saw it.

You had done it right. You could see it in the way his eyes lit up—subtle but real. The bed was full-sized, layered in soft, deep blue blankets. A reading nook was tucked under the windows. On the desk, a row of books waited with little post-it notes. On the nightstand sat the framed photo from the circus—the only one that you had found.

Dick stepped in slowly. Quietly. His fingers brushed the edge of the bed, the dresser, the shelves.

Bruce hovered at the door.

You knelt beside Dick again. “It’s yours,” you said. “Everything in here. You don’t have to share, and you don’t have to ask.”

Dick looked at you then. Really looked. “Do I... sleep here?”

“Yes, bug,” you said, your voice catching.

“Every night?”

“Every single one.”

He blinked. “. . . And you?”

Bruce stepped forward gently, kneeling down to his level. “Right across the hall,” he said. “You can knock any time.”

Dick stared at him, then looked back at you. “Okay.”

You sat on the edge of the bed. “You can change anything, you know. If you want the walls painted, or if you hate the rug, or if the dresser’s too tall—”

“I like it,” Dick repeated, firmer now. “Really.”

The next hour blurred. Sandra walked the house with Alfred, clipboard in hand, confirming the renovations, the fire exits, the room setup, the security measures. And then, just like that, she was gone.

And Dick Grayson was no longer a ward of the state.

Later that evening, after dinner—which Alfred made with unnecessary flourish and a single celebratory cupcake—you found yourself standing in the hallway just outside Dick’s door again.

Bruce leaned beside you, silent, sipping a rare glass of wine.

“He’s already asleep,” you whispered, peeking in.

Your fiancée didn’t look surprised. “He didn’t sleep well at the orphanage.”

You nodded slowly, lips pressing together, arms wrapping around your waist. A smile fluttered to life, your eyes shining just in the way he loved. “You did it, love.”

He turned his eyes toward you. “No,” he said. “We did.”

Your ring caught the light again when you reached for his hand. His lips pressed against your knuckles. And, before leaving, you turned to the room again. 

“Welcome home, little bird,” you whispered, looking past the doorframe to the boy curled beneath the sheets.

Welcome home.

[dunbarx]

the perks of time

summary | a night spent together in silence changes everything between bruce and you; from then on, there's no turning back.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader

warnings / tags | fluffy, bruce being a sugar daddy ? not actually but he's totally the type to try to win you with gifts. there's a bit of sadness around because bruce is depressed inside. THEY KISS 

word count | 6.2k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. you don't need to read the other parts to understand this since this is about bruce and batmom's past. this can be read as part 3.

taglist |  @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @radenxd @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01 @shqyou @mei-simp @serendippingdots @sirlovel @aixaaingela @pjmgojo

THE NEW YEAR CAME GENTLY TO THE KENT FARM.

It wasn’t loud or wild. But there were fireworks. No grand countdown parties. Just a quiet, perfect evening.

Clark cooked dinner, insisting he had perfected the recipe for pot roast (he hadn’t), and Ma made her famous four-cheese cornbread. Pa sat by the fire, poking the logs and drinking cider, humming a Johnny Cash song under his breath. The snow outside muffled everything else. No wind. No trains. Just the slow creak of the old house settling under another year.

At eleven-fifty-five, Clark pulled out a small radio, fiddling with the dials until he caught the New York countdown broadcast. You spent most of the night in thick wool socks and a sweater that Clark had outgrown and then handed down to you ten years ago. The sleeves still covered your hands, your back pressed against the couch, the blanket Ma made you wrapped around your shoulders. You and Clark counted together—off by a second or two, laughing when you realized.

Then came the clink of cider glasses. A kiss to your forehead from Ma. A bear hug from Pa.

Clark swept you up into a spin that had your socks sliding on the wood floor.

“Happy New Year, little sis,” he whispered against your hair.

“Happy New Year, Clark,” you said, laughing.

The old farmhouse clock chimed twelve. The stars glittered above the snowy sky. Kara joined the family a bit after, hugging you just as strong as your brother had. While you and her had no actual family link, you still considered her a cousin, and you knew she did as well.

So, no, you couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Except you did, when the phone rang.

It was late. Clark and Kara had gone out for a flight, Ma and Pa were already tucked in. You sat on the front porch in a coat, your breath visible in the cold, your phone warm in your hand.

When the screen lit up again—Mr. Wayne—your heart squeezed.

You answered immediately.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He didn’t speak at first.

But when he did, his voice was quieter than ever.

“Happy New Year.”

You smiled so softly it felt like your face might melt with the warmth of it.

“Happy New Year, Bruce.”

A pause.

“I wasn’t going to call,” he admitted.

You looked up at the stars. “I’m glad you did.”

Your smile twisted, fond.

“You drunk again?”

“Mm,” he murmured. “Probably.”

“What did you drink this time?”

“Something expensive,” he said. “Didn’t check the label.”

You laughed softly. “That sounds like you.”

He didn’t argue.

Another long silence. You could almost hear the ice clink in his glass. The way his voice dragged low and slow, a little too heavy, just like before.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Porch swing,” you said. “Back at the farm.”

“Cold?”

“A little.”

“You don't have a blanket?”

“Yeah, Ma’s. It’s blue. Well, is not actually hers. She made it for me.”

Another pause. You let your voice fill the silence, telling him about the pot roast, the way Pa fell asleep halfway through the countdown, the way Clark had gotten cider in his sock, how much pie had Kara ate. You told him about how the snow had glittered that morning, how you’d stayed in your pajamas all day.

You talked about your hopes. About turning twenty-two. About how you wanted to try painting again. About how you might look into night classes, maybe something with writing.

“I think,” you said, playing with a loose thread, “I want to do more things that make me feel like myself.”

You didn’t hear him speak again. But you heard him breathe.

And then you knew.

He’d fallen asleep with the phone still in his hand. Your voice still in his ear.

You stayed on the phone anyway. It was easier now, somehow. Letting him rest while you carried the quiet.

You only hung up once his breathing slowed and steadied again, the sound of it like a heartbeat through your phone.

You whispered, “Goodnight,” to a man who wouldn’t hear it.

And then let yourself fall asleep.

January moved like a quiet fog.

You came back to Gotham the second week of the month, your cheeks still pink from the Kansas wind. Your apartment was exactly as you left it—neat, small, slightly cold—and everything in the city had a thin coat of gray slush. Life fell back into rhythm: you unpacked, did laundry, bought groceries, dusted your bookshelves, and fell asleep early.

Bruce didn’t call right away. But on Thursday, your phone buzzed just after 2 a.m.

You didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t say much. You knew the rhythm now. These calls weren’t for long talks—they were for breathing. For silence. For your voice.

You told him about a short story you’d started writing. About how you missed the stars in Gotham. About how your upstairs neighbor seemed to be bowling at 1 a.m. every night.

He didn’t say more than six words. But he listened.

On Saturday, he called again. Same time. Same quiet. Same half-drunk hush in his voice.

You were curled up on the couch, blanket around your knees, and this time, you read to him. A chapter from the book Ma had given you for Christmas. You didn’t know if he liked it, but he didn’t hang up, so you kept talking.

You knew he’d only call after being out there. After being Batman.

Like his mask didn’t quite hold when your voice was there. Like something softened. Like he could come down from the rooftop and be something else. Something human again.

The third Monday of January, your alarm went off at 6:15 sharp.

It was your first official day back at the office.

You dressed in one of your favorite work outfits—something soft and practical, flattering but warm. You pinned your badge to your coat, grabbed your scarf, and made your way down the apartment stairs with a reusable coffee cup in one hand and your purse in the other.

You paused in the foyer.

Blinking.

There was a cab outside.

No—a car. Sleek, black, not a limo. Something newer, smaller, louder. Not a model you recognized—but definitely the kind of car that only a billionaire would think of as “just a ride.”. The kind you only saw in glossy magazines and early 2000s science fiction movies.

Your brow furrowed.

Before you could step outside, the door opened—and a woman beamed at you from the driver’s side.

“Miss Kent?”

You blinked. “Yes?”

She clapped her gloved hands together. “Ah, lovely! I was worried I might’ve gotten the wrong building. This is for you!”

You blinked again.

“I—what is this?”

She moved around and opened the passenger-side door for you with a proud little flourish.

“I’m Rita! Your driver.”

“My—what?”

“Mr. Wayne sent me.”

Your mouth opened. Then shut. Then opened again.

“He what?”

“He didn’t tell you?” she asked, blinking with absolute innocence. Her accent was soft and lilting, Portuguese with a lilt of Lisbon pride. “He said it was all arranged. I’m to take you wherever you need. Day or night. Office, home, grocery if you like. Rain, snow, sunshine.”

You gawked.

She smiled wider, eyes crinkling.

“I used to drive for Mr. Fox,” she said with a warm, confident shrug. “But there has been a . . . change, and Mr. Wayne said he had someone special who needed my help now.”

You blinked. “Special?”

She leaned in conspiratorially. “That’s not what he said exactly, but I can read between the lines.”

You flushed immediately.

She laughed. “Climb in, querida. It’s cold.”

You obeyed mostly because your hands were too numb to argue and you had no better options. She shut the door behind you gently and got into the driver’s seat with the elegance of someone who knew the car better than she knew her own apartment.

Inside, the seats were warm. The cup holders glowed faintly. Everything smelled faintly of cedarwood and leather.

“So,” she said, steering smoothly into traffic, “are you ready for your day?”

“I guess I am,” you replied, still half-stunned.

She gave you a look in the mirror. “You work directly for Mr. Wayne, yes?”

“Yes,” you said. “His executive assistant.”

“Then you must be very good at your job.”

“I try,” you murmured, feeling warmth rise to your cheeks again.

“Well,” she said, nodding sagely, “I will tell you what I told Mr. Fox: when you ride with me, you are safe. I will not let traffic touch you.”

You smiled despite yourself. “That’s very kind.”

“It is professional,” she said with mock offense. “And also kind, yes. And I like you already.”

“You’ve known me five minutes.”

“Five minutes is all I need. I am excellent at character reading.”

You laughed.

By the time you reached the Wayne Enterprises building, your cheeks hurt from smiling. Rita pulled to the side entrance like a queen delivering royalty, opened the door with a bow, and handed you your coffee cup like it was made of gold.

“You have a good first day back, Miss Kent.”

You stared at the building’s towering windows for a beat longer than necessary. Then, you took a breath and you stepped inside.

The doors to Wayne Enterprises hissed open like always—smooth, polished, air-conditioned—and for a moment, the world inside seemed to blink at you like a sleepy beast waking from hibernation.

The lobby was warm, gleaming in morning light, polished marble floors humming under the heels of countless Gotham elite. There was a quiet thrum of familiarity in the air—of keyboard clacks, hushed conversations, the soft trill of phones and printers and the occasional bark of urgency through a walkie-talkie.

You smiled at Eloise first.

She waved from her post at the main desk, where she was already fielding two calls and typing with nails the color of candy canes. “You’re back! Happy New Year, sweetheart. You look fresh out of a Hallmark postcard.”

You laughed. “Don’t let Clark hear you say that.”

She beamed. “He came by some weeks ago, didn’t he? That tall boy could light up the building with that smile.”

You grinned, eyes fond. “That’s him. My brother.”

Eloise smiled sweetly. “Let me know if you want any coffee later—I found a new creamer that tastes like heaven.”

You nodded your thanks and kept walking.

You passed Luis, the janitor, humming along to some Sinatra classic while buffing the floors. You waved, and he waved back, giving you the same crooked grin he always had since your second week on the job. Then a passing intern who gave you a shy smile.

Everything was the same.

Until it wasn’t.

You turned the final hallway leading toward Bruce’s office—familiar steps, muscle memory—and stopped in your tracks.

Your desk was gone.

The space directly outside his office door—your usual spot, nestled beside the potted plant that only half-thrived under the industrial lighting—was empty. Not messy. Not moved aside for cleaning. Simply… gone. Vanished. The carpet beneath was perfectly untouched, like you’d never been there at all.

You blinked, heart fluttering in your chest.

“…Huh.”

Before you could even make a decision—turn around, find someone, maybe crawl under a decorative table—his office door opened.

Bruce stood in the threshold, jacket off, shirt crisp, sleeves rolled, eyes cutting toward the glass hallway wall. He looked up once, probably out of reflex.

Then he saw you. And saw you again.

He didn’t smile. Not really. But something in his expression softened.

He tilted his head toward his office. “Miss Kent,” he said, quiet and even. “Come in.”

You stepped forward, caught off guard by the gentle lilt in your name, the way it didn’t sound like a command—more like an invitation.

You entered slowly, heart still kicking unevenly behind your ribs. The door clicked softly behind you. He didn’t seem surprised to see you, just observant. He leaned one hip against his desk, arms crossed.

“I thought I’d be more nervous,” you blurted. “About seeing you face-to-face again.”

His brows lifted, curious. “And are you?”

You considered it. “Not… exactly. I think I’m just—processing. A lot.”

He didn’t push. He didn’t ask what “a lot” meant. Just let it float there, between you.

And then that ache curled up your spine again, like an old memory pressing in. You looked at him—really looked at him—and he wasn’t cold today. Not distant. Not closed off. Just quiet. Calm. Softer than Gotham ever allowed him to be.

Your voice returned, smaller now. “Um. I couldn’t help but notice… my desk.”

He nodded once. “I moved it.”

“I noticed that.”

“You couldn’t find it?”

“No,” you said, trying not to sound sheepish. “I… sort of thought maybe you replaced me for a second.”

He looked at you, deadpan. “And then what? I let the replacement waltz back in?”

You laughed nervously, brushing your knuckles down your coat sleeve.

He stood straighter then, stepping around the desk until he was at your side—not too close, but close enough for you to smell faint cologne and something else you couldn’t name. Metal, maybe. Cold air. Him.

“I thought,” he said, voice measured, “that I can’t very well keep my own secretary in the hallway. Especially not when the receptionist has more privacy.”

You blinked. “Sir—”

“I wanted you to have your own space,” he added. “Somewhere you can work. Breathe. Not get bothered every time someone walks through the floor.”

Your throat bobbed.

“…That’s… kind. I… didn’t mind,” you replied carefully.

“I did,” he said without pause, meeting your gaze for a long moment, something unreadable in his face.

Then he gestured with his hand. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

You followed without another word, the two of you walking silently down the hallway, his steps a slow guide in front of yours. He opened a door diagonally across from his—discreet, tucked away beside the corner conference room. It had always been locked. Always closed. Always marked Reserved.

But now—

Now, when he opened it, light spilled across the most stunning office space you’d ever seen.

It wasn’t just an office. It was yours.

You froze in the doorway.

It wasn’t massive—not the corner penthouse with windows to heaven—but it was yours. Completely, irrevocably yours.

The cherry wood desk glowed warmly beneath soft overhead lights. L-shaped, clean, elegant. The two monitors were huge—far bigger than your laptop, already synced to your usual workspace judging by the light hum of the desktop wallpaper. A thick black leather chair sat behind it, sleek and soft-looking, already reclined just slightly like it had been waiting for you.

The floor was layered with a thick, dove-colored rug that curled neatly under your desk and swirled into the sitting corner with two soft chairs. The bookshelf along the wall was already stocked with some familiar binders, a few volumes you recognized from home—someone must have carried them from your last space.

There were plants. Real ones.

A tiny pothos in a hanging pot, a fern nestled by the window. A pale gold lamp with a dimmer sat in the corner of the desk, beside a crystal paperweight you’d mentioned liking once during a department tour months ago.

And beside the desk, under the screen, sat your favorite mug, filled with pens.

You didn’t say anything. You just… stood and blinked. Once. Twice. Then again. Your breath caught in your throat.

He was watching you. Quietly. Like he couldn’t quite tell if he’d miscalculated.

“I wasn’t sure about the rug,” he said, low. “But they told me it matched the walls.”

You turned to him slowly. Your voice came out too high, and you cringed inside. “You did this?”

“Someone had to approve the requisition forms,” he said dryly.

You blinked again.

He looked toward the corner of the office. “The light’s adjustable. You can change the temperature if it gets too cold. I’ve already rerouted your calls to the phone system here. And I had IT install the dual screens yesterday.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.

“…Why?” you finally breathed, barely above a whisper.

He looked at you. And for once—once—he let it show. Not much. Not everything. But enough. Enough for you to see something warm, something regretful, flicker behind his eyes.

“Because you deserve a place here,” he said quietly. “Not a chair in the hall.”

You stared at him.

And then—

You laughed. Half gasp, half laugh, half breathless kind of noise that bubbled up before you could stop it. Your smile broke through like sunlight, wide and open and real.

“Oh my god, Bruce,” you said, laughing again, almost bouncing where you stood. “I thought I lost my desk, not that I—oh my god.”

You turned in a small circle, eyes wide, hugging your coffee to your chest.

“Are you serious right now? This is mine?”

He nodded, one hand in his pocket now, brow lifted like he wasn’t sure why you were so surprised.

“Thank you,” you said, blinking fast. “Thank you. Thank you—this is—this is so nice, I don’t even have words.”

“You’re welcome.”

You took two steps forward, half-tempted to hug him, then stopped yourself, fidgeting instead with your sleeves.

“I mean it. This is—this is my first office. Like… ever. Properly. And you—it’s so nice, and the—” You touched the chair. “This is a recliner. You bought me a reclining desk chair. Who does that?”

He said nothing.

Your eyes shone. “You do, apparently.”

“I wanted you to be comfortable,” he said softly. “You deserve a space. Not a hallway.”

You shook your head, lips wobbling with a smile.

“This is more than a space, Bruce.”

He didn’t answer, at least not out loud. Just looked at you like maybe he understood. Like maybe this, too, was a kind of apology. A gesture for everything he couldn’t say.

You beamed at him suddenly, walking around the desk to sit in the chair, spinning once.

“I don’t know what kind of spell you’re under,” you said lightly, “but please don’t snap out of it.”

His mouth lifted just slightly. “Noted.”

“And this is my printer now?”

“Yes.”

“And this isn’t one of those things where you’re going to fire me next week because I sat in the expensive chair too long?”

“No.”

“Okay, but like—hypothetically—if I fall asleep here one night, are you going to call security or…?”

“I’ll leave a blanket.”

You stared.

He didn’t smile, but you saw it in his eyes.

You laughed, and something burst open in your chest.

Because in this moment, you didn’t feel like a girl from Smallville playing secretary to a billionaire with a secret.

You felt seen.

And somehow, that mattered more than anything

Rita greeted you every morning like the sunrise.

Bright smile. Coffee in hand. Her curls pulled back beneath a neat scarf that changed colors every few days—today it was plum. Tomorrow, who knew. You’d grown used to the sound of her humming from the driver’s seat as she opened the car door for you, always five minutes early, always excited to hear about your evening like you’d been apart for years.

“Did the cat come back?” “She did.” “Did she steal your tuna again?” “She did.” “Villainous.”

The drive always passed quickly, filled with conversation about whatever book she was reading, whichever telenovela her sister was addicted to, or the old record player she was trying to fix. Sometimes, you brought her coffee too. Sometimes, you just watched the city flicker by, warm and safe in the leather seat with a paper cup in your hands, cheeks pressed to the cool window.

And then there was the building. Your office.

Your name—engraved on the door in polished gold letters: Y/N Kent. Executive Assistant. Right beneath the Wayne Enterprises crest.

Every time you saw it, your heart squeezed a little.

The office itself had become a soft haven, filled slowly with your own touches—a small crocheted blanket over the back of your chair, a framed photo of Ma and Pa by the bookshelves, a little ceramic pig you kept tucked behind the phone. The two monitors you used were brilliant and fast; the light in the room was warm; the seat adjusted perfectly to your back.

Bruce’s office was right across the hall.

And sometimes, you could feel his eyes drift toward your door. Just a second or two. A glance through the glass. You never mentioned it.

You didn’t need to.

The phone calls didn’t stop when you returned to Gotham. If anything, they deepened.

Sometimes they came just after 10 p.m., when your skin was still warm from a shower and your tea was still steeping. Other times, they came at 2 or 3 in the morning—soft vibrations against your pillow that didn’t startle you anymore. You didn’t even say hello most nights.

You just answered.

You talked. He listened.

You spoke about Clark and Smallville and your mother’s new obsession with lavender candles. About a dream you had where the moon fell into the barn. About books you wanted to read, places you wanted to see. Your voice was quieter at night. Softer. More intimate.

Sometimes, Bruce would say a word or two. A hum. A gentle “Mm.” Sometimes, he just breathed.

Sometimes, you swore you heard his breath steadying because of yours.

You’d wake up in the morning to a call that had ended sometime while you were asleep—your phone still warm under your hand.

You never questioned why he called, and he never explained.

But each time your name came out of his mouth, low and soft and a little too slow, it felt like something real. Something only yours.

There was something comforting about it—how routine it became. How safe.

You’d been working late—later than usual. The building was dimmer than it should’ve been, quiet in that oddly still way that Gotham got after dark. You’d just returned from the break room with a second cup of tea when you noticed the box resting on your desk.

Not just any box—a branded one. Thick cardboard, the kind that came from upscale boutiques you only knew by reputation. The name embossed in silver. A thick satin bow stretched across it.

You paused at the door, balancing your coffee and files, staring at the package like it might grow teeth.

You didn’t open it right away.

Your office was silent except for the low hum of your desktop computer and the faint ticking of your vintage desk clock. The late afternoon light was muted and gold, slipping through the tinted windows in warm waves.

You set your cup down. Your fingers brushed the edge of the lid.

Inside—carefully folded, almost reverently arranged—was a dress.

Not just any dress.

This was silk, champagne-colored with a whisper of shimmer, delicate cap sleeves and a soft neckline. It looked like something you’d seen in old movies, the kind that made your throat close when the heroine entered the ballroom and the orchestra swelled. The kind of dress you didn’t just wear—you became something else in.

Your breath hitched.

You lifted it carefully, cradling it like it might disintegrate. The fabric was cool against your hands, light as air.

It was beautiful. Too beautiful.

You blinked hard and whispered, mostly to yourself, “What the hell is this doing here?”

“You like it?”

You jumped, your heart lurching.

You spun around, clutching the fabric, only to find Bruce leaning against the doorframe, hands in his trouser pockets, watching you with unreadable eyes.

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound like it. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

You stared at him. “What is this?”

“The dress.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Do you like it?”

“I—” You hesitated. “Yes. I mean—it’s stunning. It’s… I didn’t know they made clothes like this outside of Vogue covers.”

He nodded once. “Good. I asked them to send over a few options. That one seemed right.”

You held it against you, blinking. “Right for what?”

“For you.”

You stared.

“If it doesn’t fit,” he added, “or if the color isn’t to your liking, they’ll send another.”

You opened your mouth. “You bought this?”

“I did.”

“…For me?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just looked at you.

Then finally—his voice even, as if it was the simplest thing in the world—he said, “Yes, for you. For the gala.”

Your stomach flipped.

You blinked again. “The… gala?”

He nodded. “Next Friday.”

“I know. I mean, I helped organize it, yes, but—I wasn’t planning on going.” You looked away. “I figured I’d just coordinate things from here.”

“Y/N,” he said.

You hesitated. When you looked back, he had stepped into the room. Not close. Not intimidating. Just… there.

He glanced down at the dress still in your arms, then back at you. And then he said, “I want you to go.”

You stopped breathing for a second. The room felt too quiet. Your heart too loud.

“You… want me to go.”

“With me,” he clarified.

Your lips parted.

He stepped to your side, slow, deliberate, until his arm brushed yours. He didn’t touch you beyond that. Didn’t crowd. Just stood close enough that you felt the warmth of him, the quiet tension under his tailored sleeves.

You looked up at him.

“I—Bruce,” you started. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupted.

You closed your mouth. He kept his eyes on yours.

“I know I don’t have to,” he said softly. “I want to.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. He leaned forward a little, just enough that his voice dropped, quieter than before.

“You looked beautiful the last time.”

Your cheeks flushed.

“You were the best-dressed person in the room,” he added, “and you didn’t even stay.”

You blinked at him, your throat tightening.

“I want you there,” he said again. “This time… with me.”

You searched his face, tried to look past the polish, past the restraint, but found only honesty there. A touch of something tentative. Like maybe this was the bravest thing he’d said in days.

You looked back at the dress. Your voice was soft. “You think this will fit?”

He smiled faintly. “If it doesn’t, we’ll find another. You deserve something that does.”

You turned toward him again.

“Bruce…”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes. But he didn’t move. He didn’t need to. Because in that moment—in the quiet glow of your office, surrounded by screens and spreadsheets and three years of not being seen—you felt like he was trying.

In his way.

You clutched the dress tighter, your voice trembling a little.

“I guess I’ll need shoes, too.”

“I’ll have a few pairs sent up tomorrow.”

“Bruce.”

“I mean it,” he said. “You’re going with me. Not as staff. Not as an assistant.”

Your breath caught.

“But as…?” you prompted.

His eyes held yours.

“As you.”

Your apartment smelled faintly of perfume and warmed curling iron, the radio playing something festive and jazzy in the background while you stood in front of the mirror, smoothing your hands down the front of the dress.

Silk. Champagne-colored. It shimmered even in the dim bedroom light, clinging in all the right places and floating like a second skin in all the rest. The delicate cap sleeves framed your shoulders; the neckline, smooth, barely skimmed the tops of your collarbones. There was a whisper of shimmer when you moved—just enough to feel like stardust.

You look… ethereal.

You also feel like you’re about to faint.

Rita was already downstairs in the car.

You’d expected to walk down the steps and see her grinning at you through the rearview mirror, maybe give a cheer when you stepped outside all dolled up.

You hadn’t expected him.

Bruce Wayne, in the flesh, waiting on the sidewalk.

Not just waiting, either.

He was standing near the rear of the car, half in shadow, his posture long and elegant, one hand in his coat pocket and the other straightening the cuff of his suit.

And what a suit it was.

Tailored black with a subtle sheen under the streetlamps, cut perfectly to his frame, the fabric smooth and crisp. A simple black tie. Clean lines. Understated power.

You froze halfway down the steps. You weren’t sure if it was the cold air or the way your heart gave a traitorous thud, but you stood there for a second, breath misting in the air, your fingers twitching against the silk at your waist.

Bruce turned at the sound of your heels. And his eyes—those sharp, unreadable, endlessly quiet eyes—met yours and didn’t move.

You stood up a little straighter. Tugged the skirt gently to settle it, and descended the last few steps like it was a scene from a movie.

His gaze didn’t drift once. He stepped closer just as you reached the last stair. “You look…”

He trailed off.

You tilted your head. “I look…?”

He gave the smallest breath of a smile. “Worthy of making people forget what they came for.”

You flushed from the collar down.

Rita grinned from the front seat, watching discreetly in the mirror.

Bruce opened the door for you himself. The way he helps you into the car, the way he closes the door after you, the way he settles in beside you and breathes in like he’s grounding himself — all of it makes your heart flutter somewhere behind your ribs.

You don’t speak for the first few minutes. Then you glance at him. He’s already looking at you.

You smile. “Nervous?”

He tilts his head. “I thought I was supposed to be asking you that.”

“I organized most of it,” you say lightly. “I know what to expect.”

“Do you?”

You shrug. “Overdressed socialites, bored billionaires, empty praise, passive-aggressive conversations, a charity auction no one actually cares about, and enough champagne to drown a horse.”

He chuckles. It’s low. Warm. Real.

And your heart stumbles.

The gala was held at the Gotham Grand Conservatory—glass ceilings, marble floors, the kind of floral arrangements that looked like they'd cost a year’s rent. You know the wallpaper, the guest list, the table designs.

The whole city’s elite was there. Quite the few photographers as well, and their flashes eat you alive.

Bruce had kept a hand on the small of your back as you entered, steady and grounding. His fingers never gripped too tightly, but the warmth of him lingered long after they dropped away.

People stared. They always stared at Bruce. That was nothing new. But tonight, their gazes followed you too. And when they realized you weren’t just staff… that Bruce Wayne had entered with you on his arm…

The whispers started.

You did your best to focus on your breathing. On the strings playing in the background. On not tripping over the heels.

“Stay with me,” Bruce murmured as you paused beside a decorative fountain, feigning interest in the sculptures.

You looked up. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I mean it,” he said, a bit lower. “You don’t have to deal with them alone.”

You blinked at him, heart squeezing in that quiet, aching way again.

The room sparkled with chandeliers, dresses, and diamond-cut masks of thin politeness. And you were right in the center of it. Beside him.

For the first hour, it felt manageable. A glass of champagne helped. A few polite greetings came your way. Some people even smiled warmly. You talked logistics with someone from public relations and made a joke about charity tables with one of the Wayne Foundation board members.

And then—it happened.

You turned a corner in the lounge and met a trio of women dressed in varying shades of couture and condescension.

“Oh,” one of them said, eyes flicking from your shoes to your earrings. “You’re the assistant.”

The tone made the word secretary sound like a slur.

You straightened. “Executive assistant.”

“Of course,” another murmured, swirling her drink. “And now the executive escort, it seems.”

Your chest tightened.

“I mean, really,” the third added, lips barely curved, “I suppose Bruce always had a taste for… the provincial. The occasional poor girl with alluring eyes.”

Your jaw twitched. “Excuse me?”

The first one smiled, teeth sharp. “It’s just—how quaint. A girl from Smallville, was it?”

You were halfway through gathering a response when you felt him behind you. Not touching—but close enough that his shadow swallowed the smugness off their faces.

Bruce’s voice was low, slow, and deathly polite. “Do you speak to all women this way, or just the ones who intimidate you?”

They froze.

He took one small step forward.

“I’ve heard better manners from men begging for mercy.”

Silence.

“Miss Kent,” he said, looking at you gently, “would you like to walk with me?”

You nodded, throat tight. He offered his arm, and you took it.

And the way he looked back at the women as you walked away? It was the closest thing Gotham’s elite had ever seen to a warning.

You exhale, still frozen. Bruce doesn’t move.

Then, quietly, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

You glance up at him. “You know how they are.”

He shrugs. “They know how I am.”

You let out a small laugh. “That might’ve been the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me in this dress. Or ever, actually.”

His gaze slides down to you again.

“I was right,” he says softly. “It fits you perfectly.”

You go quiet, but your chest burns, your cheeks grow flushed. Then, because the moment is growing too hot, too big, you say, “Do you want to step out for some air?”

You found a balcony tucked away behind a side hallway, past ivy-wrapped columns and the hum of the ballroom. The city spills out in front of you in gold and slate and whispers. The moon is tucked behind clouds. The lights below look like a galaxy trapped in glass.

You lean your palms on the carved stone railing, letting the chill wake up your skin, your thoughts. The silence is pleasant. Comfortable. The party inside buzzes with laughter and clinking glasses, but out here, it's just the two of you and the way your heartbeat won't settle.

Bruce stands beside you, a tall shadow, broad-shouldered in his tailored black suit, the cut sharp, the lines soft in the moonlight. His tie is a little loose now. His collar slightly undone. But his posture remains precise, shoulders pulled back like he was carved from tension.

You glance over at him. His profile is striking in the dim light—classic, solemn, but there’s a gentleness in his expression, a softness that doesn’t match the reputation the tabloids gave him.

He’s watching the skyline. You’re watching him.

You speak first. “Are you always this good at rescuing damsels from elitist wolves in designer gowns?”

His mouth lifts into a subtle smirk. “Only when they’re wearing champagne silk and stealing the room.”

You huff a laugh and glance down, smoothing your hand across your skirt. “That woman’s going to wake up bitter for the rest of the month.”

“She already was,” he says dryly. “You just gave her something new to be bitter about.”

You lift your eyebrows. “And what’s that?”

He turns his head toward you, slow, deliberate.

“That I’m here with you.”

Your breath catches. You look at him. Really look.

There’s no teasing in his voice. No public mask. He’s not Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s golden boy billionaire. He’s not Batman, either.

He’s just Bruce. Quiet. Clear-eyed. Looking at you like you’re the first moment of peace he’s had in a long, long time.

You swallow softly. “You didn’t have to say anything. Back there, I mean.”

“I did.”

You glance away. “I’m used to people making assumptions. Talking. It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

You go quiet.

His voice drops a little. “You shouldn’t have to feel small just because they don’t know how to handle someone who shines.”

You laugh, but it’s breathy, nervous. “You’ve been practicing these lines?”

“No.”

You turn your face toward him again, cheeks warming in the cold. “Then where are they coming from?”

His jaw shifts. His eyes are darker now. Intent.

“They’ve been sitting in my throat,” he says. “For a while.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know how to say them before. Or if I should.”

You whisper, “Why now?”

He doesn’t look away. “Because you deserve to know.”

Your heart drums against your ribs like a bird trying to break out of a cage.

Your voice wobbles a little. “Know what?”

“That I see you,” he says. His voice is low. “That I’ve been seeing you.”

You search his face for something you can hold onto—doubt, confusion, uncertainty—but there’s nothing. Only sincerity. Only the quiet ache of a man who doesn’t know how to wear his heart out loud but is doing it anyway.

You look down, lips parting. “Bruce…”

“I asked you to come tonight because I couldn’t stand the idea of looking around that room and not seeing you.”

Your breath leaves you.

You open your mouth, but he keeps going, his gaze pinned to yours like it’s the only thing keeping him from vanishing.

“You’re the only person in that building who doesn’t treat me like a shadow or a myth,” he says. “You talk to me like I’m a person. You make me laugh when I forget how. You…” His voice catches. “You see me.”

He exhales, almost like he regrets speaking—but he doesn’t look away.

“You’ve been with me through every impossible hour. Every late night. Every moment where I didn’t even know how to ask for help, and there you were. With coffee. With your kindness. With your voice.”

His voice falters, but he steps closer. Just enough for the distance between you to feel like it’s melting.

“And when I was bleeding on your couch, when I was barely upright, you didn’t ask questions. You didn’t scream or run or freeze. You took care of me.”

Your eyes meet his. And the world tilts.

You feel his hand brush your arm, then lower, steady and warm as it curls around your waist. Gentle. Questioning. Not demanding anything.

You don’t pull away.

Your hands come to rest lightly on the lapels of his coat, heart in your throat, body humming with anticipation.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. “More than okay.”

He hesitates for only a second longer, eyes flicking between yours, and then he leans in.

The kiss is nothing like what you imagined.

It’s better.

It’s not fast, not urgent. It’s soft. Patient. Reverent. Like he’s been waiting a long time to learn the shape of your mouth. Like he’s afraid of breaking the moment if he breathes too hard.

His lips brush against yours with quiet certainty, and everything inside you tilts forward—your hands tightening in his jacket, your body leaning into his like it’s instinct, like you’ve always belonged there.

When he pulls back, barely an inch, your noses touch. His breath fans your cheek.

Neither of you speaks.

Then—

“I’ve wanted to do that for a few months,” he confesses, voice barely a rasp.

Your eyes flutter open, lashes brushing your cheeks. “You could’ve.”

“I didn’t think I deserved to.”

You blink. “But you still tried.”

He smiles. The smallest thing. But real.

“I’ll keep trying,” he says. “If you’ll let me.”

You lean your forehead against his, eyes closing. “I’d like that.”

And for the first time in months, maybe years, Bruce Wayne breathes like a man who doesn’t have to pretend.

[dunbarx]

You Promised You'd Come Back

pairing: kaz brekker x fem!reader

genre: hurt/comfort

requested? yes

kaz brekker masterlist

She arrived with a bloody knuckle and a sharper smile.

The newest member of the Dregs. A good thief. Quiet, smart, even charming when it counted — and, to Kaz Brekker’s growing dismay, familiar.

At first, it was nothing.

A gesture. A laugh. The way she tied her sleeves too tight at the wrist, like she was bracing for cold that wasn’t there.

He didn’t realize it until Jesper called her name across the Crow Club one night, and her head turned just like it had in the streets of Lij.

Not Ketterdam.

Lij.

Kaz Brekker hadn’t remembered that name in years.

~

Her name used to be spoken with sun-drenched laughter. On a tiny dock by a muddy riverbank, where three children had built a fort out of crates and dreams.

Kaz. Jordie. And her.

She had been the scrappiest of them all — wild-eyed and clever. She always stole two extra apples and said they were for luck. Kaz had rolled his eyes. Jordie had kissed the top of her head.

“Someday we’ll take you with us,” Jordie promised once, fingers brushing through her hair. “To Ketterdam.”

“You better,” she’d grinned, knocking Kaz with her shoulder. “You two are all I’ve got.”

They left three days later.

He’d never seen her again.

Until now.

And Kaz knew it was her. There was no doubt — just time between them like fog over the harbor.

She didn’t remember him.

Why would she? He was different now. Bones built from grave dirt and rage. The boy she knew was long drowned.

But Kaz remembered.

And the longer she stayed, the worse it got.

He watched the way she treated Wylan — soft and encouraging, like she couldn’t help being kind. The way she argued with Jesper, fast-talking and fearless. The way her eyes sparked when she was proud of herself.

The same way they used to.

It made something dangerous curl in his chest.

He couldn’t stand when she volunteered for risky missions. He snapped at her twice in a week for no reason. Jesper called him out, but Kaz ignored it.

He was unraveling. And no one knew.

Until the night she didn’t come back.

She was late from a mission in the Staves — just a quick trade, supposedly — and Kaz was trying not to pace when Inej returned alone, eyes dark with worry.

“She’s alive,” she said. “But she’s hurt.”

Hurt.

That word splintered through him like glass.

She was carried in an hour later, blood soaked through her jacket, unconscious and cold.

Kaz barely heard Jesper explaining how they’d gotten ambushed.

All he could see was her. Pale. Still. Bruised. The same girl he’d left on the dock all those years ago.

He snapped.

“Get Nina!” he barked. “Get her now!”

Jesper flinched. “Kaz—”

“NOW!”

He stayed in the corner while Nina worked. Hands in fists. Knuckles white. His gloves felt suffocating. His breath burned. Every horrible memory clashed with every new one, and he couldn’t hold them apart anymore.

She woke a few hours later.

“Hey,” she whispered hoarsely, voice cracking.

Kaz stood frozen.

“Did we… finish the job?” she asked, trying to smile.

And something inside him broke.

“You nearly died,” he growled. “Do you ever think before you throw yourself into fire?”

She blinked. “I’m fine, Kaz. It’s just a few—”

“Don’t say it,” he said sharply. “Don’t say you’re fine.”

She stared at him then, confused and a little hurt. “Why are you so—?”

“Because I knew you.” His voice shook. “Before. When we were children. In Lij.”

Silence.

“I knew your laugh. I knew your favorite stories. I promised—” his breath hitched. “Jordie and I promised we’d come back for you.”

Her eyes widened. “Kaz?”

He nodded, chest rising and falling like he couldn’t breathe. “I failed you once. I let us get on that boat. I left you. I never meant to.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I thought I made you up. After everything… I thought you died with Jordie.”

“I nearly did,” he said hoarsely. “But you—being near you again—I don’t know how to be… me with you in the room. But I can’t lose you. Not again.”

She reached for him — and to her shock, he let her fingers brush his.

“I waited,” she whispered. “For years. You promised.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was a boy. And then I became something else.”

She smiled through her tears. “Then let’s start over.”

He didn’t say yes. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he sat beside her bed that night, hand resting near hers. A silent vow.

Not a boy. Not a ghost. But Kaz Brekker.

And this time, he wasn’t leaving.

[dunbarx]

Love Potions mood board<3

~

"You okay?" you ask, brushing a tuft of hair from his forehead.

"Nope," he informs, "but I'm really good at pretending I am."

[dunbarx]

how i feel reading a “x reader angst” fanfiction and the reader forgives them immediately instead of making them grovel for a long ass time:

(LIKE??? IM PETTY)

[dunbarx]

the executioner

a little insight into the creative process, some encouragement, and a way to apologize for not posting anything <33

glasses s 2!spencer reid x podcast host female! reader

“We’ve worked cases where the murders were carried out execution-style before,” Hotch pointed out. “In those situations, the offender believes the victims are somehow guilty morally or socially and that's his duty to deliver justice. The use of electricity as a murder weapon is what sets this one apart. We need to go there and—”

“JJ, JJ, JJ my sweet girl, did you mention the podcast like I asked?” Penelope’s voice suddenly came from the laptop, usually silent or absent when it came to discussing the gruesome details of a case. The woman inhaled sharply, realizing she had interrupted Hotch’s sentence. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Garcia, I’m not sure—” JJ began.

“What podcast?” Spencer asked.

That question seemed to seal something, caused silence to fall over the room, and focused everyone’s attention on the two of them, the ones who knew something the rest didn’t. And something JJ didn’t seem particularly eager to share.

“Wonderful that you ask,” Garcia replied enthusiastically, her tone taking on that same excited note as when she talked about her favorite game. She caught herself slightly, just enough to underline that she was now speaking with seriousness and conviction. “So, my favorite true crime podcast…”

“Wait, wait,” Morgan cut in with a slow, halting motion of his hand. “Sorry to interrupt you, but tell me, babygirl, since when do you listen to true crime podcasts?”

“Oh, you’d have to listen to this one to understand! It’s not that typical i’m a man with a deep voice and I’ll lower it even more while adding door creaking sounds in the background so you’ll pee your pants listening to it at night kind of podcast,” Penelope, of course, demonstrated exactly what she meant.

Spencer glanced at Gideon’s face when she did that. He noticed Elle did the same.

“It’s called Rotten Cherry.This girl is so fun and she adds tons of her own commentary while still being respectful toward the victims and, well, significantly less toward the murderers but that’s not the point, I’m not giving her free promotion right now…actually, no, I am! Because guys, she lives in the town where this is happening, so she’s there, reporting on everything, talking to the locals…”

“Garcia, you’re seriously suggesting we use some amateur podcast as our source of information?” Spencer asked skeptically, absolutely not believing it could be useful to them in any way. No matter how fun that girl was.

“She’s not recording some kind of bullshit, she actually takes this seriously and professionally! And not as a main source of information, just something worth checking out. You know how small communities work. Nobody wants to talk, especially not to outsiders. But she actually managed to talk to one of the victim’s sisters, she’s working hard to gather information about them and, you know, honor them in some way and that really could be helpful. I mean, you always look into the victims’ histories and families anyway, trying to get to the unsub,” Penelope explained in a defensive tone.

A moment of silence fell, during which Spencer’s eyebrows remained doubtfully raised.

Until he felt Hotch’s sharp gaze fixed on him from across the table.

He understood what it meant almost instantly, and was already opening his mouth to protest — but got cut off.

“Reid, you’ll listen to it and let us know if there’s anything useful for the investigation. In the meantime, we’ll meet on the jet in fifteen minutes. That’s all.”

As everyone got up to leave the room, Spencer stayed behind for a brief moment, sighing with his eyes closed. He could go through hundreds of pages of case files four times faster than the rest of the team, and it wasn’t nearly as exhausting for him — but listening? And not even dry facts, but information gathered by someone else, presented in a humorous way on top of that?

Hell no.

With that approach, Spencer set about what he considered a sisyphean task, already on board the jet. Because he couldn’t refuse just because he had a feeling it wouldn’t lead them anywhere. He hoped someone would offer to take on the task instead of him, but after they saw his reluctance, their sadistic tendencies toward him kicked in and no one made him such an offer.

Away from the rest, without enthusiasm, he put the headphones on. Garcia had sent him a link to episodes related to the case they had just started working on; unlike others discussing, for example, killers like Jeffrey Dahmer, these focused on local murders and were short, somewhat like brief news updates. Apparently, the host girl posted many of her thoughts on the matter on a blog closely tied to the podcast, but he decided to check that out later.

“Can’t believe I’m saying this, guys,” the podcast began in a clear, pure female voice. Spencer immediately liked her flawless diction but was a bit surprised by how she started the episode with no introduction or greeting.

“But in today’s episode, we’re heading to a picturesque place in northern Vermont where the church is right across from McDonald’s, in case the guilt after your seventh burger this week pushes you all the way to the confessional and the most exciting event of the summer season is a festival with a contest for the best apple pie. Let’s not forget that everyone here knows not only you, your family up to five generations back, and your kindergarten friend, but also knows what you’re going to do even before you think about it yourself. And don’t even get me started on how fast rumors spread. Welcome to Fairview, the town I had the pleasure—or not—to be born in and suffer in, I mean, be raised in for over twenty years. And where a murder happened. Oh, I feel guilty now for all those times I prayed for something interesting to happen here, obviously, I didn’t mean that…”

[dunbarx]

[dunbarx]

where does the wind go

summary | after the thunderbolts are made the 'new avengers', they are forced to live with each other in the tower, just like the old avengers did once. not easy for someone who had experimented that, especially not for you. especially not with bob. until a gala comes and everything changes.

pairing | bob reynolds x female!new and old avenger!reader

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/comfort, drinking and smoking implied, fluffy end, mentions of wanda maximoff, friends to lovers, kissing, make out, bit of explicit content but not quite smut, grinding.

word count | 4k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

When Bob met you, he thought you were just shy, not so much different from like how he was. Sassy, yes, and bad-mouthed, but still quiet from time to time, closed in your own mind. Yelena said to him, in secret, that she thought all the battles had made you like that, because you were not that silent before. Or that was what Natasha had said to her once, at least.

The only one who really, really knew you, of all of them, was Bucky, and he kept under locks what went through your head. Still, Bob thought he knows you well too.

He knows how much you like to lock yourself in the art room, how much you visit the gym, and that from time to time you leave, alone, to somewhere no one knows. He also knows how much you enjoy taking your coffee and knows, too, how do you take it. And that you can fight very well, and that your screams, when you fight back to Valentina, could take down a banshee.

The only thing he doesn't know is why do you evade him. What has he done wrong? He can fix it. He can try to, at least. You come back, eventually, but it doesn't last long.

Like what happened just now.

The mornings are kind of tough sometimes; there are little to no breakfasts together. Everyone is still getting used, even when three months have already passed, and is difficult. They do eat lunch together.

Bob cooks most of the times. He has picked up the hobby and now no one can escape it. No one wants to, anyway. At first he was bad, like horrendous bad, but he has gotten better, with enough practice. The plate he was preparing was a new recipe he got over a book (he still doesn't catch the uses of the telephone - didn't have one before).

You came over when he was cooking, as usual. You hair clinging wet to your skin, freshly bathed; he supposed you were at the gym before, with Bucky and John, like most Wednesdays. An oversized shirt, some low-hanging black pants, and the snuggest pair of socks you had.

He smelled before even seeing you, the aroma of shampoo mixing softly with the smell of the food. Bob smiled a bit at your inhalation, satisfied at the quiet groan of hunger.

“Smells good,” you pointed out, walking to stand at his side, looking over to the pan. “What you cooking over here that has the whole hall smelling so nice?”

Bob smiles a bit more widely. He loves it when you are in the nice mood, when your shoulders aren't tense and the softness in your eyes is there, shining.

“It's a new recipe,” he answered, throwing a look over his shoulder to see you better. “I read it in the book you gave me. And I already made dessert too, it's refrigerating.”

“Ooh, what did you make?” You sat at the counter, next to him. Your leg brushed his knee softly.

“Uh, it's a cherry pie,” his brows frowned for a moment, trying to remember if it was actually cherry, but he nodded. “Do you like it?”

“Love it. Do you need any help?” You leaned your side to the side, and for a moment his heart stopped before going a bit crazier. Did you have to be that cute? Did your eyes shone like that with everyone? He hoped not.

“Actually,” he coughed. “Could you try this? I don't know if I put too much salt or . . .”

You smiled, ever so kind, and jumped down to pass beside him. Your hand caressed his waist tenderly, sending a shiver down his spine that he tried to hide. His cheeks blushed.

“You are very negative on yourself, Bob,” your voice was a bit amused, but still gentle. “Everything you do tastes good because you are good. Especially at this.”

Your hand grabbed one of the wooden spoons, moving the creamy chicken for a second before grabbing some of it, getting your face closer to the pan, blowing on the food before finally trying it.

He watched how your eyes closed, your tongue licking the hem of your lips very slowly, but that could have been his imagination repeating the motion. You remained silent, even after you swallowed and your eyes flew open. He took the silence as a right to speak.

“Are the spices too much? It has paprika on it, some onions too, because it is . . .”

“Chicken Paprikash,” you completed in a whisper. He nodded, excited you had recognized it.

“Yeah! Have you tried it before? I mean, you know it, you surely must have. Stupid question, sorry. So, is it good? Lacking something?”

You looked at him, eyes slightly lost. “Uh, you know . . . you know what? I think I— I forgot my phone. So . . . Yeah, that.”

And with that, you wandered off, quickly disappearing through the halls to, possibly, your room. His brows frowned with sadness, not knowing what he had done wrong.

“Nothing.” Bucky's voice made him jump, almost like a scared cat. Bob supposed he had talked out loud. The man gave him a little smile. “This time of the year . . . its hard for her. Being here brings back many memories.”

“She lived here many years?” Bob asked.

“Yeah, I think. Five, something like that. Then, well, the Avengers separated.” Bucky's brows shoot up for a second, walking close to him.

“But she was very close to all of them, from what I understand. Wanda, most than the others.”

“Uh . . . The scarlet witch?” He asked, not very used to the normal names of the heroes. He barely knew the contra parts.

Bucky nodded. “Glued to the hip, Steve used to say. She joined Steve's side in the separation just because of her, not because she agreed with one or the other . . . It's nothing against you, Bob. You just . . . tend to be much like her.”

“Like Wanda?” He mumbled. 

“Yeah, very much like her, actually. Like this,” Bucky looked at the pan. “Did she ask you to do it?”

“No. I just . . . I read the book she gave me, and this recipe had this little red heart. Thought that she would like it but . . .  I guess I was wrong.” Bob sighed, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“You weren't,” Bucky's answer was short but not mean. “She does like it.” 

“But— but she reacted so . . . So dreadful.”

“That's because Wanda used to do it. Don't take it bad. She's just mourning and she can't handle some things, but she doesn't mean to make you sad. She will eat. Just . . . leave a plate.”

And he quickly learned that the things that reminded you of Wanda used to make you like that. Sad, quiet, distant. It happened with the others, as well: when John put on some jazz music, when Alexei played Full House on the television, when Yelena hummed lowly, when Bucky spoke of Steve, when Ava's pain got too strong again.

But it happened more with him. And it happened almost always. Like he was some sort of trigger for your memories to come back and eat you alive, and he was pretty sure that this time The Void had nothing to do with it. It was him. Bob. Causing you this pain.

He had seen it. In your memories, yes. But he could see it in your eyes as well. Every time you spared him a glance, trying to see him, you could only see her, glancing back at you with the same worry she had had once. So, your solution was to ignore him.

And it was eating him alive. Especially tonight, when the salon was filled with people he didn't know — didn't want to either — and he didn't have you on his side, touching his back, trying to keep him calm. Keep the beast on a leash, had once Valentina said, mockingly, and you had bit back with insults and rage to defend him, but he agreed.

He would do everything, including putting on a stupid leash, if it meant you would look at him with that softness again. He could be Sentry to the world, a god, but he would be a god on his knees, just for you. Or he could be a nightmare, but the sweetest dream if you preferred it like that.

Anything. Anything. Anythinganythinganything—

“Bob!” Yelena's voice awoke him from his mind. Right. They were in the gala. “Are you okay?”

His friend's clear eyes were a bit worried under her frowned brows. She had put on an oversized burgundy suit, the white blouse open quite a few buttons, not to seduce — Bob didn't think Yelena could even think of someone that way — but for simple comfort, revealing a necklace with a 'N' in gold. 

He had a suit on as well. Not as big on him as the one on her. Valentina had his fitted, exclaiming over the skies that the hero that everyone was supposed to meet could not be seen wearing something that didn't seem his size. With no one to defend him from her claws, everything resulted a bit tight. 

“Yeah. Sorry. Just . . . lost in my thoughts. What were you saying?”

“I will go to drink something with Ava, we will be over the bar. Walker is talking with some veterans, I think. I don't know. Alexei is . . . drinking shots, so I will stop that. Bucky is next to him— oh, no, he left. So, you have three options.”

“Why three?” his brows furrowed, confused. Yelena ignored the question.

“You go to Mel over there because you have to talk to some people that Valentina wants you to meet. You come with me at the bar. Or . . .” Yelena looked around, searching her third option. She smiled. “You go search Y/N, 'cause I haven't seen her since this shit started.”

“Nothing? Not even a glimpse?” He straightened up, worried. Yelena shrugged.

“She is on one of the balconies, I think, but can't see her from here. So, you have your three options. Good luck.”

Yelena rushed to Ava, desperate to drink something to get her a bit out of the space, stopping her father at the same time. And when Mel looked over at him, he immediately hurried up the stairs. He preferred some ignorance from you than meeting all the political people Valentina wanted him to.

He found you on the last balcony. You were resting against the railing, smoking, arched, as if you were waiting for the wind to take you away. On your right, a cup with something that didn't look like juice.

And yet, you were gorgeous. It felt indecent, watching you through the dim light. His eyes ate the curves, hugged so well that they looked almost naked, and then jumped to the line in the middle of your waist. It was backless. Black. Fitted like it knew your body better than he ever would. From the back, you were nearly naked save for the gold-threaded sun sewn dead center across your spine, rays blooming out over your shoulder blades. The way the fabric clung made him lightheaded.

Something in him jumped. He was said to have the power of million exploding suns. That was the tagline. The joke. The badge everyone gave him without asking. Some called it overcompensating. Others a death wish. But standing here, looking at you, he was sure none of them had seen the real thing. The actual sun.

Because it wasn’t his. It was you. That sun on your skin. That heat in your silence. Still his — somehow — but entirely yours to control.

The smoke escaped your lips almost like a prayer, and he felt his knees grow weak. Your hair moved through the breeze, and your skin was bristling. He took a step closer. Then another. And another — until he was next to you, leaning on the same railing, trying not to look like he was unraveling from the inside out.

“Didin't know this place could look nice,” he spoke, clearing his throat. 

“With not so many people it can,” you answered, simply. “Is that why you are here? Downstairs was too much?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, licking his lips, suddenly dry. “Yelena told me you’d be here.”

“She sent you to babysit me?”

He shrugged. “She said I had options. Either go to the bar with Valentina and meet some ‘very important men,’ or . . .” He paused, glanced sideways. “Come find you.”

That earned him a glance. Your eyes were lined with something dark — maybe makeup, maybe shadows — but they still had that same depth he’d memorized the day he met you. You looked tired, but not sleepy. You looked like someone who’d survived something and didn’t quite know what to do with all the surviving.

He cleared his throat. “What’s in the cup?”

“Guess.”

“Wine?”

“Try again.”

“. . . Vodka?”

You handed it to him without a word. He took a sniff. Then a sip. Choked.

“Jesus — what is this?”

“Mostly gin,” you said, eyes flicking toward the sky. “And poor decisions.”

He coughed into his elbow, then looked at you, face scrunched. “Yeah, that tracks.”

“I didn’t drink the whole thing,” you said, flicking the cup with a finger. “Just needed… something.”

Yet you left it, because you knew how much he hated it. You didn't stop smoking, though.

Bob shifted closer, just slightly, resting both arms on the railing now. The quiet settled again — not awkward, just… there. Something with weight. The kind of quiet that lives between two people who’ve seen each other break. The kind that knows better than to fill itself with bullshit.

“Have I ever told you about Wanda?” you mumbled. It came from nowhere. No setup, no warning. Like a truth you had to spit out before it burned a hole in your tongue.

“I don't think so, no,” he said, quieter. You nodded slowly, like you weren’t surprised.

“Well . . . Bucky's right,” you sighed, and the sound wasn’t sharp — it was soft, tired. “You do remind me of her. She was . . . sweet, willing, scared. Just like you. She feared everything and everyone and, yet, she still fight it. Constantly.”

“You were . . . close?”

“Best of friends,” your lips curved into something so gentle it felt unreal. “Close as sisters. Never saw one without the other type of close. And she . . . she used to like all these dishes you do, but I think that is my fault, 'cause I gave you the book. Not because I wanted you to be like her, I just . . .”

You trailed off. He didn’t interrupt. You did that sometimes — cut your own thoughts short, like you weren’t sure to finish them.

“. . . I thought it would do you well, like it did with her. But I don’t see you as a copy of her. I don’t want you to think that. You are not her ghost to me. You just . . . remind me of how safe she made me feel, because you do as well.”

Your eyes met his then. Open. Honest. Raw.

He had no idea what to say. He never did when it came to this side of you — the soft, aching underbelly that you rarely let him see. You wore sarcasm like armor, sarcasm and charm and sharp little smirks. But every now and then, you cracked open and let a piece of your real heart slip through.

“I make you feel safe?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Even like this?” His hand gestured vaguely to himself—the black suit, the heavy silence, the stupid job title he still didn’t know what to do with.

“Especially like this.”

There was something fragile on your face. Not weakness. Never that. Just the rawness of being known, maybe too much.

So Bob reached — carefully, carefully — and put a hand over yours where it gripped the railing. His palm was warm. Your fingers were cold.

“I don’t know what Wanda would say,” he said, “but I know what I’d say.”

You looked at him through wet lashes.

“I’d say I’m glad you’re here.”

He wasn’t sure what made you look at him then. Maybe the steadiness in his voice. Maybe the fact that he didn’t say it like a question. Or maybe because you wanted to believe it.

Your gaze lingered.

“You shouldn’t,” you said again.

“Shouldn’t what?”

“Be here.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m… too much.”

“No,” he said. Immediately. “You’re not.”

Your lip curled. A half-scoff. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

“I don’t need to,” he said. “I’m still here.”

You stared at him, searching. He let you. There was nothing performative about Bob. That’s what made him different. You could search for a mask, a game, a trap — and find none.

Just honesty.

“You always do this,” you murmured.

“Do what?”

“Look at me like I’m something worth staying for.”

“You are.”

Your breath hitched. Barely audible. And then, like a question, like a test: “What if I’m not?”

He smiled, sad and certain. “Then I’ll wait until you believe you are.”

The wind picked up. You shivered slightly. He took off his jacket before you could refuse and laid it over your shoulders.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

“Always.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. But then, you turned around.

The curves that had made him dizzy earlier were still there, hugging the silhouette of that dress. The golden sun on your back gleamed. Your lips were parted, eyes blown dark.

“You’re warm,” you said.

“I always am,” he replied, half-smiling. “Exploding sun, remember?”

“. . . When you say stuff like that, I think I want to kiss you.”

“You think?” he teased gently.

Your nose wrinkled. “Okay, I definitely want to kiss you. I just wasn’t sure if I should. Or if you wanted to. Or if—”

He kissed you.

Softly, first. His hand moved to the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek. He didn’t push, didn’t demand. Just a warm press of lips and breath and the kind of affection that had waited for months in the silence between moments.

You melted.

One of your hands gripped his shirt at the collar, anchoring yourself. The kiss deepened—not rushed, not clumsy. It was careful, reverent. Like he’d studied how you smiled, how you breathed, and now wanted to study how you tasted.

When you finally broke apart, you were breathless. So was he.

“I should’ve done that weeks ago,” he muttered.

And you kissed again—longer this time, surer, with your fingers moving to the back of his neck. His suit jacket hit the balcony floor without ceremony. Your dress clung to your form like it had been painted on, and Bob’s hands hesitated only for a second before resting against your bare back, thumbs tracing idle circles. He was gentle, but there was something desperate in how he held you, like someone who’d lost too much to take this moment lightly.

Slowly, you made him back down, falling slowly into an Acapulco chair. The cup fell, but one cared. You straddled him gently, knees bracketing his thighs, the hem of your dress hitching higher. It wasn’t indecent. Not yet. But he was pretty sure the blood was leaving his brain either way.

Your arms wrapped around his neck with ease, familiarity. And your mouth hovered just far enough from his that Bob forgot how to breathe.

“I don’t want to do this wrong,” he murmured.

“There’s no wrong,” you said. “Not with this. Not with you.”

And then you kissed him again.

It was gentler than before, but deeper, like you had more time now and intended to use every second of it. Bob’s hands fluttered uncertainly at your hips, fingertips brushing the thin fabric of your dress, not daring to settle yet. His chest tightened. He was desperate to touch you, but terrified of pushing too far.

You must’ve felt it.

“Bob,” you said against his mouth, “you can touch me. You can want this.”

“I do,” he whispered.

“Then show me.”

His hands rose, slowly, one settling on your waist and the other tracing along the delicate line of your spine, where the dress dipped open like an invitation. Your skin was warm beneath his fingertips. Real. Alive.

“You’re shaking,” you said softly, fingers combing through the hair at the nape of his neck.

“I’m not used to this,” he confessed. “Being wanted like this. Being touched like this.”

Your expression crumpled a little. “You are so wanted.”

Bob let out a breath like a confession. His lips found yours again—this time more certain, less apologetic. You hummed in approval, and your hips rocked once, unintentionally or not, against his. He gasped into your mouth and felt you smile.

“You okay?” you asked, breathy now.

“I’m okay,” he said quickly, voice thick. “Better than okay.”

Your teeth grazed his bottom lip, then soothed it with your tongue, and Bob’s entire body went tight with restraint. His hands gripped your waist more firmly now, pulling you closer, and this time when your chest pressed to his, there was no space left for second guesses.

“God,” he muttered, “I could kiss you forever.”

You leaned back slightly, fingers on his cheeks, a devilish smile dancing on your lips. “That’s the plan.”

And you did.

Over and over.

Sometimes slow, sometimes rushed. Sometimes open-mouthed and wet and full of want. Bob’s fingers eventually found the small of your back, dancing just above where your dress ended, and he swore he could feel the curve of your spine like it was carved just for him. He was nervous, still — but it was the good kind. The kind that said: I don’t want to mess this up because it matters.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he mumbled into your skin.

“Believe it,” you said. “It’s only been a year of pining and repressed glances and spoon-fed tension.”

He laughed, breathless, nose brushing yours. “You noticed?”

“Bob. You made me lemon soup the day after I got shot.”

“You were cold.”

“You tucked a blanket around my legs and left the room like a gentleman.”

“I thought you needed space!”

“I needed you, you idiot.”

The words hit him like a fist to the chest — but gentler. Like an ache undoing itself.

“You have me now,” he said, voice rough. “If you still want me.”

Your hands moved to his chest, fingers curling in the crisp fabric of his shirt. “I do. I do, Bob.”

You kissed him again. This time deeper. Hungrier. And Bob let himself touch — fully, reverently. His hands splayed across your back, thumbs tracing the ridges of your spine, fingertips learning every dip, every curve. You were warm and soft and here, and every part of him felt like it had been waiting to exhale for years.

He broke the kiss only to press his lips to your jaw, your throat, the hollow where your shoulder met your neck. You gasped, a sound that went straight to his bones.

“Is this okay?” he asked into your skin.

You nodded, breath shaky. “God, yes.”

The fabric of your dress shifted as you moved, sliding slightly with each kiss, and his hands adjusted, now resting low on your hips. You rolled them once against him — slow, deliberate — and he groaned, forehead falling to your shoulder.

“Okay,” he whispered, gripping your sides, “okay.”

“I like the way you say that.”

“I’m trying very hard not to combust.”

You laughed, full-bodied and close, and the sound grounded him. Your hands roamed his chest now, fingertips exploring his collarbones, slipping beneath the undone knot of his tie. You tugged it loose completely and tossed it somewhere over your shoulder.

“Was that expensive?” you teased.

“Probably,” he said. “Don’t care.”

“God, you’re beautiful,” you murmured.

Bob flushed. “I — what?”

“Shut up,” you said, pressing another kiss to his jaw. “Let me say it.”

“You really think that?”

“I know it.”

His heart surged. No one had ever said that to him and meant it like that. With hands and eyes and breath. With weight. You weren’t seducing him. You were recognizing him.

He let his hands wander again — up your sides, brushing the edge of your ribs, then back down to your thighs. Every inch was new. Every inch was home.

And then, Yelena's voice sounded through the door. 

“Very sorry, lovebirds. Time to meet new people. Stop sucking each other's mouth!” Amused to the bone, the woman kicked the door lazily. “Bob and Y/N, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage!”

“Gosh, she's going to be annoying all week.” You threw your head back, and he smiled, kissing the free skin on your neck. “Well . . . they are gonna have to wait now. I don't plan on leaving anytime soon.”

And with that, your lips crashed against his again.

[dunbarx]

Headcanons for being a Skywalker triplet and being raised in the Empire

Skywalkers x sibling!reader

warnings: death and destruction. reader lowkey evil in the first half

a/n: yeah,,,its based on an oc. timeline is slightly out of order/weird bc im doing it from memory

prompt:

when you were born, you and your other two siblings were separated

your brother was sent to live with an uncle on tattooine

your sister was raised by alderaan nobility

and you, you never made it to your destination

the ship that carried you and the jedi that would care for you was intercepted, you were taken and brought to your father, anakin—now known as darth vader

as far as he knew, you were the only child and he had killed your mother, padmé

the emperor saw use for you and decided you’d be kept within the empire, vader could be close and you’d know your father, but you were not to reveal your true identities

“father, you used to be a jedi?” -you

“i was once, but that was a long time ago” -vader

“what happened?” -you

“the order betrayed me, sent my master to kill me. they could not be trusted, which is why we must kill all jedi” -vader

“yes, father” -you

your training to be an inquisitor was overseen by vader, who grew more and more angry at your spar partner every time you were hit

“patience, vader. you must not show weakness—or else i will kill y/n myself” -palpatine

you had a lot of weight on your shoulders. hiding the fact you were anakin skywalker and padmé amidala’s child. vader’s child. palpatine always had his eye on you. he wanted you to be one of his soldiers

you were very young when you were appointed an inquisitor role. about 13

and you had been given a new last name as not to tip off anyone in the empire

you often reported to vader—a petty complaint or a real crime

“another inquisitor compared me to a bantha” -you

“it will be dealt with” -vader

that inquisitor was dead by the end of the day

you were tasked with a lot of special missions, trusted with sensitive information—the other inquisitors noticed and were very jealous

but palpatine was impressed by the way you handled yourself

“y/n, you remind me of your father when he was young. powerful, strong, passionate. one day you may have a place by my side” -palpatine

you were shaken by that offer as you knew the rule of twos

rebels feared you, an inquisitor who swiftly wiped them from the galaxy without a second thought

the clone wars fascinated you, and as much as you wanted to pry for information from your father, you conceded

but you always heard whispers of anakin skywalker’s famed 501st legion and his padawan, ahsoka

you always wondered if he compared the two of you

sometimes, when away from palpatine—often on mustafar—you’d be vader’s child and not another inquisitor. you’d be able to spar and speak a bit more freely.

“your mother. she was a politician. formerly the queen of naboo when she was your age. i…loved her dearly. but the jedi forbid it, we had to keep it a secret” -vader

“would the emperor have allowed it?” -you

“he was one of few who knew” -vader

some days he wished he were just anakin and the three of you lived peacefully on naboo. he wished you were not a soldier like him. but he was truly proud of what you’d amounted to

your faith in the empire started to falter around the time the ghost crew began to wreak havoc

as capable as you were, you hesitated to use your full potential to take them out

and it was noticed

“you will not show these criminals mercy, y/n! you take them out, or i will find someone more deserving of power!” -palpatine

it was around age 16 you questioned the cause

analyzed it without the influence of palpatine or vader or any soldiers

unfortunately, it wasn’t that simple

some years later, you were assigned to the death star—an honor, it was

one day you and vader had captured princess leia of alderaan and you felt…different. some sort of connection

“not often you see an inquisitor these days” -leia

“nor a princess committing treason against the empire” -you, putting her in her cell

before you knew it, there was a whole crew of rebels on board trying to save her

some more familiar than others

kenobi?

“i know that name” -you

“silence, child. i will finish what i started” -vader

obi-wan recognized you right away, the child he failed to bring to safety

but what didn’t sit right with you was when you’d hunted the other rebels going to save the princess, you heard

“i’m luke skywalker, i’m here to rescue you”

skywalker

your true name was shared by another

were you a twin?

there wasn’t enough time to figure out the details, you were a servant to the empire—to palpatine. you had a mission

but before long you’d have to escape the destruction of the death star

“father. that boy. his name is skywalker” -you

“the force is strong in him” -vader

“what do we do?” -you

“you will receive instruction when necessary” -vader

lots to ponder, lots to unpack

a brother. a brother even vader didn’t know about. he had to be. theres no other explanation

and with obi-wan kenobi? your father’s master. this was no coincidence

some time passed and you met the rebels again in bespin—cloud city

it was here your father confronted luke about his parentage.

“luke, i am your father” -vader

but as vader was distracted, you fled to help the rest of the millennium falcon crew escape

“how can we trust you?” -lando

“please, understand, i have been raised in the empire my entire life. forced to hide my true identity. my real name is y/n skywalker. my parents are padmé amidala and anakin skywalker. i believe luke is my twin brother” -you

“oh, please, you’ll say anything to get the chance to kill us—” -lando

“i believe they’re telling the truth. come with us, y/n” -leia

you’d saved luke and fled bespin with the remainder of the crew, apologizing for han’s fate in the carbonite

and luke was thrilled to see you face to face all things considered

“so it’s true? vader is my—our father?” -luke

“i was found in a ship with a jedi—presumably on a mission to hide me from the empire. vader had no idea you existed. until you met on the death star” -you

“you spent your whole life in the empire?” -luke

“i did. but to preserve vader’s anonymity, i was not permitted to be his ‘child,’ although—vader has a hard time following rules. they trained me as soon as my power began to show and inducted me into the inquisitors early on. i just…it never felt right. i’ve killed…so many people. done so many unforgivable things and yet i could never break free until now” -you

luke hugged you. it was the first time anyone ever had

“y/n. i know we’re strangers, but i understand regret. you left of your own free will, knowing there could be consequences. you came with us. there is good in you” -luke

you felt bad luke was comforting you when your dad had just had his hand chopped off

he asked what you knew of your father’s history, your mother’s history, and you told him all you could

your freedom from the empire felt refreshing

being y/n skywalker was refreshing

and although building trust took time, luke advocated for you every chance he could

“y/n knows the empire inside and out. they have training as a pilot, a soldier, a leader. you can’t go wrong with them” -luke

“y/n was complicit in the destruction of alderaan and countless other planets. billions murdered without so much as a warning. gone. like that” -mon mothma

“if i may, considering it is my people’s demise you are invoking—y/n has made their choice to join the rebellion. shed their imperial image and trained as a jedi with luke. we are lucky to have someone so well-versed in the ways of the empire” -leia

“and you’re comfortable with y/n, the sith raised by darth vader and the empire, to command rebel troops? what if they lead them into a trap?” -mon mothma

“y/n has done nothing since their departure from the empire to invoke such suspicion. i’ve seen nothing but acts of remorse and kindness as they rebuild their image” -leia

you couldn’t figure out why leia was so kind to you. you felt guilty about the destruction of her planet

but she blamed vader. she didn’t blame you as you were just a pawn in a sick game

the battle of endor was fought while you and luke handled vader and palpatine

“are you ready, brother?” -you, grabbing his hand

“i am glad to have you by my side” -luke

palpatine laughed in your face

“six months away from the empire and you’re already claiming to be a jedi? hah! you have years of darkness inside of you, i was ready to make you my new protégé. it is a shame, you’d be a good one” -palpatine

you, luke, and vader fought together to vanquish him, and as you watched your father die, you knew he did everything he could to protect you in this life

“y/n. seeing you as a jedi…has been the most fulfilling part of my life. luke, thank you for guiding them where they should have always been” -anakin

as the rebels won the war, you went back to the forest moon of endor, where luke informed you of something he had been waiting to tell you for some time

“obi-wan told me something, it feels like a miracle, really” -luke

“well, spit it out, already!” -you

“we’re triplets” -luke

“we have another sibling?” -you

“leia is our sister” -luke

it felt like everything clicked at that very moment. a sister. you three were connected from the beginning

you soon hugged leia and delivered the news with luke

a family reunion years in the making

after the events of the war died down and the galaxy began to rebuild, you decided you needed to atone for your sins

do some good on your own

“don’t hesitate to call. we’re just a hologram away” -leia

“thank you for being there for me. and believing in me. i wouldn’t be here you without you guys” -you

taglist: @locke-writes // @captainshazamerica // @gabile18 // @sweetjedi // @summersimmerus // @lady-violet // @simp-legend //

[dunbarx]

i just realised that the next time leia sees obi-wan he gets killed and i am not well.

[dunbarx]

Hi, I love your writing so much!! ❤ If you're still writing the drabbles, can I request #2 with Doctor Doom?

Thank you, dear.

A small, fleeting kiss - which is immediately followed by a passionate, hungry kiss.

It was a startling view. Victor never stayed in bed past sunrise, he always had things to do and plans to put in motion. Naturally, you assumed he was feeling unwell.

Sitting up silently, slowly to not wake him up, you leaned over his face. The back of your hand merely brushed his forehead — he didn’t have a fever, his face was dry and cool.

His eyes fluttered open. You immediately whispered, “sorry for waking you, my love.”

Victor slanted his head in search of your touch. Your thumbs caressed his cheek as you dipped your face, closer to his. Leaving a small kiss on his lips, you slowly withdrew your hands by dropping them to his shoulders first.

He held the back of your head, sitting up to reach for your lips. In contrast to yours, his kiss was hungry, deep, and heavy as his mouth swallowed your surprised gasp. Your hands went to his hair where your finger tangled, his unoccupied palm gripped your waist, desperate to have you flush against him.

Succeeding at pulling you on top of him, victor explored your mouth with his tongue. Hot puffs of air escaped his nostrils but didn’t give in to the need of taking a breath, the passion flowing through his veins was more important, kissing you was better than air anyway.

Turning your head sideways so you could get some oxygen, you asked in a pant, “don’t you have things to do?”

“Yes,” he admitted, rolling you both over. On top of you, he hid his face on your neck. “You,” he mouthed on your skin.

[dunbarx]

this is just for and by the girlies

[dunbarx]

LITTLE MATCHMAKER

inspired by a convo with @robinvomit <3 also tagging my pookie @iydiamartinx

pairing: roy harper x fem! popstar! reader

summary: his daughter’s your biggest fan, so when she begs for VIP tickets, how can he say no?

a/n: edited while i was hungover, so errors potentially abound.

He’d meant to at least look you up before the concert, really he had, but then life and vigilantism had gotten in the way, and well… he’d forgotten. A lapse in judgment he was currently cursing out his past self for, maybe if he had, then he wouldn’t have been caught gawking like an idiot because you were fucking stunning. 

Truth be told, Roy hadn’t even known who you were when Lian had slid her piggy bank towards him, puppy dog eyes on full display as she begged him to buy her tickets to your concert with the money she’d been saving up. 

Roy didn’t have the heart to tell Lian that her measly allowance savings couldn’t even begin to cover a fraction of a single one of your tickets when he’d looked you up. Nor would he have used it anyway, not when Oliver was going to be footing the bill for VIP tickets. 

Now, standing at the front of the barricade, closer to the stage than anyone else, Roy thinks he would have killed a man to obtain tickets if the old man had failed in his grandfatherly duty. 

He’s entranced, watching you dance around the stage gracefully, barely even noticing Lian joyfully screaming along lyrics right in his ear. The crowd was electric, bopping and singing along, phones up and filming to show off to all the unlucky sods that didn’t snag tickets of their own, even Ollie and Dinah are dancing to the beat.

Roy drowns it all out in favour of drinking in every little detail of your visage as best he can, from your thighs to your pretty lips as they form shapes that send his mind to less than holy places. Fuck, even the way you drank water was stupidly sexy.

Yet it all paled in comparison to when you walked across the stage, crouching down at the edge just a few meters away from his family’s location and smiled down at a Lian who was vibrating with excitement. 

“Hello, and who might you be?” 

His daughter squeals, squirming in his arms, “Lian.” She shyly answers, half burying her face in his neck. 

You have to hold back an audible coo at the adorable behaviour, the audience, able to see what’s happening on the large monitors and hear with the microphone one of the security guards had handed Roy to hold, let out a collective “awwww.”

“How old are you, Lian?”

“I’m six!” She exclaims, throwing out both hands to hold up her fingers and nearly elbowing Roy in the face, evidently having regained some confidence.

“Six!” You gasp, unable to stop your beaming smile, “Wow! And who’s that with you?” You only allow yourself a few seconds to glance over the man holding onto the cutest little girl you’d ever seen; he was incredibly handsome, and just the sort of distraction you didn’t need. 

“This is my daddy, and my grandpa Ollie and gramma Di,” Lian exclaimed, in one breath, kicking her little legs out as she reached for the microphone in Roy’s hand, letting him readjust his grip on her squirming self. Your eyes briefly dart over to the older blonde couple before they unconsciously flicker back to Lian’s father. 

Daddy indeed. You think to yourself, biting your lip to prevent anything inappropriate from slipping out. It hadn’t escaped your notice that he’d been holding his daughter up for most of the show, and while she was on the smaller side, it was still an impressive display of strength. 

You can’t help but wonder what it’d be like if he used that strength to—

“Um,” Lian’s little voice rang out again, amplified through the microphone for all to hear, “My daddy thinks you’re really pretty, can you be his girlfriend?”

You let out a startled bark of laughter before you could compose yourself, eyes darting from the adorable little princess back to her mortified father. 

“Lian!” he sputters, cheeks turning nearly as red as his hair in a pretty blush. 

The crowd’s screams have reached a crescendo, and you’re sure you hear a few people yell at you to say yes. Though that might have just been the blonde man with the goatee. 

You stammer a little, trying to formulate a response that won’t embarrass you in front of thousands of people. “I’m flattered, little lady, but I think that’s the kind of question your daddy will have to ask me himself.” Winking, you stand as the audience screams again, quickly motioning for the sound techs to start the next track. 

You try your best to get on with the rest of the show unhindered, but your eyes keep darting back to the father-daughter duo so much that you nearly slip and fall off the stage at one point. Thankfully, your set had nearly been over, and with a few more songs, you were waving goodbye and blowing kisses to the audience.

It hadn’t escaped your notice where Lian and her father had been standing, and for once, you were alight with nerves, anxiety bubbling low in your stomach at the prospect of meeting them up close, without a barricade and stage between you. 

As soon as the door opens, Lian is running towards you on her little legs, a beaming grin on her face as her dad yells at her to slow down exasperatedly. You simply laugh, kneeling to meet her in a hug. She’s even cuter up close, and her excitement is contagious. Normally, you’d have to put on at least a little bit of the bubbly pop star persona, but Lian has you smiling genuinely. 

“She’s fine.” You wave off the man’s concern as you stand, still holding Lian in your arms and causing the girl to let out another joyful peal of giggles. 

Roy absorbs the way you hold Lian with ease, slotting her against your hip as if it were natural, as if Lian belonged there. You’re listening attentively, nodding along and looking genuinely interested in everything his daughter has to say. 

After hours of singing and dancing to complicated choreographies, you had to be exhausted, yet here you were, eagerly interacting with an excitable six-year-old with ease. God, you were practically perfect.

Your smile is softer, less performative, if he had to pick a word. Roy would know; he’s always been an expert on crafting and maintaining a persona. It’s almost… domestic, fuelling a fantasy he really can’t afford to have. 

It’s suddenly quiet, and Roy realises with an embarrassed start that you’re staring at him expectantly. “Hi, I’m um Roy… my daughter’s a big fan.” He trails off, entirely at a loss for words. It’s a good thing Jason wasn’t here; he’d never let Roy live this down. 

“Nice to… meet you, Roy.” You stutter, trying to prevent your eyes from widening at the sight of him up close, your mouth suddenly very dry because holy fucking arms. 

Whatever clever quip you were going to form dies an instant death as your traitorous eyes trace the details of his tattoos, lingering on a prominent vein before darting back up to his freckled face. Suddenly, Lian’s earlier proposition on behalf of her dad doesn’t seem too outlandish. 

Your teeth dig into your lower lip contemplatively, Roy’s eyes follow the movement, and it’s enough to give you that final confidence boost.

“I’m in town for a few days. How would you feel about getting dinner?” It’s impulsive and probably really stupid. He could be a serial killer for all you know, but his daughter’s adorable, and well, she’d been the one to bring it up in the first place. 

When he doesn’t answer, you start to panic a little, trying to backtrack, wondering if you’d read him all wrong, “Lian can come too, of course.”

At the mention of her name, the little girl perks up, turning to look at Roy with puppy eyes so deadly they should be illegal. “Please, daddy, please?”

Roy, meanwhile, can’t believe his ears. Had you just asked him out? You, an internationally renowned popstar, had asked him out to dinner? Not only that, but you’d thought to extend the invitation to his daughter, too; women weren’t usually so keen on him once they discovered he was a father. 

“I… uh, dinner sounds great!” He tries to seem nonchalant, but to his seemingly never-ending horror, his voice cracks a little. 

“Great.” You repeat, smiling so wide your cheeks are starting to hurt. 

“Yay!” Lian cheers, shattering the moment and forcing you and Roy to break eye contact abruptly, looking toward the excited little girl who's looking between you and Roy like Christmas had come early. 

Your heart melts just that little bit further, and suddenly your impulsive decision holds a very real weight. Roy likely realises the same thing as you and reaches a hand up to ruffle Lian’s hair whilst maintaining a casual tone. “Slow down, princess, I’m going on a date, not getting married. Well, not yet anyway.” He cheekily tacks on, sending you a wink that has your heart skipping a few beats. 

“I think it’s your turn to slow down there, Mr…” you trail off, realising you don’t even know his last name. 

“Harper.” he reaches a hand out to shake your hand, only to take you by surprise when he suddenly kisses the back of your palm.  

Harper. You suppose there were worse future last names to have. 

The thought should have startled you, but as you watch Roy and Lian interact, you’re mind’s already made up. Looks like you’re going to be sticking around for the foreseeable future. 

But first, a date.

[dunbarx]

want you to stay - peter parker

summary: peter is absolutely appalled when he sees you beginning to leave the party when his frat brother yells "if you're not a brother or fucking a brother, get out!" wc: 2.1k+ a/n: new au :))

It was getting late.

Not in the sense that you were tired, but you’d had your fun with your friends, all of whom were ready to leave, and the one person you were here to see kept on disappearing from your sight. You didn’t want to follow Peter around like a clingy situationship, so you focused on making the most of the party with the friends you had come with. But the boy dipped in and out of the house, switching between wrecking havoc with his friends and finding you inside.

Peter had stolen you away from your friends for a dance, pressing you up against him and moving his hips with yours. You had felt his smile against the skin of your neck, pressing the occasional kiss as you sang along to lyrics of the deafening music playing. You had spun in Peter’s hold, slinging your arms over his shoulders. Peter had leaned his head down, his nose brushing against yours, lips hovering over yours. Your breath had hitched then, and Peter had smiled widely, chuckling at your reaction, as though you’d never kissed before.

“Give me a kiss.” He had whispered, and you didn’t know how you heard him over all the noise in the house. Perhaps you had just read his lips and hoped he had said what you wanted to hear. But you pushed yourself up on your toes anyway and kissed him anyway. Peter’s hands came up to cup your cheeks, and just as you pulled tilted your head to deepen the passionate kiss, he had jumped away from you.

Blinking quickly, you took in the sight of one of Peter’s frat brothers, tightly clutching Peter’s shoulders. You hadn’t heard what he had said, but Peter had ducked his face down shyly, a hand trailing down to your waist as his friend continued speaking loudly to him. Peter tugged you closer to him, telling you “I’ll be back!” But he never returned.

Now, you were huddled with your friends in a corner, discussing the plans to return to one of your dorms and debrief the night. Luckily though, you didn’t have to discuss the situation any further, because suddenly, the music cut out and someone clambered on to a coffee table.

“Everybody listen up! If you’re not a brother, or fucking a brother, GET OUT!”

Your friends scoffed, and you could nearly hear the roll of their eyes. “Let’s go.” You told them, nodding towards the door. You took the hand offered to you, following the crowd out of the house. But as you approached the door, a hand curled around the wrist of your free arm, softly pulling to attract your attention.

Peter stood in the midst of the crowd, a confused look on his face. You felt your friends’s eyes on the two of you, exchanging glances behind your back. “Hey, where are you going?” Peter’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, the confusion clear on his face. Clearing your throat, you felt your face heat up at his question. Shrugging, you said “I don’t, we were just-“

“Didn’t you hear what he said?”

“I did, yeah. I just, I didn’t…”

Peter shifted his weight from one foot to the other, removing his hand from around your wrist. He swallowed thickly, throat bobbing. “You don’t want to stay?” Your eyes widened as you realised what this looked like; you escaping his party with your friends and averting all his questions.

“No, I-I mean, do you want me to stay?” You hated yourself for how small you sounded — how you were clearly seeking his approval. Peter smiled, nodding assuredly. “Yeah, I do. I want you to stay.” It was impossible for you not to smile at his words, or to feel insecure anymore. Chewing on your bottle lip, you turned over to face your friends, all of whom were expectantly looking at you.

“Okay, have fun.” One of them said, leading the others outside and ditching you with your… Peter. “Come here.” He mumbled, extending an arm towards you. You pushed past the bodies around you until you were close enough for Peter to wrap a muscular arm around your shoulders. He led you towards the emptying living room, keeping his gaze on you. Peter paused in the hallway, looking past you and towards his frat brothers lounged on the couches.

“Do you want to come up to my room? Or stay down here a little?” Wrapping an arm around Peter’s waist, you followed his gaze, eyes widening as the men in the living room broke into another fit of loud laughter. “Can we go to your room?”

“Yeah, of course baby.” You felt your face heat up at the pet name, letting Peter guide you up the set of familiar stairs. His hands lingered on your waist until the door to his room was shut.

“Thank you for letting me stay.” You said, voice quiet as you sat down in Peter’s bed. Peter followed you, standing in front of you. He cupped your cheek, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head. “I wouldn’t want you anywhere else.” You attempted to bow your head down to avoid his gaze, but Peter’s hand was slipping to your chin and pushing your head up. When your eyes met his, he smiled, and you couldn’t help the way your lips tugged upwards in response.

“Do you want to take off your makeup? Matt’s girlfriend basically lives here, so he should have some wipes or something.”

“I don’t want to be a bother.” Peter’s hand dropped from your face and he scoffed disapprovingly, instantly turning around and walking out of the room. He left the door wide open behind him, so you saw as he trotted down the stairs, his shoes padding loudly on the wooden floor. You tapped your fingers on the fabric of your skirt, knee beginning to bounce nervously. When Peter returned up the stairs, he was accompanied by someone – tall with a head of thick black hair. He wore a navy blue polo shirt, and guided Peter into the room directly facing the one you were sat in. Matt lingered in the doorway of his bedroom when Peter returned to his own room, carrying a bottle of micellar water and cotton pads.

Matt caught your eye, putting a hand up and waving animatedly. “Hi y/n.” He said, drawing your name out in a sing song voice. “Hi Matt.” Unlike the other frat brothers, you were a little familiar with Matt, who had met you the very first time you’d entered this house. It was against your free will that you had met, but retrospectively, you were thankful for the familiar face. Peter twisted his torso, frowning at his housemate, who travelled across the hallway in a few steps, leaning against the doorway of Peter’s room. “So…” He started, waggling his eyebrows as he nodded towards Peter.

“Matt, go away, she doesn’t feel like talking to anyone.”

“No, that makes me sound so rude, Peter!”

“No, it’s alright, we get it. We’ll all be here tomorrow morning anyway, if you want to meet the others. Or not the others, just Meg. She really wants to meet you.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be sure to say hi to Megan if I see her.”

“Oh, she’ll make sure you see her tomorrow.”

“Okay, Matt. That’s enough.” Matt rolled his eyes, slapping a hand on the top of the doorway before walking down the stairs. Peter closed the door gently, moving to sit next to you on the bed. “Is this okay?” He asked, presenting you the items in his hands. “It’s more than okay, Pete. Thank you.”

Peter watched silently as you rubbed the cotton pad across your face, makeup smearing on your face. He leaned forward, dragging the trash can from under his bedside table towards you. You dropped the used cotton pads in the bin, running a hand across your face when it was finally clean. It felt odd for some reason – being so domestic with Peter when you were usually in and out of his room after a hook up, or a date that had never been labeled as one. Standing up slowly, you wobbled on your feet, forgetting about the heels you wore. Peter’s hand shot out, steadying your waist. “I’m going to wash my face, if that’s okay.”

Peter nodded, standing up. He kept his eye on you as you walked into the hallway, entering the bathroom. He walked over to his closet to find you a hoodie and sweatpants. When you returned, face still mildly damp and eyes tired, Peter was quick to wrap you in his arms again. He smiled as you melted against him, cheek pressed against his chest. The touch was nice and warm, and had you leaning into his body. “You tired?”

“M’yeah.” Peter chuckled, chest bubbling against your face. He pulled away slightly, but your arms kept him close to you. “Come on, just to get changed then we can cuddle.”

Cuddle. You barely ever cuddled, unless you were watching a movie, which led to inevitable sex. Peter steered you out of your small top and bra, guiding your face into the hole of his hoodie, followed by your arms into the sleeves. You wiggled out of your skirt, shaking your head when Peter offered you his sweatpants. He chuckled, folding them again. “Do you want some water?”

“Yes please. God, I can already feel the headache coming.”

“You sobered up?”

“Yeah. I didn’t get drunk, I think it’s just the noise. How do you feel?”

“Yeah, good. I didn’t drink much either, so I feel sharp.”

You grinned, accepting the metal bottle of water Peter offered you. It had a capital 'P' on the front, and wasn’t completely full, but you took two big gulps from it anyway, then offered it to Peter. “Sharp? Senses acute, Mr. Parker?”

“Yeah, exactly like that.” His smile disappeared behind the rim of the water bottle, and he took a long sip, sighing loudly in satisfaction when he swallowed. You climbed into Peter’s bed, settling under the covers. Peter undressed from his jeans and t-shirt, leaving them in a pile on the floor before reaching for the sweatpants he had just folded. He followed you into the bed, hands finding the curve of your waist and pulling you flush against his bare chest.

“Thank you for staying.” He whispered. You smiled softly, pushing yourself up on the bed so you could press your lips against his. Peter’s eyes fluttered shut as he relaxed into the kiss, pressing himself harder against you. He stroked his fingers against your cheek as his legs tangled with your bare ones under the sheets.

“I’m happy I did.” You finally said, settling back down on the pillow. Peter sighed, breaking eye contact for a brief moment and opening his mouth, as though to say something, then closing it again. “What’s wrong?”

Peter’s gaze snapped back up, and his mouth dipped open again, though no words came out. He looked around, gathering his thoughts before finally saying “I’ve really been enjoying our time together.” You froze, eyes hardening as you pushed yourself to sit up, the cautious tone Peter was using sending you into a panic. Peter followed your movements, twiddling with his thumbs as he continued, “But I don’t- I think we could, I could enjoy it more if I really understood the nature of our relationship.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, scanning Peter’s posture. His shoulders were slightly hunched, nerves clouding his eyes as he gathered his thoughts. “Pete? I don’t… I don’t understand.”

“Would you like to be my girlfriend? Officially?”

“Oh!” Peter’s chest deflated at your quiet gasp, and he nodded, as though you’d already rejected him. You reached out to place a hand on his thigh, attracting his gaze back up to your face. “Peter, I’d love to.”

“You would?” Peter grinned widely, a relieved sigh leaving him as you nodded, shuffling closer to him on the bed. Peter licked his lips, cupping your cheeks and leaning forward to kiss you quickly. You giggled, launching yourself onto Peter to hug him, arms settling around his waist. Peter laughed, kissing the top of your head and he laid back down on the bed. The room was silent for a long moment, the two of you holding each other lovingly.

“Do you want me to turn off the lights?” He asked quietly, but you shook your head softly. “I’m not really tired anymore.”

“Oh... Do you want to kiss for a little bit?

“Yeah.”

taglist: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @bxuzi, @rory-cakes, @dlljdhsh, @aouoo, @fandomhoe101

[dunbarx]

sometimes home is a person team - bob reynolds x witch!reader

ᯓ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 bob reynolds x witch!reader / thunderbolts x witch!reader / protective!john walker x witch!reader

ᯓ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 On a mission gone wrong, the reader shows just how powerful — and dangerous — her blue magic can be. But when a flicker of the Void triggers a traumatic memory, everything spirals. Bob tries to protect her, but she pulls away, hurt and overwhelmed. As the team searches the tower, it’s John who finds her — quiet, shaken, and hiding in his room. He says nothing, just sits with her as she finally rests. But the distance between her and Bob is growing… and the Void is no longer just in her head.

ᯓ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 Action · Angst · Found Family · Supernatural · Hurt/Comfort

ᯓ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 PTSD flashbacks, implied past abuse and assault (non-graphic), dissociation, panic attack, violence, emotional trauma, memory manipulation, and brief depictions of death/injury during combat.

♪ “ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ, ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ꜱᴄᴀʀɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ” — ʜᴀʟꜱᴇʏ “ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ”

✦•················•✦•················•✦•················•✦•················•✦

The facility was rotting at the seams, half-sunk into the wet dirt of a forest that hadn’t seen daylight in days. The concrete walls were cracked and moss-eaten, but the energy thrumming beneath the surface wasn’t dead. It was waiting.

The team moved in a loose wedge formation through the first chamber, boots crunching over old debris. Bob stayed near her side, silent, his gold-and-blue Sentry suit humming faintly under the weight of his calm restraint. He hadn’t activated yet, but the way his jaw was locked — he was ready.

She felt the hum first — in her stomach, in her ribs, under her skin.

The hallway ahead flickered with movement.

Ava called out, “Movement left!”

And it was like a wire snapped.

Doors burst open, and figures poured out — modified, armored, not fully human. The air shimmered around them like heat waves, and in that moment, she stopped thinking and acted.

Her hands rose and in an instant, her power bloomed — soft and cold, a luminous blue that lit the entire corridor. It wasn’t unstable like before. Not wild. It moved with her.

One gesture and the air crackled. A surge of power launched forward, threads of glowing magic lashing through the enemy front like silk knives. They staggered, lifted from the ground, tossed back like leaves in a storm.

A hand reached for Yelena — she flicked her fingers and blue magic coiled around the attacker’s wrist, snapping it backward. Another figure tried to vanish into a shadow-step — she closed her fist and froze him mid-phase, then shattered him into ash with a sweep of her arm.

Walker stood frozen for a second as one of the supersoldiers sprinted toward him — and before he could even block, her glowing tether wrapped around the target’s neck and yanked them into a wall so hard the concrete cracked.

“Jesus,” he muttered, staring at her. “You’re terrifying.”

She said nothing. Just floated forward, blue light curling behind her like smoke.

In seconds, it was over.

The hallway was a ruin of sparks and groans. The team regrouped quickly. Ava gave her a quiet nod. Yelena touched her shoulder, light and brief. She didn’t flinch.

Bob watched her for a long second, something unreadable in his expression.

She looked away.

⸻

The deeper they moved, the colder it got.

Her magic buzzed faintly in her palms, like it was warning her. Tasting the air. Her boots scuffed against the concrete as she trailed behind Bob, every nerve wired, her eyes scanning the shadows.

When they split up again, she and Bob took the north corridor. His presence was a calm anchor beside her, the edge of his golden cape brushing her arm as they turned a corner.

That’s when she heard the first whisper.

Not a voice — more like a vibration.

The air changed.

She raised her hand slowly, and Bob paused, instantly catching the shift in her energy. Her palm lit with blue light, soft and haunting, casting both their faces in ghostly color. He nodded once — go ahead.

The ambush hit like thunder.

Dozens of armed figures erupted from false walls and dropped from above, perfectly coordinated. Bob shoved in front of her, light starting to crackle off his suit. But before he could do anything — she stepped past him.

And unleashed it.

A cyclone of blue erupted from her outstretched arms — magic that sang, that screamed, that bent the air. She lifted her arms and the power obeyed, ribbons wrapping around enemies mid-sprint and smashing them into opposite walls with bone-snapping force.

Someone drew a blade — she pointed and the weapon dissolved. Another one lunged, and she twisted her wrist — their body froze midair, contorted painfully, and she dropped them like a puppet with cut strings.

Someone grabbed Bob’s cape. She turned her palm outward, a pulse snapped through the hallway, and the attacker simply ceased. Gone.

Bob turned his head, watching her with a kind of awe — not fear, not worry — just quiet reverence.

When the bodies fell silent and the blue light died down, her chest heaved, sweat shining at her temple. She didn’t look at him.

She looked past him.

At the smoke.

It crept along the floor like rot — unnatural, oily, slow. She stared as it began to coil upward into something tall. Something shaped like a man. Blacker than shadow. Empty eyes opened.

She blinked.

And the hallway was gone.

⸻

It was the cold that hit her first.

Then the sting in her wrists, the weight at her ankles, the sound of machines humming overhead. The table was real. The straps were back. The room was white — too white — and voices droned behind the glass.

“She’s plateauing. Hit her harder.”

“Pain responses are inconsistent. Try breaking her rhythm.”

Gloved hands. Force. Pressure.

A face she couldn’t see. A name they stripped from her.

“Stop—!” she tried to scream, but nothing came out.

They were everywhere. Inside her head. Inside her body.

Her blue magic sparked — flickering, confused — but she couldn’t grab it.

The panic rose so fast it drowned her.

Then hands touched her — warm, firm, steady.

A voice: “Hey. I’ve got you. You’re not there.”

She choked in air and opened her eyes — her face was pressed to Bob’s chest, his arms around her, shielding her with everything he had. She trembled in his grip, breath catching.

Behind him, in the memory, the Void watched.

Bob turned his head and glared at it.

Gold light erupted from behind him, burning into the scene like a new sun, and everything shattered. The sentry protecting the girl.

⸻

They landed back in the real hallway.

Smoke curled from the floor. Bob’s cape was still around her shoulders. She was shaking, wide-eyed, heart racing.

He held her carefully.

“You said it wouldn’t reach me,” she whispered.

“It didn’t. It was a memory—”

“But it saw me.”

Bob’s face crumbled. “I didn’t know—”

“You should have.” Her voice cracked. “You should’ve protected me from that.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it.

She stepped out of his arms.

The others had arrived. Their faces twisted in worry, but she didn’t want to be touched. Didn’t want to hear anyone.

She walked past them, past Bob, straight to the jet.

⸻

She didn’t speak once on the flight.

Bob sat across from her, staring but silent. His hands were in his lap, still dusted in ash. She curled into herself like the blue glow might never come back.

He wanted to cross the cabin. But she looked like she’d vanish if he tried.

When the jet landed, she was gone before the door finished lowering.

He followed her, jogging down the corridor. “Please—just tell me what you need. Please.”

She turned the corner and didn’t look back.

⸻

He searched for an hour.

His Their room first . The rooftop. The balcony near the archives. The lower gym, the kitchens, the lab storage where she once curled up on a crate when overwhelmed. He checked the garden Yelena kept alive, even though she didn’t go there much anymore.

Nothing.

His voice cracked when he told the others: “She’s not anywhere.”

Yelena’s face turned pale. Ava nodded once and darted off. Alexei muttered something about the vents and disappeared.

Bob just… stood.

Then his phone buzzed.

John: Found her. She’s safe. Let her be for now.

⸻

John sat quietly in the corner of his room.

She was on the floor, his oldest hoodie wrapped around her, sleeves pulled over her fists. One of his medals — scratched, chipped — was in her hands, like it was keeping her tethered to this moment.

He didn’t ask how she got there.

Didn’t speak.

He just sat. Back to the wall. Quiet.

Five minutes passed.

Ten.

Then — without looking — she shifted sideways, leaned into his shoulder, and rested her head there. Her body was still tense, but her breathing eased.

John didn’t move.

She fell asleep.

And he stayed like that. Not as a soldier. Not as a teammate.

Just as someone who understood what it meant to sit with the weight of too much pain.

[dunbarx]

Yeah y’all better keep writing them thunderbolts x reader fics

[dunbarx]