#aspiring thanatologist writes

[the-sound-of-her-wings]

hi! can i please request a kaz brekker x reader fic based off of episode 5 of season 2 (despise your heart)? when kaz panics in the market reader finds him and takes him somehwere safe and gives him his gloves, and in that moment kaz kinda of realizes how he feels about the reader. and then the poison fog the reader hallucinates about kaz and him finally making physical contact and giving her love and she thinks it’s real until someone shoves the antidote in her mouth, once she regains consciousness she rushes over to help kaz and kaz sees her pulling him out of the water and the readers just sitting there holding his face and anything else you wanna add !

if it’s a little complicated i understand, thank you have a great day :))

You were always in plain sight

❀ Word Count: 2,145 ❀ CW: Panic Attack, Discussions of Trauma, Pining, Admissions ❀ A/N: Added a few more scenes than requested. I hope you enjoy!

He’s going to panic, you think to yourself. 

In fact, his body was already panicking, even if he wasn’t. Nina is too focused on the target's heart rate to notice, but Kaz’s heart rate has been slowly increasing ever since he took off the gloves.

You watch as the woman they were meeting with gets up, and Kaz goes to follow. Unfortunately, another woman immediately runs into him, spilling tea all over the front of him, and definitely accidentally touching him.

“Give me his gloves,” You whisper to Inej.

She hands them over silently. You put on your own set of gloves, a pair you keep on you in the event something like this happens. 

Nina places her hand on top of Kaz’ and you watch the life drain from his face. And then he’s running.

“You follow the target. I’ve got him.” You say. 

It doesn’t take you long to catch up to him, but by then he’s already completely disassociated and in complete panic. You take him by the arm, leading him to an empty alley, careful only to touch the clothed parts of his arm. Even with your hands in gloves, you are worried any kind of touch to his exposed hands will send him spiraling further. 

He collapses to the ground in an unceremonious heap. 

“You were supposed to follow her,” He says.

“Inej has it covered.” You reply, sitting down on the opposite side of the alley, a decent distance from him.  

There’s a moment of silence before you add, “Someone had to follow you. You can’t be by yourself when your…” And you don’t know how to finish the sentence. Traumatized? Panicking? Having a PTSD flashback to an event you refuse to discuss with anyone? “...like this.” 

It pains you to see him so deep in his own pain, so desperate to keep other people out of it. To keep you out of it. You place his gloves close to him, but far enough away that it doesn’t look like you’re trying to touch him.

He notices your gloves, “When did you-?”

“A while ago. There just in case-” And you cut yourself off with a sigh. In case this happened. “Do you want me to stay?”

Yes? Kaz thinks, but he’s still panicking too much to say anything. In fact, the thought sends him into even more of a panic, because he’s not ever had a thought like that before. 

“I’ll be on the other side of the alley. We’ll regroup once you’ve had a chance to calm down.” You say, leaving him to decompress.

XXXXX

“Nina wants an explanation,” Inej tells you as you watch over Kaz from a distance. He’s finally come out of the worst of it and is now trying to act like nothing happened. It’s a behavior that you simply have never gotten used to, despite years by his side. 

“Then tell her the truth.” You say.

“Which is?” Inej asks. She sometimes thinks you know more than she does, but that’s not really true. You both know exactly the same thing about Kaz- which is that Pekka Rollins killed his brother and that he absolutely cannot stand another person’s touch. 

“He had a panic attack.” You reply. “She’s not going to tell the others, is she?” 

“No. But I think Jesper should know. He hates it when we leave him out of the loop.” Inej states. 

“I think I’m going to try to talk to him this time. See what else is going on.” You say, watching as Kaz sits down, clearly deep in thought. 

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” 

“I didn’t think you’d be happy about that idea.” You say, cleaning the dirt from under your nails.

“He will open up when he’s ready.” Inej tries to reassure you.

“We both know he’d never be that vulnerable.”

“Then why ask?” She asks.

So I know how to fix it. 

“Let’s just get this over with, shall we? The world isn’t going to save itself.” You state, heading towards Kaz and the rest of the group to figure out the plan. Maybe you’ll ask him once all of this over.

XXXXX

“We should talk about what happened in the market.” You say, sitting on his desk. 

“Must we?” Kaz replies, lowering the newspaper he had been reading to meet your gaze.

“Yes.”

He set the paper aside, making his way over to you. He towers over you in a way he’s never done before, closer than he’s ever been. “What do you want to know?” 

“I want to know what happened.” 

“You saw what happened,” He says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I want to know why, Kaz.” You respond. 

“Why?” He retorts. Is he flirting with you or just trying to get under your skin?

“I want to fix it. Or prevent it or- I don’t know! I just. I never want to see you like that again. I don’t want to see you suffer.” 

“It won’t happen again,” He reassures you, a gloved hand coming up to caress your face. You block it with the back of your forearm.

“Won’t it? Jesper told me what happened when you got thrown in that cart together. I watched as you tried not to panic while helping Inej clean her wounds. Do you think I can’t sense your heart rate when people get too close to you? That I don’t know exactly how your body reacts? Who hurt you so badly that you can’t even be physically near another person without wanting to vomit?” You ramble, letting out all of the questions and feelings you’ve been holding inside for all of these years.

“Pekka Rollins” He replies, the answer he gave you before. It’s always been the answer, and in some ways, it really is the truth. 

“Kaz… I just want you to let me in. You carry so much inside of you that you let nobody see. But I want to see it… I want to understand.” You say, and you want to reach out and hug him but you know he can’t receive that kind of affection. 

But then he does something you aren’t excepting. Slowly, he begins to remove his gloves. He sets them on the fireplace, one by one. One of his ungloved hands traces its way up the side of your neck and rests on your cheek. You gasp at his touch. 

And then you are staring into each other’s eyes, into each other’s souls. Like you’ve always seen each other- like you’ve always known. Kaz plays his cards close to his chest, but you don’t. Nina has teased you for it relentlessly.

When he kisses you, you can’t believe this is happening. It’s perfect. These are things he would only do in dreams. These are things he would only say in dreams. These are…

“This is a dream,” Kaz tells you, or rather, the Kaz of your imagination tells you as he ends the kiss.

“I know” You reply, opening your eyes.

You see Inej hunched over you and taste something disgusting in your mouth. 

“We were poisoned. Go to the door- Wylan will give you another antidote.” She says before leaving to go wake up Jesper.

You crawl your way to the door, still feeling the lingering effects of the poison. “Wylan. Antidote?” You croak.

Once you are given the butterfly, you make your way over to Kaz, the only person still under the effects of the poison. 

XXXXX

Kaz is confused. He wakes up, back on that mountain of bodies in the river, but his brother is alive.

“Jordie?” He asks, confused.

His brother stares at him, full of rage. Without a word, he begins to drown him. Just when Kaz has almost lost all of his oxygen, his brother pulls him back out from under the water.

“Who are you without your vengeance?” Jordie yells. 

“Kaz. Wake up” You say, one gloved hand cupping the side of his face, the other moving his jaw to try to force him to chew. He can’t hear you.

“What is the worth of life if you have no one left to fight for?” Jordie asks, before plunging him under the water again. 

“Kaz” You repeat, and he hears you this time. “You’re going to be alright” 

You come into focus in a water gaze, the remnants of the poison still giving a dreamlike quality. It takes him a few moments to realize that it’s no longer a hallucination and that both of your hands are on his face. Gloved hands.

You pull your hands away from his face as soon as you see him come out of it. 

“Sorry,” You say. 

You don’t have to apologize, he thinks. 

XXXXX

“Kaz, a word?” You say, wanting to get him alone. You’ve obtained the Neshyenyer and are getting ready to head to East Ravka. 

He nods in acknowledgment while the others in the room make no effort to leave.

“Alone.” You add, so the others get the picture. 

Everyone exchanges suspicious glances with one another except Kaz, who is only looking at you. Nina winks as she passes you on her way out of the room. You resist the urge to roll your eyes. 

You position yourself by the door, a good five feet away from him, in order to respect his boundaries. The boundaries that you’ve consistently had to cross recently to protect him.

“What do you need?” He asks. 

“Are you okay?” You ask. 

Of course he isn’t, but you want him to admit that. You suspect he’ll respond with something defensive, something clever, something like “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” or “Why does it matter?” or “We have a job to do”. For it to be like the dream. 

“Are you?” He responds.

“No. And I’m getting a little tired of pretending I am.” You answer honestly. The difference between you, and all the other crows, and hell, everyone else that you interact with, is that you aren’t emotionally repressed. You don’t hide it under a sense of revenge, don’t mask it with a face of no emotion, and don’t keep your true thoughts and feelings hidden under a veil of humor. He told you it was a weakness, once. 

“You’re still wearing the gloves.” He comments.

You glance down at your gloved hands and then back at him. “So I am.”

“You don’t have to do that for me.” You don’t have to do anything for me, He thinks. 

“I know.” You say, “I just don’t want to hurt you.” 

There is a long silence as you look at each other, not really sure what to say.

“I wanted you to stay,” He states, looking away from you. Almost as if he’s ashamed that he’s allowing himself to be this vulnerable. “When you asked me in the alley… I wanted you to stay.”

You feel your breath catch in your throat at the admission. Maybe the poison-induced hallucination wasn’t too farfetched after all. 

“I’ll stay.” You take a step towards him, still unsure of his boundaries. Still unsure how close or far you can get without causing him pain. 

“Will you tell me why?” You ask. I can’t help you through something when I don’t know why it causes you pain.

“I don’t know if I can,” It’s the first genuine answer you’ve gotten out of him in a long time. 

“When we were poisoned I- you were in my hallucination,” You admit, taking a few more steps closer to him.  

“What happened in your hallucination?” He asks. Throughout this, he’s made no effort to move from his seat at the table, but his heartbeat has become steadily faster, stronger. 

“I was angry at you- but you seemed to understand why. And you took your gloves off and touched me and- that’s how I knew it wasn’t real.” You reply. “What did you hallucinate?” You add, not wanting him to ruminate on your confession too long. 

“My brother was drowning me,” He states.

“I’m sorry,” You say, reflexively. 

“He asked me, ‘What is the worth of life if you have no one left to fight for?’ and then I saw you,” You’ve never seen him sheepish before- vulnerability doesn’t exactly suit him. 

“Oh,” You breathe. “So what now?” 

“We go to East Ravka.”

“Right,” You say, trying not to let the disappointment show in your voice. “Time to save the world. Again.” 

“We’re not saving it. We’re just getting paid.” Kaz responds.

You steel yourself, trying not to beat yourself up for thinking you were finally getting somewhere. That this would be anything more than words.

"After. We will discuss us after." He adds, quelling your doubt. "We still have a job to do."

You nod.

"I'm here if you need me." You say, turning to leave.

"I know," Kaz replies.

[the-sound-of-her-wings]

don't stop trying to find me here amidst the chaos

❀ Premise: You get injured on the job and Kaz loses his mind about it. When you are on the mend, both of you learn what it means to start on a journey towards healing ❀ Word Count: 2,338 ❀ Content Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Gore, Blood, & Violence, Kaz beats someone to death with his gloved hands, Infection of A Wound, Hurt/Comfort

It was supposed to be an easy job. Break in, forge some documents, destroy some others, and you're done. It was a trap, but everyone knew that going into it.

Still, you weren’t expecting this much effort to go into killing the crows. You’ve been trying to stay out of the line of fire, aiding the various crows when they call out for help. You’re on your way to helping Inej heal a minor wound when it happens.

You feel the knife before you see it. Of course, target the healer you think to yourself, trying to wrestle your attacker off you before they're able to rip the knife back out of your body. You fail, like you thought you would. A bullet whizzes past your head, hitting your attacker in the head, and killing them instantly.

"You're bleeding?" Jesper yells, as if he's never seen you injured before.

"That tends to happen when you get stabbed!" You yell back.

Another bullet flies past you.

You place your hand over your wound, trying to heal yourself enough to remain useful. Instead, your hand pulls away from your hip covered in blood.

"I need to leave." You say, flashing your bloody hand.

"Y/N! This way, quickly!" Nina yells from behind Jesper.

You stumble forward, trying to keep yourself from falling over. The pain isn't too much, but the blood loss… somebody has to stop the blood loss.

"I've got you," Kaz says, appearing on the side opposite the wound, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Thanks, Kaz" You state.

"There's a safe house nearby," He reassures.

"I know. I've healed you there many times before." You reply.

You make it out of the building, but not before losing at least three pints of blood. You’ve got a headache, and your dizzy, and you’ll probably pass out in a very short amount of time.

“Where did Nina go?” You ask, starting to slow down a little.

“Making sure the safehouse is still safe.” He says.

“Oh. How’d she get that far ahead of us?” You question.

“She’s not bleeding out,” Kaz states.

“Sorry for bleeding out on you,” You say, words starting to slur. You aren’t sure how you’re still walking. “I’ll keep my blood in my body next time.”

“We’re almost there,” Kaz replies, barely managing to stay upright himself, as most of your weight leans against him.

“Quickly!” Nina shouts, urging the both of you into the safe house.

“I think I need to lie down.” You say, slowly collapsing to the floor. Blissful unconsciousness greets you shortly after.

“Brekker, help me get her to the table,” Nina commands.

Kaz is no longer consciously aware of what’s happening around him. He’s able to follow most of Nina’s directions, but he’s not physically there. He’s retreated into his mind, where the emotions begin to fester.

The inside of Kaz’s mind is a series of mazes, locked doors, dead ends, and brick walls. They are defenses he built for himself, to protect him whenever something terrible happened. The more trauma he endured, the more complicated it became for him to express his emotions. And then, one day, the only emotions that he would allow to emerge from his skull were anger and rage.

He looms over your unconscious body, eyes sharp as knives, covered in your blood. If he ever finds the man who did this…

“BREKKER!” Nina shouts, snapping him out of his disassociation. She’s kneeling by your unconscious body, trying her best to seal your wound while being flooded with Kaz’s emotions. “You aren’t helping.” She runs her hand through her hair, frantic. “If you don’t calm down I’m going to have to kick you out of this room. Do you understand?” Your wound is beginning to unseal itself as she loses concentration.

Kaz swallows his emotions, pushing them back into the pit they had suddenly erupted from. “Yes,”

“Good. Now let me focus,” Returning to your wound, she’s able more or less seal it- at least enough that the bleeding stops completely.

Were he a different man, he may have kept vigil over you for the days that followed. Watched over your unconscious body, thinking of all the things he wanted to say to you when you woke up. To apologize for having fell for an obvious trap. Were he another man, he may have dabbed at your head with a cool towel, trying to quell the fever that arose. Held your hand. Prayed for your return. But Kaz was not another man.

He was the Bastard of the Barrel. Dirty Hands. And he was going to kill every single person who had anything to do with that cursed job. At least, he would have, had the other Crows not been there to ground him in reality.

Kaz leaves the safe house, heading straight back into the fight. To be honest, he’s not in much better shape than you, but the adrenaline keeps him upright and the rage keeps him deadly. A bullet lands in a pillar beside him, but he ignores it.

Inej approaches him while he is still beating up the man’s corpse. Everyone who tried to kill them is dead.

He feels a fist land on his back and turns around to meet its owner. And then the rage takes over. Have you ever wondered how many times you have to hit someone before they're dead?

Kaz knows the answer, but he passed that number a very long time ago.

“Kaz,” She says, quietly. She places a hand on his shoulder, but he continues.

“I think he’s dead,” Jesper deadpans.

Slowly, the punches start to slow down, until he finally stops. He stands up, shakily, absolutely covered in blood from head to toe. He is still too angry to notice that he’d been crying. Jesper and Inej notice, but say nothing.

“Let’s go,” Inej says, handing Kaz his cane.

Nina is sitting with a cup of tea when they arrive back at the safe house, staring deeply into the cup.

“How is she?” Jesper asks.

“She’ll live, most likely,” Nina replies, glancing towards the group. Her eyes narrow as she sees Kaz covered in more blood than he left with. “It’ll be a while before she recovers.”

“We should plan our next move,” Kaz states, though he really means he should plan their next move. Which is revenge, of course.

“It should start with changing your clothes.” Nina retorts.

Kaz gives Nina a look.

“Don’t you look at me like that when I just saved the person you love,” Nina hisses, letting go of her cup of tea and slapping her hands against the table. It rattles, splashing some of the tea. “You know she wouldn’t want to see you like this,” She mutters, returning to her tea.

“I think washing up’s a good idea. Anybody disagree?” Jesper asks the room of severally traumatized people trying desperately to not let their emotions take over.

He does not get a response. Instead, the crows each find themselves going separate ways within the house, giving each other time to process what has just occurred.

XXXXX

“Kaz?” You ask, barely making out his figure in the dark room.

“I’ll go get Nina-” He says, standing up.

“No- stay. Please.” You plead.

He sits back down in the chair at the far end of the room.

“Come closer,” You beckon.

He moves to the chair beside your bed- the one the others had been taking turns using. The one Jesper sat in, recounting his day, pretending like you were awake. The one Nina sat in while she re-examined her work, taking the bandages on and off a wound that shouldn’t still be leaking. The one Inej sat in, drip-feeding you water so you didn’t dehydrate while you slept. Each of them had their own little task, their thing they did to make them feel like they were helping you heal.

Kaz just stared at you from afar, terrified. He knows what dead people look like- what they feel like- and for a while, you didn’t look much better than them. Tonight is the first time he’s ever sat in this chair. The first time he’s felt safe enough to do so since you got stabbed.

“Can you check the wound?” You ask. “I’m not strong enough to take off the bandages…”

“Are you sure you don’t want Nina?” He replies, already slowly peeling the covers off your body.

“So she can make it worse? No. I don’t need Nina for this.” You respond.

Hearing you quip again makes him feel better. The fact he has to touch your skin to take the bandages off, however, is a different kind of battle. The gloves are there as protection, as they always are, but he worries they aren’t enough.

“Kaz” You breathe.

“Y/N?”

“Deep breaths. In for five, hold for three, out for five.” You coach.

He nods. In for five, hold for three, out for five.

The first layer of bandage is off, still a pristine white.

In for five, hold for three, out for five.

A light pink and yellow mixture lightly coats this layer.

In for five, hold for three, out-

“Kaz? What is it?” You ask.

He could vomit- he might, even. This last layer of bandages is almost soaked, with a yellowish outline surrounding a red center.

“I knew I had an infection,” You say with a weak sigh.

He looks away as he peels this last layer off, trying to pretend he didn’t see it at all. Your skin is raw, irritated, and angry. It hasn’t gotten enough air.

“Is there puss?” You ask.

“Yes,” Kaz replies, trying to look anywhere but at the wound.

“Of course. Go get Inej. We’re going to need someone with a strong stomach.”

He nods and gets up to leave.

“And do me a favor- wash your gloves. There should be another pair in the cupboard.” You call after him.

As he comes out of the room, the rest of the crows are waiting.

“She’s awake,” Kaz states, holding the bandages in his hands.

“What did she say?” Jesper asks.

“She needs someone with a strong stomach.” He looks at Inej and cocks his head back toward the door.

“Infection,” Nina states, her lips quirking upward in disappointment.

“You did the best you could,” Jesper tries to reassure. “It was enough to keep her alive.”

“That remains to be seen,” Nina says.

Inej spends the next few minutes making trips in and out of your bedroom, carrying in clean bandages, carrying out bloody clothing, carrying in clean water, carrying out a bucket of- well. Finally, she exits the room for the final time, carrying more used bandages.

“How is she?” Kaz asks.

“Better. She was able to clean up the infection, but it will take her a few days before she gains enough strength to heal her wound completely.” Inej states.

“Did she say anything else?” Nina questions.

“I’m sure you’ll get an earful later, Zenik.” Jesper teases.

“She wanted to see Kaz,” Inej responds. “If you’ve changed your gloves.” She adds.

Kaz nods and enters the room after Inej leaves.

“Hi,” You say, sleepily. Cleaning up the infection took a lot out of you.

“Hi,” He mirrors, sitting in the chair next to your bed.

“Can you give me some water?” You ask.

He nods, bringing the glass up to your lips. You take slow, long sips, trying not to upset your stomach. When you stop taking sips, he pulls the glass away from your mouth.

“How long do you think you’ll need to recover?” He questions.

You laugh, and then you wince, because you really shouldn’t be laughing right now. “About a week. They missed my vital organs. Why do you ask?”

“I need to know how long my healer will be out of commission,” He responds like all you are to him is a means to an end. You would have believed that, once.

“You’ve been crying,” You point out. You don’t point out the new dark circles under his eyes, or how he looks paler than you’ve ever seen him.

“I’ve been sick,” He says, deflecting.

“I will be okay, Kaz. I promise,” You say, wanting to caress his hand. You aren’t strong enough to do it, and the gloves would prevent him from feeling your touch anyway. If he would even allow you to touch his gloved hand.

“Nothing like that will ever happen again,” He says, through gritted teeth.

“You can’t promise that. Not in this line of work.” You reply, searching for answers in his eyes.

“It won’t happen again.” He repeats, and you see the cracks starting to form. “I- I can’t let… I need.. I…you,” He stammers, trying not to cry.

“I’m alive. I’m here.” You say, “Touch me. I’m here,”

Kaz’s breath is shaky as he reaches for your exposed arm. He traces up and down your arm with a gloved finger in slow, repetitive motions.

“That’s it. Now breathe,” You instruct.

His breath slowly begins to stabilize as he breathes in while his finger moves down your arm and out while it moves up. Eventually, he’s calm again, and he works up the courage to lay his hand on top of yours.

“I will heal,” You state. “So- so will you. It’s not going to be easy, and it’s going to take a long time, but… we’ll heal.”

You don’t expect he’ll ever be able to touch someone without that protective barrier- that’s more a part of him now than it is something that needs to be fixed.

“You should rest,” You tell him.

“So should you,” He retorts.

“If you aren’t going to leave, at least take a blanket,” You state, wanting to hit him with a pillow.

It doesn’t take long for both of you to fall asleep. You, safe in your warm bed, healing from a wound that you just received. Him, asleep in a chair, just starting to heal from a childhood full of trauma.

[the-sound-of-her-wings]

We Have the Past to Bury

❀ Premise: A traumatic figure from your past reappears, causing you to reveal yourself as an Inferni to the Crows for the first time. They try to comfort you after you win the fight. Based on this ask. ❀ Pairing: Fem!Inferni!Reader x Kaz Brekker ❀ Word Count: 2,211 ❀ Content Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Nightmare Sequence Involving Fire, Death by Fire, People being burned alive, Angst to Fluff

Everything is on fire. The floor, the ceilings, the walls. You are in the center of it, wailing, trying not to catch fire. You stumble to the floor. A flaming beam falls next to you and you scream. The fire begins to slowly encircle you, growing ever closer. You bury your head in your knees, too scared to move. Suddenly, there is a loud wooshing sound, followed by footsteps.

You hear some adults talking but you don’t recognize their voices.

“It’s okay, little one.” You hear.

You look up and see kind, dark eyes looking into yours. The man has crouched down to your level in order to make you feel comfortable. He holds out his hand to you, and you take it.

You gasp for breath as you awaken from the nightmare. Thankfully, the tent you share with Inej is already empty. You take a few deep breaths to slow down your heart rate before preparing yourself for the day ahead.

“You’re up rather late today, something keeping you awake at night?” Nina asks with a wink and a sly glance at Kaz.

“Just needed more rest,” You lie.

Kaz gives you a look, but you just shake your head. You'll talk about it another time.

“I saved you some breakfast,” Inej says, throwing you an apple.

“Thanks,” You reply, catching it.

“We’ve got one more day of travel until we reach the intercept point,” Kaz states, gesturing to a map laid out on a table in the center of camp.

“You know, it’s a little unfair that we have to travel on foot when Alina gets a horse and carriage,” Jesper comments.

“Horses aren’t good spies,” Matthias retorts without elaborating.

“She needs to be obvious. We don’t,” Nina adds.

“Doesn’t make it any less fair,” Jesper says.

“Wylan, is our path clear?” Kaz asks, ignoring the conversation.

“Kaz…” Wylan says, his binoculars showing the number of troops vastly outnumber their small team, “I think the Darkling’s army took a detour.” He did not pack enough explosives for this.

“He’s here?” You ask, your stomach dropping.

“Does anyone know how to defeat the Darkling without the sun summoner?” Jesper asks.

“We don’t need to defeat him. We just have to stall.” Kaz replies, taking the binoculars from Wylan and taking a look for himself.

“Can we ambush them?” Matthias asks.

“There’s too many,” Kaz says.

“Do they know we’re here?” Inej asks.

“The heartrenders do. There are at least two of them- they appear to be guarding the Darkling,” Nina says.

“Do we have to engage?” You question, swaying back and forth to try and quell your anxiety.

“We don’t have a choice,” Kaz states.

You grip the lighter in your pocket- the lighter they don’t know about- and release it, “Okay,”

It starts with an explosion. Wylan’s able to wipe out about a third of the Darkling’s forces before the battle even really begins. You, Inej, and Matthias all run in ahead of the others. You’re able to take out about ten people on your own with just your knives. Everyone tries to hold their own, but there are too many people.

The Darkling walks toward the group, leisurely. His two heart renders have a hold of the group, attempting to knock everyone unconscious to make them easier to kill.

“Pathetic,” He says.

The others aren’t sure what happens at first. There is a flash of light, so bright, so hot, they're not sure they saw anything at all. When it fades, the two heartrenders are lying on the ground, covered in black soot. You are standing in front of the Darkling, sleeves completely burnt off. You storm towards him, putting up a circle of fire around the perimeter, preventing him from leaving and any of your friends from getting in.

“Y/N!” Kaz yells after you. He backs away from the flames, knowing there’s no way to reach you now.

“Hello, y/n.”

“You do not get to speak to them like that.” You reply, dagger pointing towards him.

“Oh, get rid of that silly thing,” He rips it from your hand with his power. “You’re much more powerful without it.”

“Am I?” You retort, “Or am I just more useful to you like this.”

“You shouldn’t repress your nature. It’s unhealthy,” He says.

“Why are you doing this?”

“They have taken everything from us. They have abused us and used us, and hated us for far too long. The Otkazat'sya deserve nothing.”

“As if you have not used me. As if you did not use Genya. As if you have not sacrificed thousands of us in pursuit of your justice. Can you even call it that, with everything you’ve done?” You taunt, drawing out the lighter you keep in your pocket for emergencies.

“Freedom doesn’t come without sacrifice. Every choice I made was for the betterment of the Grisha.”

“Do not justify yourself to me,” You say, thumb pressed against the lighter, ready to light it at any second. “Do not think you can win me over with your words. Our people have suffered because of you.”

“They would have killed all of us,” The Darkling says. “This is the only way to show them we are stronger. That they should never dare to lay a finger on us.”

“You’ve lived so long and you are still trying to rule with fear. Grisha die every day. They are abused every day. And you think the solution is to make them hate us more?”

“They will hate us regardless.”

“You are a fool, Aleksander,” You say. The world around you erupts in an explosion of flames and darkness. When the dust clears, all that remains are the charred remains of the people you killed.

You put out the ring of fire, and see your friends still fighting. They are holding their own, those left behind being abandoned by their leader, but you don’t care.

The bullet Jesper had intended to kill the person he was fighting melts before it can hit them. The person is also gone, turned into ash. He stares after you when you walk past him, having never seen you do anything like that before.

The Grisha surrounding Nina aren’t as lucky. They erupt into flames, despite a tilemaker being among them. The air is too hot to hold any humidity. You have made the air hostile to water. The Grisha scream in agony, begging you to put out the fire as their flesh becomes rilled with burns- you ignore them.

“Y/N?” Nina calls.

Inej looks up, removing her knife from the last Grisha she had been fighting. She watches as a man tries to attack you, but you simply put up your hand- and then his head is gone. Matthias sees it too. He knows the power you are exhibiting is the reason his culture hates witches. Inej glances back at Nina, Jesper, and Wylan who are staring at you, concerned.

The knife in Kaz’s hand melts as it goes into the skull of the last standing Grisha. His glove catches fire slightly, but you put it out instantly. You do not put out the last Grisha.

“Please… please..” He pleads.

“You were made from dust. Return to it,” You hiss. His ashes float away in the wind.

You offer your hand to Kaz, who stumbled backward once the knife was melted. He takes it, and when he stands, he gets close to your face. You immediately drop his gloved hand and begin walking away. You give yourself a light one more time and scorch the earth behind you with the symbol of the crows.

“We’re done here,” You state, making your way back to camp. Tears begin to roll down your face as you walk.

XXXXX

You stare deeply into the fire, holding your knees to your chest. Inej and Nina sit on either side of you.

“You’ve done that before,” Matthias states, sitting on the opposite side of the fire. Nina shoots him a look.

“Many times.” You reply, “You never get used to the screams.” You feel Inej’s hand on your shoulder, but you are too tired to shrug off her affection. Nina tries to pick the ashes that still remain out of your hair.

“You don’t,” He agrees.

“Do you remember the first person you killed?” You ask.

He nods. They don’t say it, but Nina and Inej remember, too.

“Do you regret it?”

“No. Do you?”

You say nothing, just stare deeper into the fire.

“They would have killed us. It was self-defense.” Matthias replies, unsure of how to comfort you. No one’s really sure how to comfort you, but they are all trying their best.

“I know,” You say.

“Are you sure you don’t want something to eat? Jesper and Wylan made a soup for us,” Nina asks.

“It is edible,” Inej adds. It was distinctly not edible the last time they tried to make something, so you appreciate the addition.

“I’m fine, thank you.” You respond.

“Well, we all know that’s a lie.” Nina retorts. “Eating might make you feel better.”

“It won’t. But you’re right, I should eat.” You relent.

Nina gets up from her seat and pours you a bowl of soup. It is decent.

“Thank you,” You say, partially uncurling from your position to allow you to eat easier.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” Inej asks.

“Not particularly.” You respond.

“Oh, are we wallowing in despair over here?” Jesper asks, mildly drunk, holding a mug of vodka in hand. Wesper is attached to him at the hip, considerably drunker. You reduce the size of the fire just in case one of them might hurt themselves.

“Maybe a little,” You state. “Thank you for the soup.”

“You melted one of my bullets. It was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.” Jesper compliments.

“The wall of fire was pretty cool, too,” Wylan adds.

“Uh- thanks?” You reply.

“I think we should celebrate. You kicked ass today,” Jesper says.

Wylan nods in agreement.

“It wasn’t just me.” You say, reducing your own contributions.

“Then there’s even more reason to celebrate! We sent the Darkling running.” He cheers before taking a big swig.

“There’s always time for a little dancing, isn’t there?” Nina says, smirking at Matthias.

“A drink wouldn’t hurt,” Inej comments, trying to convince herself to participate.

“I think I’ll just get some rest. I’ll celebrate tomorrow,” You state, standing up. You place the bowl on the table and head to your tent, not paying attention to whatever’s going on behind you.

Kaz is waiting for you when you enter. He’s holding all the knives you left in people’s skulls on the battlefield- the one’s that he thought were your only weapon until you started turning people to ash.

“I’m sorry.” You say, reflexively. You’re not really sure what you are apologizing for. Sorry I didn’t tell you I was an inferni this entire time? Sorry I didn’t tell you that I know the Darkling? Sorry I burnt your glove and melted your knife?

“We all have our secrets.” He dismisses. “I wanted to make sure these got back to you.” He says, handing you the knives with the hilt pointed toward you.

“Thank you, Kaz.” You say, putting them in your pocket.

“You haven’t treated your wounds,” He states, noticing cuts and scrapes on your arms and the ash built up around your fingers.

“It’s nothing,” You reply, “Nina took care of the most severe one’s already.”

Kaz glances behind you outside of the tent to see the others dancing with no music. Nina is teaching Matthias how to Waltz, while Wylan and Jesper are taking turns twirling each other. Inej is swaying back and forth, supportively.

“They seem to be in a good mood,” He comments.

“I suppose they’re just happy to be alive.” You state.

You stand in silence, not really sure what you want to say to each other.

“I don’t like using the small sciences.” You say.

“I won’t make you use it,” Kaz replies, even though it’s the wrong option strategically. Everyone saw how powerful you were.

"The Darkling used to make me use them. He used to make me do all sorts of things I didn't want to do. He said they were necessary. He said-" You ramble.

"What he said doesn't matter. You're not under his control anymore. You're not his." Kaz retorts, making a fist.

"He said we were pathetic. And it made me so angry. I don't want to be that angry ever again." You vent, tears in your eyes. "I almost hurt you."

"You didn't." He states.

"But-"

"Y/N, you didn't hurt me. You didn't hurt any of us." Kaz interrupts. He takes both of your hands to try and calm you down.

“I’ll get you another dagger. To replace the one I melted,” You promise as he lets go. You wipe away the tears from your eyes with the back of your hand.

“You’ll need a new dress.” He responds. “You burned the sleeves off of this one.”

“Thank you,” You say.

Kaz nods and walks past you to leave.

“Kaz? Could you stay here tonight?” You ask. “I don’t… I don’t think I want to be alone.”

“Then you won’t be,” He replies.

[the-sound-of-her-wings]

Tomorrow Will Be Kinder

❀ Premise: You have a panic attack. Inej and Kaz comfort you. Based on this ask. ❀ Pairing: GN!Reader x Kaz Brekker, GN!Reader x Inej Ghafa ❀ Word Count: 1,115 ❀ Content Warnings: Description of a panic attack, thunderstorms, fluff

It catches up to all of us, eventually. That overwhelming feeling of dread that you can never quite put your finger on, your mind running endlessly yet producing nothing. Your heart races, your stomach turns- you become completely consumed with your own inner world to the point the one outside of your head doesn’t exist. It squeezes every semblance of coherent thought out of your mind until all that’s left is instinctual fear. 

You sit on the edge of your bed, glancing out the window as the rain beats against it. You can barely make anything out at this time of night, but the occasional strike of lighting shows you that everything is as it should be. So why do you feel like the world is ending? 

You stand, bare feet touching the cold wood floor. It creaks underneath you, adding to your unease. You leave your room, your safe haven, trying to out run something that exists in your mind. 

Standing in the hallway, you feel more at ease. Had you suddenly developed a fear of thunderstorms you hadn’t had before? That seemed unlikely, given the amount you’ve lived through at this point. You stay still for a while, unsure of where to go next. 

Lightning strikes, lighting up the end of the hallway in a brilliant flash. The thunder hits less than a second after, far to close for comfort. You exhale heavily and stumble, completely caught off guard. Your mind is flooded by the same sentence over and over again I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.

A door at the end of the hallway opens, and you look over at it, terrified. 

“Y/N?” Inej asks. “Are you okay?” 

You shake your head no, unable to speak. 

She dashes over to you, though her footsteps make no sound. You feel one of her hands on your back, in between your shoulder blades, and the other holding your wrist, guiding you forward toward the open door. 

Inej can feel how tense you are under her touch, especially in your shoulders. It’s like she’s touching a rock. She’s seen Kaz like this before, has had him freeze like this under her touch even when he wanted it. She’s done the same. Inej remembers when her shoulders used to tense like yours, the pain it caused. She rubs your upper back lightly as you make your way into the room. 

Kaz is sitting in a chair in the far corner, reading a book under candle light. He glances at the door as the two of you walkthrough it and continues to hold his gaze when he sees the fear in your eyes. There is nothing else behind them- not even recognition. He closes his book and grabs his cane, making his way over to you. 

The thunder booms overhead once more, and you freeze completely, even with Inej encouraging you to move to the bed. 

“Y/N,” Kaz says as he gets closer. 

There is a brief glimmer of recognition in your eyes through the panic.

“Kaz,” You reply, “I think I’m having a panic attack.”

“You are,” Kaz replies, closing the door behind you with his cane. He takes a seat on the bed. 

“You should sit,” Inej encourages, letting go of your wrist to gesture towards the bed. 

You take a step forward and pause, your whole body beginning to shake. You take a step backwards, causing Inej to remove her hand. You keep walking backwards until you hit the door. You slide down it, sitting on the floor, staring blankly ahead. 

Inej sits down next to you on your right side. Kaz sighs, not really wanting to get up again, but he does it anyway. He knows you need him, too. He sits down on your left. 

“Have you always been scared of thunder?” Inej asks, caressing the back of your right hand with her thumb. 

“I don’t think it’s the thunder I’m scared of,” You reply. 

The thunder roars above, but you don’t flinch this time. You don’t react at all.

“What are you thinking about?” Kaz asks, his hand resting your thigh just above your kneecap. His bare hand, you realize. He lightly pats you every few seconds.

“I was thinking about a lot of things before this, but then it was like I had no thoughts at all. Just fear. I thought I was going to die.” You reply, bringing up your left hand to bite your nails and resting it against your lips. 

“You aren’t going to die,” Inej reassures, bringing your hand up to her lips and pressing a long, kiss against your knuckles. “You’re safe here.” 

“I know.” You reply. “How long until my heart stop racing?” You ask. 

“It shouldn’t be long now that you’re mind has come back,” Kaz states.

You sigh, removing your hand from your lips and leaning your head against his shoulder. He flinches impercetively, not expecting you to have come to him for comfort like this. He had assumed that Inej would be more appealing, since she had a better tolerance for touch than he did, even if it was not by much. 

“It might have been the dark. I’ve been having nightmares about the fold,” You say, yawning. 

“Sometimes they just happen,” Inej replies, laying her head on your shoulder, still holding on to your hand. 

You sit like that for a while, listening to the sounds of the storm outside, the rain pattering against the roof, the wind howling. 

“Can I stay here tonight?” You ask, looking up at Kaz. 

“If it will make you feel better,” He says. 

Inej lets go of your hand, and stands up. You slowly peel yourself away from Kaz, and offer your hand to help him stand. He opts to use his cane for support instead. 

“Get some rest. You need it,”  Inej says, moving to open the door you had all been sitting against.

“Where are you going?” You ask.

“I thought-” Inej begins, looking between the two of you, “You want me to stay?” 

“Why would I want you to leave?” You reply.

The three of you climb into bed, with you in the middle. There is just enough space in between you to give you some semblance of personal space, but it would be gone if you tried moving even a small amount. 

You stare up at the ceiling with Inej and Kaz beside you.

“Do you think the weather will be better tomorrow?” You ask.

You hear Kaz exhale, amused.

“I think so.” Inej says, turning towards you. 

You close your eyes, giving up your mind to slumber. There are no nightmares that night.

[the-sound-of-her-wings]

The Waynes - Masterlist

In which Bruce falls for a musician

(Bruce Wayne x OC)

SUMMARY

A lead lands Bruce Wayne in a familiar setting, a fundraising event for one of Gotham's numerous charities. When it seems it was all for nothing, he catches the eye of Gotham's rising star, Aurora Meyer.

He's not looking for love, still recovering from Selina leaving him at the altar. She's looking for a way out of an uncomfortable situation. Always the hero, Bruce saves her from the event. When it becomes clear the danger is far greater than she originally let on, they come up with a solution. Pretend to be in love.

What could possibly go wrong?

RELEVANT AO3 TAGS:

Fake Dating to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mystery, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, POV Multiple, Songfic, No beta we die like robins, Batfamily, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Background Relationships: Tim Drake/Connor Kent, Clark Kent/Lois Lane, more to be added, Past Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Selina Kyle, Bruce Wayne/Talia Al Ghul

TRIGGER WARNINGS:

Discussions of death, depictions of panic attacks and breakdowns, depictions of trauma responses and touch aversion, discussions of jason todd's death, references to past sexual assault/r*pe, canon typical violence

GENERAL INFORMATION:

Updates on a monthly basis, the last Sunday of every month. A03 Tags and Trigger Warnings will be updated as needed, please feel free to message me if any tags are missing. The chapter titles are lyrics. The song they are pulled from will be linked to the chapter name.

PLAYLIST:

The Waynes - Companion Playlist includes any songs referenced in the story, any song whose lyrics are used in the title of a chapter, or any song I feel fits the vibes.

🏵 1 - I Know Nothing Changes in This World 🏵 2 - My Radiant Beam in The Night

Word Count as of Chapter 1: 7.9K

Series Tags (Anon asks, snippets, chapters, playlists, mood boards, character blurbs, etc.): #AT presents: The Waynes

[the-sound-of-her-wings]

The Waynes - 1 - I Know Nothing Changes in This World

(Bruce Wayne x OC)

SUMMARY

A lead lands Bruce Wayne in a familiar setting, a fundraising event for one of Gotham's numerous charities. When it seems it was all for nothing, he catches the eye of Gotham's rising star, Aurora Meyer.

He's not looking for love, still recovering from Selina leaving him at the altar. She's looking for a way out of an uncomfortable situation. Always the hero, Bruce saves her from the event. When it becomes clear the danger is far greater than she originally let on, they come up with a solution. Pretend to be in love.

What could possibly go wrong?

(MASTERLIST & GENERAL WARNINGS)

NEXT

Bruce runs a hand through his hair, letting a finger fall behind his ear, turning off his comms. He politely dismisses himself from the group of women encircling him. It was expected. His first public appearance after the disastrous end to his previous relationship was bound to draw them in, like sharks to blood. He wasn’t here for them. This was a matter of business.

The lead was a dead end. Oswald Cobblepot is nowhere to be found, none of his lackeys or his second in command present at this fundraising event. In fact, the only white-collar criminals here tonight are the Falcones. It is the newest member of their family, a girl whispered to be Sofia’s protégé, who catches his eye. 

Aurora Meyer stands next to Sofia Falcone, looking like a dream. Her hairstyle comes straight out of the 1980s, a honey-blonde ball of undefined curls blown away from her face. Her piercing blue eyes, the color of the sky just after the first snow, stare directly into his own. Her eye makeup is simple: a well-defined wing sharp enough to cut. The bold red lip paired with the faintest pink blush, her natural porcelain skin not providing any life in her face. She raises her eyebrow at him and struts over.

The dress she wears is out of fashion, old school compared to the tight bodycon dresses the majority of Sofia’s guests are wearing. Sofia herself is dressed in something a little more on trend, altered to exaggerate her figure. Aurora’s dress is floor length with a slit going up the side, ending in the middle of her thigh. The dress itself is a light blush color, but it is almost impossible to see under the black lace and embroidery, an intricate floral pattern tightly woven together by design. The sleeves are sheer but heavily embroidered, ending just at her knuckles, a little bow keeping them in place at the wrists. The neckline is by far the most conservative of the night, her cleavage hidden under black roses, leaves, and beads. From far away, it almost looks like the wings of little bats. A black bow is tied at the waist, practically begging for someone to come along and untie it.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Bruce. Sofia has told me so much about you.” She holds out her hand, and Bruce takes it, making a quick note of her fingernails. Unlike the rest of her, which is so well put together, her nails are unpainted and chewed, a non-existent free edge accompanying blood-stained cuticles. Her fingertips are uncalloused, pristine. He kisses the top of her exposed knuckles and feels the skin tense.

She’s just another shark drawn to blood.

“Sofia never mentioned how beautiful you were. If she had, we might have met sooner,” Bruce states, letting go of her hand. He’d been meaning to get more information on the woman, the songbird that took Gotham’s underworld by storm. He’s heard all sorts of rumors about her. The most interesting, yet least likely theory, is that she’s a distant relative of Black Canary. Aurora is known for her no-bullshit attitude, for standing up to the most unsavory of the Rogues gallery, and for helping the ones she deemed worthy. He’d ask Dinah to dispel the theory, but the woman standing in front of him is nothing like her.

Aurora’s confidence dissolves the second he touches her, almost reflexively shaking out the hand he’d kissed. Her face flushes a bright red as she visibly folds into herself, upper back arching and hands going to the base of her neck. Her shy smile is almost hidden by her head, pointed so low it might as well be on the floor. He gives her a wide, toothless grin, trying to signal she can relax, and she slowly unfurls. 

A waiter saves him, offering them drinks. Bruce grabs a glass of red wine enthusiastically, only to see Aurora take a glass of water. She sips at it nervously, holding it close to her face, her red lipstick leaving a perfect imprint on the glass.

“I hear a record deal might be in the works,” Bruce states, intrigued by the shift in her behavior. Aurora is easy to read, incredibly so, her true anxious energy and melancholy demeanor shining through her barely worn mask. Like a bird about to take flight, too scared to take that last leap forward. 

“Sofia’s connected me with the people who signed Foxglove. She thinks I could be bigger, but I’m not so sure. My songs aren’t… they’re very Gotham. I’m not sure people outside the city would enjoy my music.” She explains, swirling the water around the glass with a flick of her wrist. Sofia has taught her well, but the action doesn’t seem natural. Her left hand is balled in her dress, fingers absentmindedly rubbing the fabric between them, an unconscious attempt at self-soothing. 

Bruce recalls the first song he heard her sing. She was decidedly less clothed then, and significantly more confident than she seems now. It was mesmerizing. Her performance was dedicated to Scarecrow, who sat in the front row that night, taking in her enthralling and disturbed performance. She wasn’t scared of him. The song felt like a provocation, like a threat, I know what fear is and I am not afraid. Crane came in without a fight after that. He never got the chance to thank her for it/

“There’s a market for everything. I’m sure the world will have no trouble appreciating your music.” He replies, pretending to sip at his red wine. “I like what I’ve heard so far.” He adds.

“You’ve listened to my EP?” She asks, her head tilted and her brow furrowed, almost like she hadn’t expected him to. The question is laughable because everyone in Gotham has heard that EP. It’s inescapable.

“One of my sons shared it with me.” He responds.

Aurora silently gags, raising the glass to her lips, trying to hide her reaction. Immediately, she shifts her weight to her right side and her spine straightens. Her pupils are blown so wide he’s mildly concerned she might have been drugged. She forcibly closes her eyes and blinks slowly when she reopens them, forcing herself back into whatever box Sofia has built for her. Her pupils begin to return to normal as she stares at the water in the glass. 

The night her EP dropped, Jason stormed into the cave, a whirlwind of anger about to become a tornado. He’d thrown a physical copy directly into Bruce’s lap, pointed at it, and yelled, “How the FUCK does a civilian know what happened to me?” Bruce examined the EP, his gaze landing on the song causing his son distress. The End of Robin is a little less than three minutes long, a heavy rock number in the middle of the EP, a huge departure from its folk and indie influences. It describes Jason’s death from the Joker’s perspective, of how he beat him to death with a crowbar and left him to die in an explosion, with phrases like ‘cause I hit what I aim for repeating throughout.

There’s a section, toward the end of the song, that switches to Batman’s perspective, asking over and over again, What have you done? It’s haunted Bruce ever since he heard it, and made him even more curious about the woman who wrote it. 

Aurora opens her mouth and takes a deep breath, the air pulls in so suddenly it makes a small whistling noise. “Did you like it?” She asks, holding it while she waits for his response.

Bruce stares into his wine, pondering the EP. Sunday Morning was ethereal and lovely, ignoring the lyrics about being beaten badly by an abusive boyfriend. Crush has a more traditional feeling, describing a deadbeat man that she can’t get out of her head. The End of Robin, well. Bruce still doesn’t know how he feels about it, no matter how many times he listens to it. Before the Eyes of Storytelling Girls is simultaneously the most explicitly political song and the most relaxing. Inbred closes out the EP a song about incest and abuse that ends with Aurora belting that they were wrong. He enjoys it, minus the song about Jason. 

“It was very dark. But very beautiful. A lot like Gotham.” He states. It’s startling, almost, how much the EP reminds him of the city. Especially since Aurora’s accent indicates she’s not a native. The little research he’s had time to do into her suggests she came to the city a little more than a year and a half ago. 

A smile lights up her entire face, able to breathe again. She almost laughs with relief, her posture returning to normal, her shoulders relaxing, and her fingers unclenching. “What’s your favorite song?” She asks.

“Before the Eyes of Storytelling Girls,” He replies, easily. It is the most lighthearted song, the one with the most vivid imagery and the most hopeful outcome. 

“That’s a good choice, but my favorite will always be Inbred.” She responds immediately, as if she hadn’t written the entire album, “There’s something about recognizing what’s happening is wrong, and even if you’re powerless to stop it, being able to scream about it.” She finishes the last of her water. A waiter comes by and takes it, and Bruce hands him his untouched wine.

The music begins to swell.

“Care to dance?” He asks, holding out his hand, hoping the conversation has relaxed her enough that she will accept. 

She scrunches her nose, and her face flushes red again, but she takes his hand. Aurora is a passable dancer, avoiding stepping on his toes and dancing in rhythm with the music, but her back feels rigid beneath his fingertips. 

“I’ve been watching you, you know.” Aurora murmurs, her eyes avoiding his face as if her life depended on it. 

“Have you?” He replies, an eyebrow raised.

“You don’t act the same around other people. It’s like….” She trails off, her lips pursing and her forehead crinkling as she thinks, “It’s like you’re pretending to be someone else.” She whispers, regaining her confidence. Bruce twirls her and brings her in, his arms encircling her body.

Bruce wants to keep her there, to ask how she can tell, but the song calls for her to be twirled out of his grasp. He abides by the rules of the dance floor and watches as she searches his face for a reaction. When they come close again, their hands touching and nothing else, he asks, “Is that so?”

She opens her mouth slightly, her top teeth resting on top of her tongue, not quite biting down, “You’re a smart man, Bruce. That was clear from the moment we met. So why am I the only one who sees it?” She asks. He dips her, their foreheads touching gently as he does, staring deeply into her eyes. 

“How’d you know?” He whispers. 

She averts her eyes as she replies, “You’ve been studying me like I’m some sort of puzzle. But I’m just a woman, Bruce. A woman who’d like you to take her home.” She looks into his eyes then, adoration and longing plain as day, but gone the moment she blinks. It’s replaced by something that looks like regret but tastes like shame.

Bruce pulls her out of the dip but keeps her close. “Let’s finish this back at my place.” He murmurs in her ear, his left arm snaking around her. She laughs a little too hard at this, throwing her head back, even as goosebumps form on her exposed neck. Whatever game she’s playing at, she’s playing it well. “Let me tell my employer I’ll be leaving for the evening.” She states, tapping the arm around her waist lightly. Bruce relents, watching the way her hips move as she walks away, trying to shift back into his Brucie persona. 

Sofia Falcone looks over Aurora’s shoulder and spots him. She’s wearing the world’s smugest grin on her face, nodding knowingly towards Aurora. She taps the younger woman’s shoulder lightly in encouragement. The two exchange kisses on the cheek, and after two minutes, Aurora is back in his grasp. She’s wearing a black feathery coat and has a black clutch in her hand, big enough to hold a phone and a wallet and not much else. Her left-hand reaches for his right, “Let’s get out of here.” She says, and her smile is so beautiful even as her hand shakes in his grasp.  

The cameras are everywhere as soon as they step outside, blinding lights in every direction. She seems completely unphased by them, following his lead of trying to flee as fast as possible. Bruce doesn’t let the paparazzi ruin his chivalry, holding the door open for her. She flashes a weak smile at him as she settles in. He closes the door behind her with an adequate amount of force. Silence settles between them until the flashing lights are far in the rearview mirror.

“I don’t know how you do it. I feel like I was suffocating in there.” She comments, resting her head against her hand, looking out the window at the bright city lights. 

“It gets easier,” He replies, eyes strictly on the road. “I can give you pointers, if you like.”

She laughs, a pathetic sort of noise that sounds like a dying bird. “I’m sure you could.” She states, almost resigned. There’s a moment of silence, filled with a new kind of tension, the kind that radiates off of everyone who interacts with him when he’s in the suit. 

“Listen, Bruce…” And she’s laughing again, her nerves getting the better of her. “I needed to get out of there. I’m sure I could have communicated that better, and I’m really sorry I led you on.” There’s a beat before she adds, “Not that I’m entirely uninterested. I’m just not really in a place for…” She sighs, “I don’t know what I’m trying to say.” 

Bruce flicks on the right turn signal, slowing down before the turn. When he glances in the right mirror, he catches a glimpse of her. She has a finger in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully on the non-existent nail. Despite her crippling self-doubt, he’s able to read between the lines. Her plea during their dance had been clear, that she needed to leave now and that he was her way out. 

“Do you want me to drive you home?” He asks. They’re almost at the border of the city, the road leading to Wayne Manor only a few miles from their current location. It would be easier to continue on his current course, but not if it meant making Aurora uncomfortable. 

“Can’t.” She sniffs, “I live with Sofia. I thought it was smart, but…” She trails off, and he can practically feel her overthinking. “God, I’m such a fucking idiot.” He hears her sink further down into her seat, her dress rustling as she slides back.  

“You realized you were in a bad situation and you asked for help. That sounds pretty smart to me.” Bruce responds. 

She scoffs, “Yeah. Only took me a year and a half to realize how fucked I was. And the funniest part is, I could have avoided the whole thing but I was just so scared.” 

The city is fading into his rearview mirror as he begins to pick apart the sentence in his mind, deconstructing it and reconstructing it in numerous ways to try and gleam more than what her words let on. From the framing, it doesn’t sound like she’s in physical harm – maybe it took her that long to figure out that the Falcone family are dirty. But how fucked implies a tacit acknowledgment of an already fucked situation, as though she knew of the family’s criminal history and went to them anyway. And, until now, she didn’t realize the extent of their corruption and debauchery. Her following sentence lends credence to this, asserting that she didn’t have to tie herself up in their schemes, but that her fear got in the way. She was scared, terrified, and that left the pressing question – Scared of what? 

“I just wish things were easier.” She murmurs. He sees the light of a phone screen out of the corner of his eye, so brief he doubts she even registered the time. When the sound of a violin begins to flood his car, it’s clear why she unlocked her phone. 

The music provides a reason to remain silent, allows him to wander the labyrinth of his brain, and overanalyze each of her sentences, all of her small quirks. Studying me like I’m some sort of puzzle, her voice echoes in his mind. She saw clinical examination in his extended glances and longing stares, not infatuation. He’d toned down his Brucie persona to fit in with her demure demeanor, enough that she saw right through it. The phrase that followed, I’m just a woman, could be easily dismissed as internalized sexism, deflection. It was the exact opposite, a direct assertion that she knew she was being studied precisely because of who she associated with, because of her mediocre rise, because he could tell there was something more under the pile of blonder curls. It was a clear message: I am normal. But that was only half the message The other part of it, the part that makes it hard to keep his eyes on the road instead of studying her body language, is troubling. I am normal and you are not. 

Bruce pulls into the driveway of the manor, parking his car close to the front entrance. He turns to check on his passenger and finds her back instead of her face, body curled into a ball. It moves as she breathes, deep inhalation followed by a drawn-out exhale. The music comes to an abrupt halt after he turns off the car. She rolls over, eyes bleary and looking up at him with equal parts suspicion and curiosity.

“Have a nice nap?” He asks, a warm smile on his lips. 

She rolls her eyes, but can’t hide the way the corners of her mouth move upwards and her cheeks darken. She blinks a few times, still drowsy. A few moments later, Bruce realizes he’s been staring at her this entire time, and pulling his gaze away from her. He uses the opportunity to exit the vehicle.

By the time he makes it to the other side, her door is already open, and she has one foot on the pavement. She pulls herself using the woe handle, not bothering to ask for his help. No, clearly asserting that she does not want his help, not in this. She shuts the door with her hip while he looks on. 

When he holds out his arm, she hesitates, her jaw visibly clenching and her shoulders stiffening. Then it’s gone, almost like it never existed, and she’s looped her right arm under his left. She doesn’t lean into it, but she’s not actively holding herself away from him, either. 

“Welcome to my home,” He states, crossing the threshold from the outside world into the manor. 

The sigh that falls from Aurora’s lips sounds like a prayer. He feels her entire body relax. Her shoulders have shifted, no longer tight and scrunched up toward her ears. Her head is angled upward, taking in the foyer like it’s her first time seeing a place so grand. Her expression is of pure joy, of wonder – of relief. Soft eyes land on him, still pointed upward given their height difference. Aurora looks at him like she’s just seen snow for the first time. Everything about her is lighter now that she’s standing here, in the brightly lit halls of his childhood home. Now that she’s looking at him. 

“It’s beautiful,” She whispers, removing her arm from where it rested in is. She takes a step forward and twirls, her skirt rising enough to expose her black ballet flats. When she glances back at him, her smile wavers slightly, as if she expects his disapproval. He gives her a reassuring smile and takes a step forward.

“May I take your coat?” Bruce asks. He keeps his hands by his side, clearly visible, as he awaits her response. Her reactions have been hot and cold all night, sometimes willing to tolerate his touch and other times vehemently despising it. It suggests a history of trauma, perhaps the kind her songs touch on. 

“Of course,” She replies, shrugging the coat off of her shoulders. Aurora hands it to him by dangling it from three fingers. He takes it without touching her, choosing to grab the plush material over her hand. 

When he looks over his shoulder as he puts the coat in the coat room, he sees Aurora standing in the center of the foyer, taking in the stone carvings on the ceiling, neck and arms moving in sharp, fluid motions. Her mouth is open slightly, awe so intense she’s unable to keep it closed. She spins on her heels, allowing more of herself to take in the building. As he returns to the foyer proper, Aurora catches his fixed look and gives him the warmest, most genuine smile he’s ever seen. “This is better than I could have ever imagined,” She says. 

“Than you imagined?” He questions, taking a step closer to her, an eyebrow raised. 

She chuckles, unable to suppress it or the smile on her face, glancing at the floor before looking at him, “You’re a fantasy, Bruce, for girls like me. The closest thing Gotham has to Prince. Of course, I imagined it.” She states, her head tilting to the side. Aurora’s teasing is light and flirtatious but lacks a distinct sexual charge. She makes no effort to get closer to him, intent on watching him at the distance they are now.

He wants to ask about that line of thought, inquire further about what she meant by girls like her, but Alfred strides into the room, cutting him off. 

“I apologize for my delay, Miss. Master Wayne did not inform me we had a guest.” The side eye his butler gives him could kill. “I’m Alfred Pennyworth, the family butler. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He holds out his gloved hand, bowing his head.

Bruce had informed Alfred that a guest would be joining them tonight. There was a protocol for these sorts of stunts, Bruce pulling them numerous times over the years. Alfred was well aware of what was to come the second Bruce entered his car. The glare, the arriving late, the exact phrase – all intentional, all calculated.

“The pleasure is all mine. I’m Aurora Meyer. I apologize for any trouble I’ve caused,” She replies, shaking it with both hands. The pitch of her voice shifts slightly, up a note or two in the octave it presides, but it seems unintentional. It makes her sound sweeter, kinder, even less threatening. She slides her hands off of his, but they do not return to her side. Instead, they rest in front of her stomach, taking turns picking at the thumbnail on either hand. 

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Alfred replies, shooting an annoyed glance at Bruce. 

Aurora chuckles, bringing her left hand to her face as if trying to hide her smile.

“Is there anything I could assist you with? I have the kettle on if you’d like some tea.” 

“I’d love tea, thank you. Do you have Earl Grey?” She states, inching closer to Bruce. Her left hand brushes against his right, and he takes it. Her hands are warm, almost clammy, and shake slightly in his grasp. He decides he’ll follow her lead, wherever it takes them if it gives him more clues to her true intent. 

“Of course. We’re a respectable household, after all.” Alfred gestures for them to follow him, and they begin the walk to the kitchen. 

“Sofia said he’s been with your family for a very long time,” Aurora murmurs, leaning her head against his shoulder. “He seems wonderful.” 

“He is,” Bruce replies. 

When they reach the kitchen, Bruce pulls out a chair for her before taking his own, which she immediately moves to be closer to him.

“I confess, your accent sounds quite familiar, but I can’t place it,” Alfred states, adding the bags of Earl Grey tea to the teapot. 

“Philly,” She begins, “I’m surprised you picked up on it. Most people don’t recognize I have one until I ask for a glass of water,” Aurora states. Bruce raises an eyebrow at the familiar pronunciation of water, long associated with the city. The ah sound found in most accents is replaced with an o sound, almost like she’s saying wood. The Gotham accent is similar, keeping the ah sound while transforming the ter into der. “Have you ever been?” 

“A few times. Not as often as I would have liked.” Alfred responds with a noncommittal and vague answer. 

Bruce nods in agreement, usually only entering the city for business and the occasional field trip with one of his kids. “What’s its nickname? The City of Brotherly Love?” He asks, knowing the answer.

Aurora rolls her eyes and bites down on her lip hard to suppress a smile, “Yes. But we interpret brotherly very literally.” This comment solidifies in his mind that she is not an only child, her amused expression and longing gaze reminiscent of a childhood spent with at least one rambunctious brother. “It’s fine, really. No worse or better than any other city.” 

Except Philly is much better than Gotham, if only because it lacks any sort of rogues trying to destroy it. All of Philly’s statistics are better, despite its slightly larger size: Its crime, poverty, and homelessness rates are all lower, and its graduation and literacy rates are higher. His best efforts fail in comparison, and even though Wayne Industries offers some of the best benefits and wages on the market, it’s often not enough to draw people in. 

“Would you like sugar or milk in your tea?” Alfred asks, placing an empty cup and saucer in front of her. 

“Both please.” She answers.

He nods, pouring the tea into the cup. He adds a spoonful of sugar and a dash of milk, handing Aurora a spoon to stir. She does, making sure all of the ingredients are combined before she takes her first sip.

Bruce waits until she’s finished swallowing and sets the teacup down on the saucer to begin his line of questioning, “Why did you come to Gotham?” 

She huffs, frowning, not at the question but at herself, “I’ve been asking myself the same question.” She mutters, staring deeply into her tea, biting her lip. Aurora closes her eyes, and when she reopens them a pained smile on her face, “Things weren’t… I couldn’t stay in Philly. Gotham was the closest city of a similar size, somewhere that could launch my music career.” 

A simple question, and already he’s pushed her too far. Bruce stirs his tea, letting his butler take charge of the conversation. 

“And I’ve heard you’ve done just that. I must say, I quite enjoyed your EP. You have a wonderful voice.” Alfred says, placing the pieces of cake in front of them. He flicks his eyes to Bruce, a brief illumination of his concern regarding her prior comment, before refocusing on the woman in front of him.

Aurora flushes red and tucks a piece of hair behind her face. She licks her lips nervously, and her upper body caves inward, making her appear smaller, “Thank you. I really appreciate that.” She picks up her fork, taking a small bite of the chocolate cake, body slowly unfurling as she allows herself to enjoy it. 

“Is there apple cider vinegar in this?” She asks, chewing thoughtfully. 

“There is,” Alfred confirms, both eyebrows raised and an amused smile on his face. He crosses his arms and tilts his head. “How did you know?” 

Aurora shrugs, sinking her fork into the cake, “That’s how my mom made it. I’ve tried to recreate it for years with no success, despite having the recipe. Sofia’s personal chef attempted to make it for my birthday-“ She twirls the forkful on the plate, studying it. “It was wonderful, but it wasn’t my mom’s cake. This,” She gestures, raising the fork before sliding it into her mouth, “is the closest anyone’s ever come to recreating it. And you weren’t even trying.”

Her mother is dead. Sofia attempted to woo her through grand and personal gestures, but it didn’t work. Alfred is an excellent baker. The bits and pieces of information are forming a picture in his mind and it’s starting to look like a mirror. 

“I’d be happy to look over your family recipe, if you’d like. Sometimes an old recipe needs a pair of fresh eyes.” Alfred states. 

“I’d really appreciate that.” She says, her fingers reaching out looking for Bruce, as if seeking reassurance. He rests his hand on top of hers and she gives him a weak smile. “She um..” She scoffs, amused at whatever she’s thinking about, “She taught me how to play piano. If it wasn’t for her… I never would have landed the job with the Falcones in the first place.” 

The memory of Tim showing him the job listing for an “in-home jazz pianist” hits him like a freight train. He’s exasperated, his voice almost cracking, “That’s gotta be a front, right? Who hires an in-home jazz pianist?” That was almost a year ago. 

“My mom played, too. She tried to teach me, but I could never sit still long enough to learn.” Bruce responds. “I still have her baby grand piano, if you’d like to play it. I’m not sure it’s in tune.” 

“It is,” Alfred replies, taking the empty plates away.

“Another time, maybe. It’s a bit late for that sort of thing.” She bats her lashes, a seductive look in her glassy eyes. As they stand, Aurora practically throws herself into his side, one arm wrapped around his waist. She looks up at him and licks her lips, a small smirk sliding into place. Bruce plays his hand in the small of her back and she stiffens. He goes to remove it, but she shakes her head slightly, studying him with hard eyes.

He takes the cue and says good night to his beloved butler, who promises to bring them water before the night is over. Aurora lightly strokes his side as they walk towards his bedroom, almost her full weight leaning into his side. It’s not until they are inside the room that she pulls herself away from him, both arms going to her shoulders, rubbing them as if they’re cold. She paces the room, taking stock of the several doors, identifying the closet and bathroom before she comes anywhere close to him.

“I’m sorry. I must seem so…” She shakes her head, unable to finish the sentence. She runs a hand through her blonde hair.

“Stressed?” He suggests.

“Yeah,” She mutters, shaking out her hands again. She beats her fingers together rhythmically, staring blankly ahead. Completely disassociating. 

“Alfred can prepare a room if-“ He begins.

“I appreciate that, I really do, but if I’m going to make this look real, I have to sleep in this room.” Aurora murmurs, snapping out of her trance. Her jaw is tight and her voice sounds unsteady. She’s looking up at him through the tops of her eyes, her head unmoving. She looks at her feet before returning her gaze back to his face, this time angling her head to look directly into his eyes, “Do you have something I could wear to bed?” 

He doesn’t have to pretend in front of Alfred, but she does. She doesn’t know the man personally, and with the supposedly glowing review from Sofia, how is she supposed to trust him? What if he leaked something to the press? What if he said the wrong thing to the Falcones?

“I should have something.” He responds, knowing full well that there is way too much lingerie in the back of his closet. It’s been months, but he can’t bring himself to get rid of it. Bruce leads the way, turning the light on with one finger. It’s a large room, and Selina’s collection lines the back of it, almost entirely black. He stays in the doorway, not looking inside. Aurora disappears into it. 

“That much of a playboy, are we?” She teases, reappearing next to him a few minutes later, voice light and airy. Her tone is almost seductive, but nothing about her body language indicates she’s interested. The comment is unexpectedly cruel. Selina left him at the altar. It was headline news for weeks. Either she didn’t care, or she didn’t know, and both strike him as equally out of character.

“They belong to my former partner. She never came back for them.” Bruce says.

Aurora’s face visibly pales. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out, and she looks at him with equal parts terror and sympathy, “I am so sorry. I had no idea.” 

Sofia would have talked about it, surely, if she was grooming her to be her protégé. Sofia told me so much about you and yet neglected a very important detail from an extremely recent event. The longer he’s spent with Aurora, the more uncertain he is about her place among the Falcone. He thought, much like the other women he was introduced to at the party, that Aurora was the Falcone family’s push for his hand in marriage. It’s a game of chess, with Aurora as the pawn. But does she know she’s playing?

She sulks past him, heading towards the bathroom. Once she arrives, she hovers at the door, hugging the lingerie and hanger tightly to her chest. “Bruce?” Aurora says, her voice barely above a whisper, eyes refusing to meet his. “Can you?” She asks, her left hand moving quickly, pointer finger gesturing to the back of her dress. 

“Of course,” He responds, taking even-paced steps toward her. If he moved too slowly or too quickly, her anxiety would heighten even further. 

She turns around once he’s close enough to touch her. She uses her left hand to gather her curls and tuck them away from her neck out of habit. The scooped neckline of the dress is nowhere near the end of her hair. Carefully, trying to avoid touching her bare skin, he unclips the back of the dress. When he goes for the zipper, it unzips about an inch before he’s met with resistance. He pulls slightly harder, but it refuses to budge. He takes the zipper all the way back up and starts over. It does not make a difference. Nothing seems amiss on this side of the dress, but there’s a chance the lining has bunched and is getting stuck in the teeth. 

“It’s stuck, isn’t it?” Aurora says with a sigh.

“Yes. I think the lining might be getting caught.” He replies, trying and failing once more. “I won’t be unable to tell unless-“

“You can touch me, Bruce.” She states, “It’s fine, really. I won’t break.” She adds, even as she visibly stiffens just from the idea. 

Aurora’s skin reacts the moment Bruce reaches into the back of the dress, goosebumps visibly appearing on her back. She lets out a small gasp, likely from the temperature difference, as his ice-cold hand rests against her warm back. He spreads the fabric between his fingers, using his left hand to slide the zipper down, this time meeting no resistance. Once he finishes unzipping the dress, he removes his hand. She whips around immediately and mutters a quick thank you before closing the bathroom door in his face. 

Bruce bites his lip and looks up at the ceiling and closes his eyes. When he reopens them, he shakes his head and walks over to his nightstand. He takes off his watch and cuff links, followed by the comm near his ear. 

You can touch me, Bruce. It’s fine, really. I won’t break. Was his apprehension that clear? Did she realize he was respecting her unstated boundaries? 

He slides the comm into the drawer of the nightstand. Bruce takes off his suit jacket, marching towards his closet to find an empty clothes hanger. His white dress shirt gets tossed into the hamper, his shoes slid back into place next to the dozens of other pairs. 

You can touch me, Bruce. I won’t break. Did his hands-off treatment come across as assuming fragility or weakness? Or just acceptance that, unless she allowed him to help, she’d be stuck in that dress? Would she prefer Alfred help her with it?

Bruce removes his dress pants and slides into a pair of black sweatpants. He reaches for a black hoodie, but decides against it, instead pulling on a black sweater. He flicks out the closet light, pretending he hadn’t seen one of Selina’s old dresses lying on the floor. 

You can touch me, Bruce.

He sits on the edge of the bed, his hands under his armpits to warm them. 

You can touch me.

He breathes out through his nose, annoyed at his own thought process. 

You can- 

He hears the bathroom door open. He looks across the room, removing his hands from his armpits.

Aurora’s cheeks and nose are bright red, possibly from vigorously scrubbing away at her makeup. Her forehead and chin look no worse for wear, pointing to rosacea as the cause, not scrubbing. She has dark circles under her puffy eyes and her lips are stained. She clutches her dress to her body, hiding the choice of lingerie below. Her shoes are in her other hand, looking incredibly worn. 

“Where should I put these?” She asks.

“I will take them, Miss Meyer,” Alfred states, entering the room. He sets the tray holding two glasses of water on the nightstand before retreating to Aurora’s aid, taking the bulky gown from her. “Is there anything else you need?” 

“No, Alfred. Thank you.” Aurora states. She had the forethought to grab one of the many silk robes in his closet, and has it tied tightly around her waist. She turns toward Bruce before Alfred has even left the room, walking over slowly, taking her time to undo the strings of the robe. The lingerie isn’t an exact fit. The top is loose, straps barely clinging to her shoulders, and the panties are tight, practically digging into her skin. It can’t be comfortable. 

She’s straddling him by the time the door closes and the lights go out, the robe falling to the ground behind her.

“Will he be back later?” Aurora whispers into his ear, her breath hot against it, making the hair on his arms stand up. Her hands are on either side of his head, caressing his face.

“Not tonight,” Bruce replies.

“Good.” She states, removing her hands and pulling her face away from his. She stays seated in his lap, legs wrapped around his waist. 

“You know how to put on a show,” he comments. The performance, whether she realizes it or not, is ongoing. 

“I do what I have to,” Aurora replies with a shrug, causing the strap of the bra she’s wearing to fall off her shoulder. She hasn’t noticed, her eyes looking somewhere behind him. He wants to reach out, fix it for her, but he’s not sure if he should. She shifts in his lap, relaxing her legs slightly, but making no effort to leave it. Her gaze settles back on his eyes.

You can touch me, they whisper.

No. He can’t. He does not believe her lying eyes. He believes her body, the way her spine is straight and her shoulders are pinned back, the way she can’t stay still knowing he’s beneath her. The way her breaths are shaky and uneven. She doesn’t want to be touched, not like that, and he can prove it. 

He uses his pinky finger, tracing up her arm until it gets to the strap. He carries it all the way up to her shoulder, dragging it until it snaps back into place. Aurora’s face is burning up, her head looking at his chest as she tucks a curl behind her ear. Her entire body is rigid. Bruce places a hand under her chin, raising her head so he can look her in the eye.

“We don’t have to do anything.” He says. You can say no. He will say no if she can’t form the words. 

“I know,” Aurora says quietly, resting the full weight of her head in his hand. “I just thought…” She trails off, closing her eyes, her entire face scrunching. He can feel her body shaking in his lap, her hands nervously pawing at his chest, “Can you hold me, please?” She asks, her voice breaking. 

He nods, removing his hand and wrapping her in a tight hug. Her head hits his chest with an audible thud, the thin white t-shirt doing nothing to cushion the blow. One of her arms is thrown over his shoulder, the other tight around his waist. Silently, she begins to cry into his chest, her grip on him slipping. The tears quickly turn into uncontrollable shaking caused by muffled sobs. Bruce pulls her closer, his right hand petting her hair. 

“Let it out” He whispers. 

The sound that comes out of her mouth is agonizing. Her anguish is shattering her, wracking through her body like an earthquake, and he can do nothing to stop it. Her arms fall from him, lying lifeless at her side. She starts to hyperventilate between sobs, unable to calm herself down. 

Bruce rubs her back, pressing his lips to the top of her head, lightly rocking her back in forth. It’s all in an attempt to ground her, bring her back into the moment, because she’s collapsed so far in his arms that he’s not sure she’s still in reality. “You’re safe,” He coos, the standard response to people in crisis, and that’s when he realizes why she’s crying. 

She’s crying because she feels safe. 

Aurora’s breathing slows, deep breaths in and out through her mouth, the warm air hot against his chest. Her nose is likely too clogged to take on air. She presses one of her hands to his chest like she’s reminding herself he’s there. 

“I’m sorry,” She mutters, removing herself from her place in his lap, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. They are bleary and bloodshot, swollen from the irritation of the tears. Snot pools above her lips and her cheeks are scarlet. Her lip is bleeding from when she tried to keep her mouth forcibly closed. “I don’t know why I did that.” She turns toward the window, walking toward it.

“You don’t have to apologize.” He replies, following after her. Bruce takes off his sweater and places it on her shoulder. He stands beside her, watching as she pulls her arms through, finger moving methodically as she buttons it. 

“I can’t go back there.” Aurora breathes, her fingers clutching tightly to the collar of the sweater, looking out at the night sky. “Sofia is lovely but her brothers… her father…” She trails off. 

Bruce was never the target of some scheme. The game the Falcones are playing is with her life, with her future, not his. The Falcones recruit talent, willing or otherwise. 

“Then you don’t go back.” He states. 

She turns toward him, an unreadable expression on her face, left hand massaging her neck, “I have nowhere else to go.” 

They’d kill her if she ran. She might kill herself if she stayed. But that’s why she’s here, isn’t it? He’d been the escape plan all along. He’s the only man in this city both powerful enough to protect her and kind enough to not force himself on her. 

“Stay here. With me.” Bruce says. 

Aurora’s arms drop to her side, her eyes wide and searching his for answers, “What?”

It was presumptive to assume she was thinking that far ahead. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, not a calculated plan to put her in the best position possible. She’s intelligent, is able to see past his persona with ease, but she’s not a strategist.

“All night you’ve been setting up the building blocks of a fake relationship.” He explains, “Why not keep up the charade?” 

It will do nothing to harm his public image and can only serve to boost hers. It takes her out of a horrific situation and places her in a safe environment. It’s not love, but it could be friendship. 

“You expect people to believe one night was all it took to convince you, a recently divorced man renowned for his many hookups, to fall completely head over heels in love with me?” She crosses her arms, and suddenly the image of a confident blonde strutting across the stage of Gotham’s most famous nightclubs seems more real. 

“Yes.” He replies, mirroring her posture.

She narrows her eyes at him, her nose scrunching like she smelled something funny, unconvinced. Bruce has lived in the public eye long enough to know that people see and hear what they want to see. And right now, what they want to see, is their famous billionaire happy again after the horrible conclusion of his last relationship. 

“The public is far more gullible than you think.” He states, uncrossing his arm. 

She nods, her eyes relaxing, though he’s not certain she believes him.

“Will your kids believe it?” She questions. Only two of them live in the manor anymore, but it’s still a reasonable question.

“I don’t know.” He lies. His family is full of detectives, one of whom learned to read body language far before any language. It will be hours, maybe a day at most before they are in on the secret. He’ll brief them on it tomorrow morning, so they are prepared. So they can act like they think it’s real. 

“I’ll stay,” Aurora whispers, uncrossing her arms. She holds out both of her hands, palm upward, asking him to take them. He does, unsure if she means to shake on it. She doesn’t.

“We’ll discuss boundaries in the morning. Today felt like an entire year.” She murmurs, her thumbs massaging the backs of his hand. Then, she’s dragging him to the bed with her. All of the apprehension is gone from her body, as if the conversation finally gave her the closure she needed to know he wouldn’t touch her. Or perhaps she thinks he doesn’t want to? She would be wrong, but if it brings her peace, he won’t correct the assumption.

Aurora falls asleep with her head resting on his chest, her legs wrapped around his left leg, humming a lullaby. Bruce wishes he could stay, but the city calls to him, the bright light of the bat signal visible from the window. He presses a kiss to her temple, untangling himself from her, and walks to the door. He stops there, glances behind him to make sure she’s still asleep, and feels himself smile at how peaceful she looks.  

Bruce leaves all thoughts of her behind once he exits the room, keeping them locked safely inside it. 

He has a job to do.  

[the-sound-of-her-wings]

Scrap Sunday #1

❀ What's Scrap Sunday? It's where I post excerpts of my Botched Attempts at writing something. ❀ Why do things get scrapped? Often times it's just no longer the direction I'm going with the story. Other times it's a case of "He would not fucking say that" ❀ Why are you posting them? Sometimes people like your writing even if you don't. This is for them. ❀ What's this scrap about? This was my first-ever attempt at a Kaz Brekker x Reader which I gave up on once I re-read it and realized he would not fucking say that.

“Why do you wear those gloves?” She asks, putting aside her crochet work.

“Why do you ask?” Kaz responds, not letting any emotion show in his face.

“I’m just curious. Has no one ever asked you that?” She replies, confused.

“People usually know better than to ask me that.” He retorts.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was a sore subject.”

“It’s okay.” He says, but it wasn’t. No one had explicitly asked him that in a very long time. Not Jesper, Not Inej, nobody had asked- they knew he wouldn’t tell them the truth, so why bother? But she didn’t know that, not yet. She’d barely been here a week, and already, she was doing things that pushed his buttons.

“Is it the same reason you flinch whenever people get too close to you?” She questions.

His eyes narrow, “You noticed that?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“No. They don’t. How much of your day is spent observing me instead of doing your work?” He retorts.

“Who says I can’t do both at the same time? Singing doesn’t exactly call for the most intense observation.” She says with a smile.

“Not to the untrained ear. But I can tell when you’re distracted. You tend to drop notes.”

“Do I? Sounds like I’m not the only one who’s been distracted while they’re supposed to be working.” She flirts.

Kaz rolls his eyes, annoyed.

“Come on now, don’t you know how to have fun?”

“I don’t think trying to dissect my trauma is particularly fun,” He responds.

“So it is trauma related. I thought as much. You’ve got a lot of walls to tear down, Mr. Brekker,” She replies.

“Who says I want to tear them down?”

She laughs. “It is abundantly clear that you don’t want them to be torn down. Maybe I’ll start to put a few decorations on them instead.”

“I can fire you, you know.” Kaz threatens, lightly.

“Oh, I know. But why would you? I’m no worse than Jesper.”

“You’re no better, either. And he has skills that are useful outside of the club.”

“For your little super secret club, yes? A pity you have no use for a singer in your nefarious activities. I think it makes heists just that more dramatic.” She responds, gathering her things.

“You’re not joining.” He states.

“Oh, I know. You like me too much.” She winks as she leaves.

[the-sound-of-her-wings]

This past week has been surreal for me on Tumblr, thank you to all my new followers and for everyone who liked and reblogged my two new one shots, and thank you to the people sending in requests!

I was not expecting this much love and I sincerely appreciate it ❤️

[the-sound-of-her-wings]

I posted 8,010 times in 2022

That's 4,368 more posts than 2021!

284 posts created (4%)

7,726 posts reblogged (96%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@dingdongyouarewrong

@defectivegembrain

@thisiswhymomworries

@zagreus-is-not-a-fuckin-troll

@unclefather

I tagged 1,221 of my posts in 2022

#figure skating - 180 posts

#dragon age - 28 posts

#lmao - 25 posts

#sure ill reblog that - 19 posts

#lmfao - 18 posts

#the batman - 16 posts

#fav - 14 posts

#matt murdock - 11 posts

#aspiring thanatologist writes - 10 posts

#dragon age inquisition - 8 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#the explanation is probably more with game dev- how are the players supposed to know they are mages if they dont have staff and wear robes?

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Whatever She Wants

A result of @kj-1130's MILFs Near You, a series about MILFs. The series idea gave me inspiration to finally write this oneshot.

❀ Premise: You are a server at a diner, almost done your shift when an intriguing new patron walks in. Unpacking Emotions Ensues.

❀ Word Count: 1,700

❀ CW: Grief, Loss

❀ Song: Graceland Too- Phoebe Bridgers

The diner has always been home to people in various states of flight. The teenagers making their first escape attempt late at night, stopping for a slice of pie in the middle of nowhere. The college student who finally worked up the nerve to drive away and never go back. The businessman coming in for an early breakfast before he heads to the airport. The local couple who have finally settled down and come in every Tuesday for the lunch special.

You’ve met a lot of people in the 10 years you’ve worked at this diner in the middle of nowhere. But you’ve never met anyone quite like her. You’ve met hundreds of women who have her aura the confusion, the loss; drugs and guns have taken so much from the mothers you’ve met. They all share that look in their eyes. It’s a look of pain, of anger from knowing what they’ve lost will never return. They have always been resilient, even when they break into tears recounting the stories of their deceased children. Of their lost husbands and wives. She has that look in her eye when she walks into the diner, right at the end of your shift.

“I’ve got this one.” You tell your coworker, putting your apron back on.

“Are you sure? I’ve got it covered if you want to head out.” He responds.

“I’m sure.”

The woman stares out the window, distant. Her long red hair is mostly covered by a hood, slightly damp from the rain. She absentmindedly plays with her hands.

“Hi there, I’m y/n and I’ll be your server tonight. What can I getcha?” You ask, interrupting her disassociation. You give her the warmest smile you are capable of as you wait to write down her order.

“Just a coffee for now. Decaf.” She says with a sad smile. Her accent is thick, some mixture of Slavic and European- it sounds familiar, but nothing you can pinpoint immediately.

“Coming right up.” You leave the menu on the table for her to glance at when she works up the nerve.

When you come back with the coffee, she’s gone back to staring out the window. You recognize the longing for something that she’ll never have again.

“So, what brings someone like yourself all the way out here to our little town?” You set the coffee down in front of her, and take a few small, plastic cups of creamer out of your pocket on the table.

“War” She states simply, opening one of the creamers to put in her coffee.

“You're from Sokovia, then? I’ve met a couple of refugees over the years. I heard it’s gotten a lot better post blip. You ever think about going back?” You ask, finally recognizing the accent.

“I think about it all the time. It is- it was my home. But there’s no one there for me now.” She says, stirring in a packet of sugar.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything else I can get you?”

“I’m fine. Thank you, y/n.” She glances up at you, causing your stomach to flutter.

You nod and leave her with her coffee.

She stares into it between sips, clearly deep in thought. There is a lot for her to think about, a lot of life she’s lived in her 33 years. And so much of it was loss. So much of it was spent in pain, fighting for what she believed was right. As she takes another sip of her coffee, you return.

“Just checking in. Need anything?”

“Do you have kids, y/n?” She asks, as her finger slowly taps the side of her coffee cup.

“None of my own. Though I suppose a few of the local teens think of me as their mom away from home.” You respond.

“I had kids. Twins. But they’re gone now. Like my husband. Like my brother. Like my parents. Even my mentor. I’m not really sure what I have left.” She laments.

You unclick your pen and close your notepad, sliding them into your pocket. You give your coworker the signal - the one you give when you expect you’ll be with one customer for a much longer time than usual. You take a seat at the table across from her as she takes another sip of her coffee.

“Tell me about them.”

See the full post

131 notes - Posted April 23, 2022

#4

Icarus

Matt Murdock x Gender Neutral Reader

You and Matt are already settling down for the evening when you tell him he needs to let go. Angst ensues.

Likes, Comments, and Reblogs Appreciated!

❀ Word Count: 1,120

❀ Contains: Angst, Mentions of God, Discussions about dealing (or not) with anger, Fluff?

❀ Inspiration: Icarus- Emma Blackery

“You’ve gotta let it go” It comes out as more of a sigh, a whisper, rather than the fact it is. You're tired, and so is he. So you sit, running your fingers through Matt’s hair, his head lying in your lap.

“I can’t just give up” He responds. It’s not a plea, it’s not an ask- he’s telling you he will never stop. And you know this. You’ve known it from the moment he told you.

“I’m not asking you to give that part of you up, Matt. I’d never ask you to do that. I just want you to learn how to let go. How to deal with your pain.” You’ve started to make little braids in his hair.

“I am dealing with it. It’s how I deal with it. With all of it.” He sighs. You remove your hand from his hair, putting it up against your nose. You shake your head.

“Matthew. You never talk about what you do when you're out there. You never tell me what happens. Do you tell anyone?” You glance down at him, looking at the scars still on his face from his last head injury- of which there have been many.

“I used to tell Father Lantom.”

“You used to confess to Father Lantom” You correct him, “You’d tell him all the sins you’ve committed in the process of protecting the city. Of stopping crimes. But you didn’t tell him about the other stuff, did you? Not what you hear.”

He removes himself from your lap and begins to pace around the room. “What’s your point? That no one understands my pain? I already knew that” You’ve hit a nerve. You get up to accompany him in his pacing, keeping a short distance between the two of you, as you do laps around his apartment.

“My point is- you're keeping what you're feeling inside. And that’s dangerous, not just for you, but for all of us. Maybe you’re right- maybe no one understands what you’re going through- but you have to tell them about it for them to understand.” You reach out for his hand, and he doesn’t resist. “And I want to understand.”

There is silence for a while, the kind where words need to be spoken but no one has the courage. It’s tense, and feels unending- but he never drops your hand.

“You almost killed Fisk.” You state. It is not a moral or character judgment- plenty of people who live the superhero life end up killing. But that’s the way Matt takes it- because his faith is strong, despite, or maybe because of what he’s been through.

“I’m not a killer. And I’ve tried to repent for that. Put my life back together.” Matt is defensive.

“Love, you can repent all you want. But God forgiving you won’t absolve you of the emotions you haven’t dealt with. All that anger, all that pain that you hold in there- one day it’s going to overtake you.” Tears are welling in your eyes, and you sniffle. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

He stops walking and takes you into his arms. You listen to his heartbeat the same way he always listens to yours. It is steady, even- safe.

“You won’t lose me, Angel” Matt promises, but you both know it’s one he can’t keep. You pull out of his embrace and wipe the tears out of your eyes. You return to the couch, sitting on one end- he sits on the other.

“I will if you can’t let it go- if you can’t learn to leave that anger in the past, that need for revenge.” you bite your lip before continuing, “Being Daredevil won’t kill you. But not moving past Fisk will. Not letting Electra rest will.” You hate to bring her up, but Matt has always had a hard time leaving things in the past- of letting go. The dead should stay dead and buried.

“What do you want me to do?” He asks, quietly.

“I want you to tell me. How you are feeling. What you’re doing when you’re out at night. Matthew I-. I want you to love yourself, and I want you to forgive yourself.”

Silence. Matt uses it to get closer to you- you don’t notice until you feel his thigh pressed up against yours. You turn towards him, placing a hand on either side of his head, careful not to cover his ears.

“You hold so much guilt and shame for one of the sweetest, kindest, and bravest men I know. And you need to let go of it.” He places a hand on your left wrist and gives you a slight smile, with tears running down his face. You wipe one way with your thumb, and slowly take your hands off his face, taking his hands in yours.

“Okay.” He says.

“Okay.” You respond.

“Do you want to start with my childhood trauma or is there a more recent event you're interested in?” Matt jokes.

See the full post

141 notes - Posted January 2, 2022

#3

Mother Giselle saying "I've got to apologize to Dorian in public because I know he'll want an audience" is such a read 💀

154 notes - Posted May 28, 2022

#2

Unimportant Important Question; What did y'all name your dog in Dragon Age: Origins?

My dog's name is Beefaroni

346 notes - Posted May 13, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Everybody please welcome Will Smith discourse part two to the ring:

Here's my thoughts in order of how they happened:

1. That's too much time (year max if you do any punishment at all)

2. Lol

3. So are we banning Roman Polanski and other awful people for life then? Or is only Will Smith facing punishment?

601 notes - Posted April 8, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[the-sound-of-her-wings]

Whatever She Wants

A result of @kj-1130's MILFs Near You, a series about MILFs. The series idea gave me inspiration to finally write this oneshot.

❀ Premise: You are a server at a diner, almost done your shift when an intriguing new patron walks in. Unpacking Emotions Ensues.

❀ Word Count: 1,700

❀ CW: Grief, Loss

❀ Song: Graceland Too- Phoebe Bridgers

The diner has always been home to people in various states of flight. The teenagers making their first escape attempt late at night, stopping for a slice of pie in the middle of nowhere. The college student who finally worked up the nerve to drive away and never go back. The businessman coming in for an early breakfast before he heads to the airport. The local couple who have finally settled down and come in every Tuesday for the lunch special.

You’ve met a lot of people in the 10 years you’ve worked at this diner in the middle of nowhere. But you’ve never met anyone quite like her. You’ve met hundreds of women who have her aura the confusion, the loss; drugs and guns have taken so much from the mothers you’ve met. They all share that look in their eyes. It’s a look of pain, of anger from knowing what they’ve lost will never return. They have always been resilient, even when they break into tears recounting the stories of their deceased children. Of their lost husbands and wives. She has that look in her eye when she walks into the diner, right at the end of your shift.

“I’ve got this one.” You tell your coworker, putting your apron back on.

“Are you sure? I’ve got it covered if you want to head out.” He responds.

“I’m sure.”

The woman stares out the window, distant. Her long red hair is mostly covered by a hood, slightly damp from the rain. She absentmindedly plays with her hands.

“Hi there, I’m y/n and I’ll be your server tonight. What can I getcha?” You ask, interrupting her disassociation. You give her the warmest smile you are capable of as you wait to write down her order.

“Just a coffee for now. Decaf.” She says with a sad smile. Her accent is thick, some mixture of Slavic and European- it sounds familiar, but nothing you can pinpoint immediately.

“Coming right up.” You leave the menu on the table for her to glance at when she works up the nerve.

When you come back with the coffee, she’s gone back to staring out the window. You recognize the longing for something that she’ll never have again.

“So, what brings someone like yourself all the way out here to our little town?” You set the coffee down in front of her, and take a few small, plastic cups of creamer out of your pocket on the table.

“War” She states simply, opening one of the creamers to put in her coffee.

“You're from Sokovia, then? I’ve met a couple of refugees over the years. I heard it’s gotten a lot better post blip. You ever think about going back?” You ask, finally recognizing the accent.

“I think about it all the time. It is- it was my home. But there’s no one there for me now.” She says, stirring in a packet of sugar.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything else I can get you?”

“I’m fine. Thank you, y/n.” She glances up at you, causing your stomach to flutter.

You nod and leave her with her coffee.

She stares into it between sips, clearly deep in thought. There is a lot for her to think about, a lot of life she’s lived in her 33 years. And so much of it was loss. So much of it was spent in pain, fighting for what she believed was right. As she takes another sip of her coffee, you return.

“Just checking in. Need anything?”

“Do you have kids, y/n?” She asks, as her finger slowly taps the side of her coffee cup.

“None of my own. Though I suppose a few of the local teens think of me as their mom away from home.” You respond.

“I had kids. Twins. But they’re gone now. Like my husband. Like my brother. Like my parents. Even my mentor. I’m not really sure what I have left.” She laments.

You unclick your pen and close your notepad, sliding them into your pocket. You give your coworker the signal - the one you give when you expect you’ll be with one customer for a much longer time than usual. You take a seat at the table across from her as she takes another sip of her coffee.

“Tell me about them.”

“What? What do you want to know?” She eyes you suspiciously and wraps her hands around the coffee cup.

“Anything. Just tell me about them.”

She hesitates but starts to open up.

“I’m not sure where to start. With my boys, maybe? Tommy and Billy, they were 10. Billy was a lot like me, really intelligent, sensitive- he was concerned about me. And Tommy- he was a handful, took after my brother a lot. Quick-witted, fast.”

“Why was Billy concerned about you?”

“I was depressed. I was still grieving the loss of my brother. He’d been gone many years at this point but I’d been so busy that I never really got a chance to just sit with it. As the twins got older, I had less to do and so I finally let it in. But as soon as I did, I lost them and my husband.”

She embellishes a little to not freak you out. But the core of it was true; as soon as she accepted that the Vision she had loved was gone, that what she was doing was harming others, she lost even more than what she started with.

“The world can be very cruel sometimes. I’m sorry you lost them all at the same time, that must be very difficult to deal with.” You say.

“I’m a little used to the world being needlessly cruel to me.”

“You mentioned that Tommy was a lot like your brother”

“Yes- he was so much like Pietro. My twin. We shared so much of our lives. He was always a little sarcastic, lighthearted. He kept me grounded. And when I lost him it felt like my heart shattered. He was killed when Ultron tried to destroy Sokovia. I think part of me died there with him” She takes another sip of her coffee.

“And yet, here you are. In the middle of nowhere, Pennsylvania, sipping on decaf and wondering what to do with your life now that the people you love are no longer in it.”

“You have any ideas on what I should do with it?” She asks, looking you in the eye. There is a pointedness to it- almost like she’s daring you to say something she’s heard before.

“I think you should live it. And that starts by ordering something off our menu that you normally wouldn’t get.” You gently push the menu over to her.

She looks over it. “Do you think I could get breakfast food? I know it’s late but I’d like to try the classic breakfast”

“Sure. How do you want your eggs? Scrambled, poached, boiled, sunnyside up, dippy?” You ask, pulling out your notepad and pen.

“Dippy?” She questions, raising an eyebrow.

“Sorry- over easy. My grandma always called them dippy eggs growing up.”

“I’ll have them dippy, then.”

“Great. Anything Else?”

“That’s all.” She states, handing you the menu.

“I’ll put the order in with the Chef and be right back.”

As you walk away, she retreats back into her mind, trying to determine if this was another one of her reality manipulations. If she had conjured this whole diner, including you, to help her process everything- just like she had in Westview a couple weeks ago. It’s not her doing, as far as she can tell. She isn’t making it rain, though she could make it stop, lighten the mood. She doesn’t want to.

“So,” You begin, sliding back into the seat across from her, “Now that you’ve decided to live, where do you want to go?”

“Maybe somewhere out west, in the Rocky Mountains. Somewhere secluded, where I can rebuild my life the way I want to.”

“That sounds nice.”

“What about you?” She asks.

“Me? I don’t want to go anywhere. I’ve lived my whole life here. Maybe that will change as I get older, but I have no desire to leave. Especially with all the superhero shenanigans going on in major cities. Out here, all of that seems distant” You explained. But if she asked you to go with her? That might be a different story.

“I’m hoping it will seem distant out there. But you never know.” She responds.

A bell dings, letting you know her food is ready. You excuse yourself and return with her food, deciding to let her enjoy the meal by herself. You’ve been in her hair a lot tonight. You start to do some of the closing duties, deep cleaning the tables in other sections and closing the blinds. After you finish, you go back to check on her.

“How are you doing?”

“Good. It was delicious.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Would you like anything else?” You take out your notepad again.

“No, thank you.”

“Alright. Then here’s your bill” You tear out the page from your notepad, listing the price of the coffee and the classic breakfast- the total comes to $9.64.

She digs into the pocket of her hoodie and hands you a well-worn twenty-dollar bill. “You can keep the change.”

“Thank you.” You tuck the twenty into your pocket

“Y/n? Will things be okay again? Do you think- do you think it’s okay if I started over?” She asks, a new nervousness in her voice.

You place your hand on top of hers and look her in the eye. “It’s okay to move on.”

She nods, a wave of relief washing over her. You slowly remove your hand.

“Drive safe now-” You begin, but interrupt yourself, “I just realized I never got your name.”

“Wanda. My name is Wanda.”

“Drive safe now, Wanda. I’ll be here if you ever come back from out West.”

“Thank you, y/n”

You watch as she leaves, imagining what your life might’ve been if you’d gone with her. If she started over with you. Maybe, one day, you won't have to imagine it.

[the-sound-of-her-wings]

Secrets we three- matt murdock! Something without a lot of pet names though! I don't think that's very fitting for his character.

No pet names involved!

❀ Premise: You are out at a bar with Matt, Karen, and Foggy when you have a panic attack. Matt Comforts you.

❀ Word Count: 1,531

❀ CW: Panic attack, Self Hatred, Hurt/Comfort? Kind of, Citrus

❀ Song: Secrets- We Three

// Because I should be feeling pretty// But I only feel alone//

It’s 8pm on a Thursday and the bar is packed. You’ve backed yourself into the corner, back behind the pool table, next to an old jukebox. You take a sip of your non-alcoholic drink and try to prevent yourself from having a panic attack. You close your eyes to focus on your breathing when you are reminded why you subjected yourself to this in the first place.

“Hey, y/n? You doing okay?” Matt asks.

“Fine and dandy,” You respond, raising your glass in the air.

“Are you going to stand in that corner all night? Or am I going to have to wait to see your prolific pool skills in action?” Foggy teases.

“Prolific pool skills? Who told you I was good at pool?”

“That might’ve been my fib,” Karen admits.

“It’s not a total fib.” You begin, finally inching out of your corner, “I’ve never played pool before, but I’m sure I could beat Foggy.”

Foggy almost does a spit-take but manages to keep all of his drink in his mouth. “You’ve never played pool before? Didn’t you go to college?”

“Bars weren’t really my scene,” You respond, still fighting the panic attack. The distraction is helping, but it’s not quite enough.

“Ah. So you were like Matt in College.” Foggy states.

“Don’t get him started on college Matt.” Karen rolls her eyes before taking a shot.

"I don’t really think I was that interesting,” Matt says.

“You think you’re interesting now?” You joke.

Matt presses a hand to his chest and frowns, “Oh no, my ego”

“I didn’t leave my apartment much in college,” You admit, watching as Foggy tries- and fails- to hit the green ball into the pocket closest to him, “When I did, it was just to go to class or the dining hall”

“Matt was the same way until he got laid,” Foggy announces.

Both you and Karen giggle.

“Hey-” Matt begins to protest, but then he gives it a moment of thought, “well.”

“Now watch and learn,” Karen tells you, before hitting a yellow and blue ball into two different pockets.

Matt and Foggy give her a round of applause and she does a little bow.

“So, from what I’ve gathered. You use the stick to knock the white balls into the other balls.” You state, having just been tossed the pool stick.

“One of the balls is white?” Matt jokes.

“Matt-” You begin, but bite your tongue and shake your head.

“We get it, your blind,” Karen says, in feigned annoyance.

“Yeah, blind jokes are only funny when I make them.” Foggy adds.

“Now that’s ableist,” Matt responds.

You lean over the pool table to line up your shot and manage to hit the purple ball into the far left pocket.

“Not bad for your first time.” Foggy states impressed.

“My turn,” Matt states, approaching you. You make sure he has it firmly in his grasp before letting it go. “You’re not gonna help?”

“Matt, you can’t pull that on every person you flirt with” Karen responds.

“It worked on you” He responds.

She tuts. “That it did.”

“You two dated?” You ask, surprised.

“Matt has dated every person he knows.” Foggy replies, keeping the mood light.

“Does that include you?”

“A little bit”

Matt- somehow- manages to knock three balls into two different pockets.

“Oh come ON” Foggy exclaims.

“Why do you have to be so good at everything?” You lament.

Matt shrugs. “Just a blessing, I guess”

You’ve finally started to feel completely at ease when a group of about 15 rowdy college kids erupts through the door. Immediately, your heart rate spikes, and you begin to retreat into your corner.

“Y/n?” You can barely hear Matt over all the noise they’re making.

You close your eyes to try and ground yourself, but you can’t block out the noise. And you don’t really feel like doing rhythmic tapping. Instead of enduring sensory hell, you do what you’ve always done- escape.

You murmur something to the group and run straight out the door, past the source of your panic.

Karen and Foggy exchange concerned glances. Karen heads towards the bar to close out her tab, and Foggy picks up his coat- both intending to follow you.

“I’ve got it,” Matt says. He can still hear your heart from here, and although it’s certainly slowed down, it’s still very loud.

“Are you sure? We can be back up.” Foggy responds.

“They seemed really frazzled,” Karen adds, returning from the bar.

“I’m sure. I’ll call you when I get home” Matt states. Your heart rate has started to speed up again, and he’s become even more concerned.

When he finds you, you’re very glad he can’t see. Because you’re currently walking in very tiny circles and mentally beating yourself up for having had a panic attack.

“Y/n? Are you okay?”

“I’ve been better” You respond, stopping yourself from pacing.

“You ran out of there pretty fast.” Matt comments.

“Didn’t realize my running was that loud”

“It’s not. It was your heart. Were you having a panic attack?”

“Would you believe me if I said no?” You ask, starting to pick at your nails.

He makes his way towards the sound of your heart and holds out his hand without saying a word.

You take it. “I thought so.”

You stay in that silence for a while, walking up and down the block, going everywhere and going nowhere. Your heart is music to his ears- the softer kind now, of a piano ballad or a string piece as opposed to the heavy metal that was blasting a few minutes earlier. It’s starting to build again- a tuba has joined in followed by the entire drumline. Finally, your thoughts pour out of you.

“I knew this would happen. I tried it in college. I did! I tried and I hated it. And I thought maybe this time would be different, y’know? Different place, around people I love. But it was the same as soon as those kids walked in. It’s just. I’m just so tired of feeling like I’m broken because I can’t tolerate all this- all this fucking NOISE!” You ramble, shouting the last word.

“Hey, hey-” He begins, grasping your hand tighter, “You don’t have to go out to bars. And you’re not broken because you can’t tolerate all the noise.”

“I know. I just- it’s so frustrating when you try and go out and have fun and then it’s ruined by something you can’t help. It doesn’t happen as much as it used to which is why I get so mad at myself when it does. It just feels like I’m ruining it for everyone.”

“You didn’t ruin anything. I’m glad you came, even if it didn’t go how you wanted it to.”

“How do you deal with it? With all that noise?”

“I was taught how to tune things out. It isn’t foolproof but it does the job most of the time.” Matt explains.

“I wish I could do that. All I’ve got is my rhythmic tapping, and I can’t do that in public.” You state with a sigh.

“Why not?”

“People stare when you do something they think is weird.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I can’t see,” Matt says, trying to encourage you to use one of your coping mechanisms.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve been blind for two decades”

“Matt that’s not what I-” You let go of his hand and exhale, before beginning your routine.

He hears them- the tiny little taps you make on various parts of your body. Five on your right shoulder, five on your left shoulder, five in the center of your forehead, five on your nose, and five on your chin. You repeat this three times, each tap echoing like a drum in his mind.

“Can you show me?” Matt asks.

“Uh- sure?” You state, moving to be directly in front of you, “Do you want me to use your hand or mine?”

“Whatever you prefer”

So you reach to his right shoulder, and tap, expecting him to jump- but he doesn’t. You methodically follow the pattern until you get to his nose, where he lets out a little chuckle. You pause momentarily- your heart fluttering- before continuing with the pattern.

“So uh. That’s it. Calming, right?” You say, feeling a new kind of nervousness taking hold.

“Definitely.”

“I uh. I should probably get going. Thank you for letting me confide in you though. I uh. I don’t talk about this much.”

“No problem. Thank you for sharing this with me.” Matt states.

And you want to go in for a kiss- to say, do anything- but you just smile. “I’ll see you later Matt”

“See you, y/n”

As Matt walks home, he contemplates telling you his secrets. The one that Karen and Foggy know about is the most obvious, but there’s more than that to share. Being open about his own loneliness- his own isolation- that wasn’t something he thought about before. Now that you’ve opened up about your own struggles, he thinks over talking about his own. That you could be someone to confide in. Maybe even someone to love.

[the-sound-of-her-wings]

Can I please get a Matt Murdock fic with Only Us from DEH. Just real fluff like EXTREME. Please and thank you.

Hello! So this didn't turn out as fluffy as I hoped but it is still majorly fluffy! I hope you like it!

❀ Premise: You are a law librarian and you meet and get to know Matt through law library associated activities.

❀ Word Count: 1,918

❀ CW: Law Libraries, Flirting, Fluff

❀ Song: Only Us- Dear Evan Hansen

❀ Citrus Scale: Citrus

The Law Library in Hell’s Kitchen was usually empty, which irked your supervisor. She’d always talk to you about the good old days where the library was filled with lawyers, judges, law clerks, all researching law. They started to dwindle in the mid to late 2000s with the introduction and widespread use of online versions of the same books that filled this library. By now, there was almost no one left coming into law libraries to do legal research- except for the lawyers from Nelson, Murdock, and Page.

You were shocked when you heard the door open one October morning, only to look up and find a pair of lawyers.

“Welcome to Columbus Law Library. My name is Y/N, how may I help you?”

“Hi, y/n. I’m Foggy Nelson- this is Matt Murdock. Do you happen to have a subscription to Westlaw Edge?”

“We do maintain a singular subscription to Westlaw Edge, though both Westlaw and LexisNexis are available in print format.”

“That’s all we need. Do you happen to have a braille keyboard?” Matt asks.

“Give me just a moment.” You say, looking it up in your system, “We do. It appears to be in storage, so let me go grab it for you.”

When you return to the front with the keyboard, the two men have already made their way over to one of the three computers.

“Let me just get this set up for you- this might take a few minutes, I’m not sure the last time this keyboard was used.” You state, brushing past the two men and taking a seat in front of the computer. You spend the next 10 minutes struggling to get the old thing to finally connect. “Got it! Mr. Murdock, please feel free to test it out.”

You get out of the seat to let him slide in, which he manages to do fairly well on his own.

“Works fine. Thank you for setting this up, y/n” Matt states.

“Of course. Is there anything else you’ll need while your here?” You keep a professional manner but you can feel the heat in your cheeks.

“No, I think we got it. If you could let me know when the next pocket part comes in for New York Jurisprudence, 2d, I’d appreciate it” Foggy responds.

“Of course. I’ll let you know as soon as we get it in. Could I please get your-” Matt is handing you their business card before you can even finish your sentence. “Thank you, Mr. Murdock.”

“Just call me Matt.”

“Right. I’ll be at the front desk if either of you needs anything”

After that day, you only ever see the two of them come in separately. Foggy is on a set schedule: every Monday morning from nine to noon, he uses one of the computers to conduct legal research- and will occasionally look through the hardcover LexisNexis books to cross-reference for certain cases. Matt is much more sporadic. Sometimes you’ll see him five times a week- other times it will be a whole month before he comes back in. It’s always later in the day, about an hour or two before the library closes.

“Matt. It’s nice to see you. It’s been a while.” You state, seeing him come in.

“Nice to see you y/n. Foggy asked me to ask about a pocket part?” He approaches the front desk.

“Yup. It just came in this morning. I’ll make sure it’s out for him when he comes in on Monday.”

“Great. Thanks, y/n” As he begins to walk away, you notice a trickle of blood on the back of his neck.

“Matt- your bleeding.” You state. You take the boxes of tissues you keep behind the counter and begin to approach him.

“I am?” He doesn’t seem that concerned.

“You should sit down.” It’s less a suggestion and more a demand. You pull over a chair for him to sit in, and you kneel next to him to be able to get close enough to the bleed.

“Are you gonna tell me how this happened?” You ask, cleaning up the wound.

“I’m an alcoholic.” He states.

“The alcoholics I know don’t smell like antiseptic and copper.” You reply. You are close enough to smell his breath, which also betrays the fact he hasn’t had anything to drink in a while- let alone enough to be drunk. “And that doesn’t answer my question”

“I’m willing to bet you haven’t been around enough alcoholics to know that for certain” He responds, leaning into your touch

“I guess it shouldn’t be surprising that a boxer's son gets into fights, but I guess I was expecting a little more from a lawyer of your caliber” You respond, causing him to jerk away from you. “Guess I hit a nerve”

“How’d you know it was from a fight?” He’s stood up to get further distance from you

“I didn’t, until now.” You reply, standing up. “But that’s none of my business,” You place the bloody tissue in his hands, closing his fingers around it, “Unless you want it to be.”

“Does attorney-client privilege apply?” Matt jokes with a pained smile.

“It would if I actually sat on the bar” You respond.

After a short silence, Matt says, “I’ll be doing some research.”

“And I’ll be here if you need anything.”

The next time you see Foggy, you don’t bring it up. You just mention that yes, Matt had stopped in on Friday, and yes, you had told him to tell Foggy that the pocket part was in. No, you have no idea why Matt didn’t tell him. It would be another two weeks before you saw Matt again.

“Welcome back, Matt.” You say, without looking up from the book you are reading. It’s not like he could see you.

“Y/n. Any updates I should know about?”

“Nope. Nothing interesting going on, I’m afraid.” Matt and Foggy are always the most interesting part of your day when they decide to enter it.

A few minutes later, you hear Matt shout from the computers, “Y/n? Can you come here a second?”

You put a bookmark on the page you had been reading and get up to see what’s going on.

“Hi Matt, how can I help?” You ask, approaching where he is sitting.

“I think the servers are down.” He states.

“Do you mind if I scootch in next to you to get a better look at the screen?” You ask.

“Sure thing.” He moves over enough to allow you to sit down on the edge of the chair.

“Let’s take a look- yup. Looks like their servers are down. Routine maintenance.” You try to ignore the fact that your thighs are pressed up next to each other while you confirm the issue.

“Convenient.” He says sarcastically.

“I suppose you’ll need my help, then,” You state, getting out of your shared chair, “What kind of law were you researching?” You ask.

“Lemon law.” He responds.

“Oh, The sexiest kind of law.” You joke. As you make your way to the relevant area of the library, Matt follows you.

“Only for one of the sexiest lawyers.” Matt teases.

“Don’t push your luck. I’ll lock you in the library.”

“Is that a threat?”

“The man from that one episode of the Twilight Zone sure thought it was”

“He wasn’t blind and at the mercy of librarian” Matt points out.

“But he was surrounded by the one thing he needed without the ability to complete the task. Which would be you if I wasn’t here.” You respond, pulling the relevant materials out.

“I could always call Foggy.”

“But that wouldn’t be fun, would it?” You reply, now having a stack of about three books balanced on your right arm. Just then, you feel Matt’s hand in the small of your back, causing you to almost drop all three books.

“No, it wouldn’t” You walk like that to the nearest table, where you set the books down, and turn into Matt’s hand, causing it to now be on one of your hips.

“Now, as charming as you are” You state, slowly peeling his hand away from your body with your own before sitting down, “You did come here to research lemon law- not me.”

“Who says I can’t do both?” He’s got a cheeky grin on his face as he sits down next to you.

“So what legal question are you researching in particular in regards to lemon law?” You ignore the flirting for now.

“Are cars primarily used for personal purposes but also used for food delivery as part of a person's employment considered covered under the lemon law?” He responds.

“Spoken like a true lawyer. Let’s see…” Your hands brush as you open the text.

“Can I ask you something?” Matt says after you spend a few minutes trying to locate the right section of the law.

“I’m starting to think you’re not actually that interested in lemon law.” You tease, closing the book. “Go ahead.”

“Did you mean it when you said it the other week? That it was none of your business unless I wanted it to be?” You can see him searching for your hand, which you had put on top of the closed book. You move it so he can find it.

“Of course I did.” You say, as your hands intertwine.

“I think I want it to be your business. But I don’t know if it’ll change-” He breathes, “this.”

“I don’t think there’s anything that could change this.” You respond, releasing his hand and placing it against your face.

“You promise?” He asks, using his thumb to trace your lips.

“I promise” You state, his thumb still on your lips. They are soon replaced with his own, while both of his hands cup either side of your face. When he pulls away, you nuzzle your face into his right hand.

“Who knew lemon law could be so romantic” You joke, causing him to laugh.

“Can I walk you home?” He asks.

“Of course, you can.”

Matt is still very sporadic about visiting the law library, but he is very consistent about your dates, and always has an excuse if he needs to reschedule. You find out about a month after your first kiss the reason why Matt had come in injured that day, but it doesn’t change anything for you.

“Matt, I’m ready.” You shout from his bathroom, having just changed into something a little fancier. He’d booked a table at a restaurant not far from his apartment for the two of you.

“I’d say you look stunning..” He begins

“But I’d be lying.” You reply with a smile.

“You do smell very nice.” Matt gives an actual compliment.

“Thank you. And you look very handsome- though your tie could use some help” You reply, adjusting the tie around his neck.

“Y/n, are you sure this doesn’t change anything?” He asks as you make the final adjustments.

“You keep asking me that, Matt. It doesn’t- not for me. Does it change things for you?” You reply, pushing back some of his hair.

“No- It’s just. It changed a lot of things for other people in my life. Never for the better” He laments.

“I’m not them. I love you for who you are- all parts of you” You respond, placing a hand on his cheek.

He smiles, moving his face to kiss the palm of your hand.

“Is that enough reassurance?” You ask, removing your hand from his face.

“It is.”

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[the-sound-of-her-wings]

Ok I saw that you had a song by we three on your Playlist! I LOVE them and although this song wasn't on your list I'd love if you did a matt murdock x reader fic based on the song half hearted by we three. I feel like that's the perfect song for an angst fic of you and him fighting after one of his nights out goes wrong and a little too far and you reach your breaking point and he begs you to stay. Gotta love some vulnerable emotional Matt!

Matt is not exactly emotionally vulnerable in this until the very end but this is very angsty and also took a while to write because I kept inflicting emotional damage on myself.

❀ Premise: You take care of Matt after he comes home one night, get incredibly scared by it, and then have a fight with him.

❀ Word Count: 2.432

❀ CW: Heavy Angst, Descriptions of Anxiety, Catholicism, A Verbal Fight, Self Deprecation, Self Pity, Suicide Mention

❀ Song: Half Hearted- We Three

Most nights you sit in silence, waiting for him to return. When he first told you, it wasn’t a big deal. At least, you thought it wouldn’t be. Matt has always been the same person, whether you were privy to that side of him or not. And now you knew where all the mysterious injuries were coming from. That was what you told yourself at the time.

And it was fine at first. He’d kiss you good night and promise to be back in the morning. You won’t even notice I’m gone, he’d say. So you’d do your nightly routine, watch some YouTube videos and fall asleep. You’d wake up in the morning to find him next to you, a little worse for wear, but the same Matt he was when he’d left you.

One night, you decide to stay up- wait for him as a surprise. You get out the first aid kit, expecting some minor injury, and two glasses of wine- and wait. At about 2 in the morning, right when sleep is becoming extremely desirable, you hear him throw open the window by your fire escape.

“Matt?” You ask. A large thud follows.

“Matt!” You exclaim, rushing to him. He is covered in blood- his own, someone else's. There’s an open cut on his chin and his costume seems to be dented.

“It got a little” He coughs,” hectic out there. Help me out of this, will you?”

You don’t say a word and begin to peel off the bits and pieces, starting with his mask, followed by his gauntlets, boots, shin guards- any part that can be detached without taking the costume completely off.

“Can you stand?”

“I’ll try” He uses the wall to support himself as he stands. It then becomes clear that he won’t be going anywhere without something- or someone to support him.

“Let me just-” You state, trying to untangle him from the suit. As you begin peeling it off his back, he winces- and it’s clear as day why. His back is littered in bruises- some bleeding, most a deep purple. The adrenaline rushing through your body does not allow you to react to it.

“I don’t think I can stand much longer” His voice is low like he’s choking back sobs.

“Okay, okay. I’ve got you. Let’s get to the couch” You reply, trying to support him without causing more pain- but he’s so sensitive that it's impossible. When you make it to the couch, you try to set him down gently, but it doesn’t work. He falls onto the couch- and you finally see the front of him, which is even worse than the back.

“Thank you. I think I- I’m going to rest now” He whispers, his eyes closing.

“No, Matt I need you to stay awake. Matt? Matt?” But he can’t hear you.

The adrenaline subsides and the panic kicks in full force as you try to figure out what to do next. You can’t take him to the hospital, it would reveal his identity. But your not a nurse, you don’t know the severity of his injuries- what if he’s bleeding internally? What if he’s dying right now? You push the thought aside and begin to pace.

Maybe you could contact Claire, that nurse Matt had told you about. But you don’t have her number and he could die by the time she got here. What about Foggy? There’s nothing he could do to help either- it’d be the same situation. Who can you call? He’s dying. He’s dying. He’s dying. You can’t get your brain to shut up- to stop telling you the worst-case scenario. What about the first aid kid? Take his blood pressure- but you can’t do that, you don’t know how. What can you do? How can you help? God help him. God help you.

“Stay with me. Remain here with me. Watch and pray. Watch and pray” You sing, trusting in the prayer you’d been taught as a child, as you try and fail to handle this situation

And as you pace, as you pray, as you repeat the songs you learned in childhood, you realize how utterly normal you are. How useless you are to help him with his wounds. You were not built for this- and you were not built to handle it, either.

As you watch his chest rise and fall, keeping a steady pace- your own heart rate skyrockets. You cannot calm yourself down. Sobs rock through your body, so strong that you can no longer hold up your own weight. You collapse onto him, sobbing so violently, with a pain so strong you begin to wonder if it is even your own. Perhaps this is the grief Mary felt when her son was removed from the cross. But at least Matt came back to you alive, this time. At least this grief is not permanent. But what if it is?

“Stay with me. Remain here with me. Watch and pray. Watch and pray”

You sob until no more tears come. With your head lying on his stomach, you hear the beating of his heart, feel his breath. Maybe he’s just badly bruised. Maybe he’ll be okay in the morning. You tear yourself away from him and curl into a tight ball, rocking back and forth. He’ll be okay. He has to be. And then you really try to compose yourself- stand up, get a glass of water, and get to work examining the damage- and whatever you can clean.

You start with his chin, gently dabbing at it with a sanitizing wipe. Once it’s clean, you place a fresh band-aid on it. Next, you address his badly bruised chest, cycling between ice packs and heat packs- 10 minutes on of ice, 20 minutes off, 10 minutes on of heat, 20 minutes off- repeating for the next 3 hours. In that time, you’ve downed both glasses of wine and recited many prayers and just as many curses. You get no sleep that night, and 2 hours later, the sun is an unwelcome surprise.

When he wakes up around 9 am, you are relieved.

“Oh, Thank God! Matthew, I was so worried. You looked so bad and you passed out and I-” You state, wrapping your hands around his right hand.

“I’ll be okay, y/n.” He reassures you, beginning to sit up, “How long was I out for?”

“Seven hours, I think. Should I call anyone? I already told Foggy you’d be out for the day. How badly are you hurt?”

“No, no. And I’ve got a minor concussion and probably a couple of bruised ribs- I’ve had worse.” Matt states.

The relief you had felt momentarily is gone. You know it was supposed to be comforting, his way of letting you know it wasn’t that serious. But it shakes you. Because how could it get worse. “Worse?” You whisper.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine, I promise.” He kisses the back of your hand, which is still tightly encircling his.

“Okay” You reply, knowing that not worrying will be impossible from now on.

A few weeks have passed since that night when your blissful ignorance was violently shattered. Every day you step on another shard of glass. You cannot pretend like you did before- that this changes nothing. It changes everything. Matt was never just the charming lawyer you met at bar, the one who fights for those who cannot fight for themselves, whose faith is just as important as his practice. You fell in love with a facade. And the truth is suffocating.

Every night since then, whenever he went out, you would stay up, waiting, praying for his safe return. You had gotten a bit snippier around him, more on edge. He tries to be accommodating but he’s not sure how. Finally, tonight you decided to ask him to just stay home. Just take the night off. Relax.

“Do you have to go out tonight?” You ask, drying the last dish with a towel.

“Why? Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong it’s just,” You sigh, “I want you to stay.”

“I can’t. I think I’ve finally got Fisk, If I can just get to him tonight I-”

“Of course. Fisk. Who else would it be?” You set the dish down and hang up the towel.

“Y/n?” Matt heads tilts in the direction of your heart.

“Matthew. It’s always Fisk. It’s always some big bad guy who could kill you in an instant. Never anyone you could easily take on.”

“Y/n where is this coming from? You said you were fine with this I don’t understand-”

“I was. But I didn’t know what I was getting myself into.”

“I’m not gonna stop” Matt states simply.

"I know that and I’m not trying to stop you-” He interrupts you.

“That seems to be what you’re doing right now”

“I just want you to stay tonight. One night. That’s all I’m asking.”

“I already told you I can’t. What about tomorrow? I’ll stay in tomorrow if that will make you happy.” Matt tries offering up a solution.

“No that’s not. What this is about. I just can’t stand to see you like that again. Don’t go tonight. Stay with me.” Your pleading

“You're being selfish. The city needs me- no one else can take own Fisk!” He’s yelling.

“AND YOU'RE SUICIDAL. Matthew there are so many ways you could help the city-”

“Here we go” He’s heard it all before- but not from you. And it hurts more now than it did the first few times.

“You mean so much more to this city as a lawyer than you will ever mean as a vigilante. You could start mutual aid funds, overturn false imprisonments, take people down using the law”

“You know as much as I do how necessary this is. Men like Fisk don’t fall because some lawyer takes them out. They’re taken down by people like me.”

“Men like Fisk go down for tax fraud. Look at Capone- fuck, look at Norman Osborne.”

“You know Fisk is nothing like them.”

“Matthew. Can’t you see you're destroying yourself? How many concussions have you had? How many years have you already taken off your life?”

“I’d rather die as Daredevil than live as Matt Murdock”

Tears well up in your eyes, “Please, Matt. Just stay. Just. Please.”

He says nothing and quietly leaves the apartment. You stare after him, tears streaming down your face. “Stay with me. Remain here with me. Watch and pray. Watch and pray”

You wait for him. Staring in silence at a blank Tv screen, taking sips of wine, a head full of no thoughts, and a heart aching. You’ve packed your bags, have them sitting by the door, so you can leave once he gets home. Finally, he climbs in through the back window, once again covered in blood- this time definitely not his own. He doesn’t seem worse for wear- maybe a little bruised, but nothing like the night before. You say nothing. Simply wait for him to sit down- and when he tries to sit down next to you, you get up and move to a seat across from him.

And you stare at him, eyes like daggers- daggers he can’t feel, daggers he can’t see. And he doesn’t know how awful he looks- he can’t see all the blood, the way it stains his skin. The rage and the pain and the sorrow on your face are clear as day but Matt has not seen daylight in over 20 years. He hears your teeth grind, your jaw click- the sip of wine you take to quell your frustration. You sit in the strained silence, knowing that whatever this was- whatever you had- has been ripped apart. You still love each other- the real person sitting across from you, and the image you had of one another in your mind- but this is a fork in the road.

“I can’t do this.” You state.

“We can figure something out” He responds.

You want him to plead. You want him to beg- like you had. To feel what you had gone through to just. To just fucking let you know for once what it was he was going through. But he doesn’t.

You smile sadly to yourself, “Maybe. But I need a break. I need therapy. I need to leave.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“You know what you could do, but I know you won’t do it. I love you, Matthew. But I can’t do this.” You stand up, deliberately walking in a pattern that would make it difficult for him to reach you. You’ve got your bags in hand, ready to head out the door, to reflect on all of this- away from him.

“I understand if you need a break, if you need space. Just. Don’t make it permanent.” Matt states. He was expecting this would be the outcome but the city and its people will always come first. Even when it hurts. That’s what he tells himself- it’s what he always tells himself.

“I can’t make that promise. Goodbye, Matthew. And God help you.”

He hears the door shut. And he throws his head back in stifled, pained laughter, "I'm such a fucking idiot" He kicks the end of the couch. "Such a fucking idiot. Don't know what's good for me. Don't know I've ruined it until it's gone."

"How would I know? How could I tell? Too busy being Daredevil, too busy saving the world to be with the person I love. Is this your idea of punishment? Is this what I get for trying to save the city? A man without fear. What a fucking joke."

"Can't even fucking tell them how much they mean to me. How much I want them to stay. No. Just wallow in self-pity, in guilt, in shame. Of course. What else am I good for?"

"Every time. Every single time. And I never open up about it, I never say a word I just sit there and take it like it's. Like it's nothing! What the fuck am I doing to myself? How did I get like this? Why couldn't I just- just tell them that I couldn't give it up even if I wanted to." He surprises himself with that last line of the rant. That Daredevil is not just a part of him but an addiction, one he feeds every night, one he pushes people out for. One he just pushed you out for. "What have I done?"

[the-sound-of-her-wings]

A Love That Won't Sit Still, Pt. 1/3

TASM! (Andrew Garfield) Peter Parker and Gender Neutral! Reader

You are minding your own business in a local park when a stranger startles you. Fluff ensues.

Likes, Comments, and Reblogs Appreciated!

❀ Word Count: 1,151

❀ Contains: Fluff, A lot of discussion of eating cookies (not a euphemism)

❀ Citrus Scale: Citrus

❀ Inspiration: Stray Italian Greyhound by Vienna Teng

❀ Part Two, Part Three

You are in Washington Square Park, sitting on a bench and reading a book. The book is placed in your lap, with one hand holding it steady and the other occupied- with a cookie from the coffee shop on the corner. The book is the 3rd in a series of 14 books. You probably wouldn’t have started the first book had you known there were thirteen more to read- but you were hooked from the start, and there’s no stopping you now. Except pending availability at your local library, of course.

It’s a cool fall day in New York, the sun is shining and the wind is light, which means tourists. and lots of them. Every now and then, you take a few minutes to people watch to see if you can tell the difference. Today, the tourists are all gathered around the fountain, and also what appears to be an engagement photo shoot. You think to yourself, who would plan to get engaged here? In such a public place? You shake your head, and return to your book, vaguely aware of a person skating by.

Then you are abruptly aware that the person skating by has just dropped a lens into the book on your lap, causing you to startle and drop what remained of your cookie.

“Hey- you dropped something!” You shout after the person, picking up the lens from out of your book before shutting it, preparing to chase after them. But you don’t have to, as by the time you stand up, the stranger has returned.

“Uh- Hi, I dropped something?” He asks you.

“Yeah” You say, holding up the lens, “And if I hadn’t been there, it’d be on the ground.” Like my cookie.

“I’m glad you were there then, or uh, else it’d have shattered. I’m Peter, by the way.” He runs an anxious hand through his hair.

“Y/n.” You say, handing over the lens.

“Thanks” He responds, taking off his backpack to place it back in the bag where it belongs- and had fallen out of, due to the back being completely unzipped. As he zips the backpack up, he notices something on the ground.

“Was- was that your cookie? Did I cost you a cookie?” Peter asks you.

“Maybe.” You say. Usually you would say no, move on and get the interaction over with- return to your much better written dystopian fantasy. But for some reason, you don’t- and you’re not sure why.

“Well, I can’t have that. Let me buy you a new one.” Peter says.

“Are you sure? I was almost finished with it anyway, it’s not a big deal.” Another place where you could have just said no, and got on with your day. Sure, it might’ve been rude- but there are worse things to be than rude.

“It’s the least I could do. You saved me from getting fired you know,” He begins, “If that lens would have shattered,” He makes a loud noise by harshly blowing out air through his lips, “I’d have been toast.”

“I guess I could go for another cookie.” You state, scratching your head near the base of your skull.

“See, that’s what I’m saying! Where too?” He responds, emphatically.

“Do you know that one café by Leslie Lohman?” You ask. This serves as a test and as an actual suggestion. The test is to see if Peter has any idea what a Leslie Lohman is, and the suggestion is the café that has some of the best- and biggest- chocolate chip cookies you’ve ever eaten.

“The one with enormous cookies? Good choice.” With a destination in mind, and both knowing the direction, you begin walking the couple blocks to the café. “You ever been? To the museum, I mean.”

“Lohman? Yeah, a couple of times. Their exhibits are always so interesting. What about you?”

“Only once so far, but I’d like to go again.” Peter responds.

He passed.

“So, you're a photographer? How’d you land a gig like that?” You ask.

“Ask politely. No but seriously, I have no idea. I think Jameson saw I was a desperate teen he could exploit for cheap photos of Spiderman. Been working for the Bugle ever since.” Peter explains.

“You work for the Daily Bugle? The ‘We should have let the lizard turn us all into lizards’ opinion piece Daily Bugle?” It’s the only article you’ve ever read from the outlet, but is par for the course of the kind of things they publish.

“That’s the one. And for the record, I only take photos for them.”

“I get it. Gotta make money somehow.” You say, shrugging.

“So what about you?” He asks you.

“I’m a grad student.”

“Ah. So you’re unemployed and living off student loans” Peter states, partly joking.

“Essentially. Not like a full-time job at minimum wage covers much anyway.”

“I respect it. You know, I had planned on going to college, but I. I never got around to it.” He starts off lighthearted but the tone of his voice shifts, and his jaw tightens. His eyes seem distant, remembering something that upset him. You're not sure why, and right now, you don’t feel that it’s appropriate to ask.

“Well, I’m sure you had good reason.”

He gives you a sad smile and nods. Soon after, you arrive at the café.

It is not the most interesting café in New York. In fact, it’s not even the most interesting café in a 5 block radius. It is, however, the café least likely to have an excess amount of tourists on any given day. It, of course, has the massive bonus of having absolutely massive cookies and being run by a lesbian couple.

Just when you’re getting ready to sit down with Peter and begin eating your cookie, you realize what you’ve gotten yourself into. It makes you squirm, in multiple ways.

“Peter, Did- did you offer to get me a cookie so you could get to know me?” You ask.

“I mean maybe- I don’t- I will neither confirm nor deny that assertion” He responds nervously.

“Do you try to get to know every person you mildly inconvenience or just the cute ones?”

“I only buy cookies for the cute ones.”

Before you can continue flirting, Peter’s phone begins to ring in his pocket. He pulls it out to see who's calling and sighs.

“Ah shit. That’s my boss- I gotta run. See you later, y/n” Peter grabs his backpack and rushes out the door.

“Wait- Peter!” You yell after him, but he’s gone. He was in such a hurry that he not only left the cookies he had bought for himself, but had forgotten to ask for your number. Sitting there, dumbfounded, you wonder when you’ll get to see him again. You shrug to yourself, having a slightly more important problem at hand- how you’re going to eat all of these cookies.

[the-sound-of-her-wings]

A Love That Won't Sit Still Pt. 2/3

TASM! (Andrew Garfield) Peter Parker and Gender Neutral! Reader

You run into Peter and then he crashes into your window. You know, normal stuff.

Likes, Comments, and Reblogs Appreciated!

❀ Word Count: 2,845

❀ Contains: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort (Peter gets hurt and then you comfort him), Angst (Because of the being hurt/sick), Discussion of Gwen Stacy

❀ For readers who are just here for the fluff, I've put two stars for where it begins to get heavy.

❀ Citrus Scale: Orange

❀ Inspiration: Stray Italian Greyhound by Vienna Teng

❀ Part 1, Part 3

The next time you see Peter, you don’t see him- which is probably why you walked straight into him. You had your drink in one hand, your phone in the other, and had been looking down at your phone to read a text. That’s when you bumped into him almost head-on- you probably would have knocked heads if he hadn’t attempted to move out of the way. While he prevented a dual concussion, he wasn’t fast enough to prevent getting drenched in what remained of your drink.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t see-” You begin to apologize when you realize who it is you’ve run into, “Peter? Is that you?”

“Sure is!” He responds, trying to wipe away what hadn’t quite absorbed into his shirt. “I’m glad I ran into you again, y/n.”

“Me too. Although, next time, hopefully, it will be less literal.”

Peter chuckles and jokes, “Yeah, we’ve really got to stop having so many food-related run-ins. I can’t afford them.” Well, partly jokes.

“And I can?” You respond.

“True, true.”

“So, where did you want to go to fix your shirt situation?” You ask.

“Oh, I was just gonna go to work like this” He deadpans.

“Good luck with that,” You say, pretending to walk away.

You only get a few feet away when Peter says, “Hey, you can’t leave! I still need to get your number!”

You turn around and walk back towards him. “And who’s fault is it that you don’t have it already?”

“Listen- duty was calling.”

“Can’t refuse the Call of Duty” The awful video game pun slips out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.

“Was that. A horrible video game pun?”

“Maybe.”

After the two of you exchange numbers, you bring back up Peter’s current predicament. Which you put him in.

“Seriously though- should we go to the laundromat? I’ll pay.”

“Thanks but it’s not a big deal. Besides, my apartment is only a couple of blocks over.”

“I don’t see how that gets my drink out of your shirt. Unless you have one of those rare laundry-included apartments” You retort.

“On my salary? Of course not. I was just going to make dealing with this shirt a tomorrow problem. And my apartment has free replacement shirts.” There’s a short pause before he asks, “Do you want to come with?”

“Uh. Sure- Yeah, I’ll come with.” You respond, trying to talk yourself into it.

“Great! So what are you doing out here in Woodhaven? I didn’t think there was any student housing here.”

“There isn’t. I had borrowed a book from the Queens Public Library here that I couldn’t find at the school library. So I’m here to return it.”

“Oh, I guess that makes sense. What book were you reading?” Peter asks, not knowing what he’s just got himself into.

You spend the rest of the time it takes to walk to Peter’s apartment describing the book and explaining the series it’s a part of. “- I think that about sums it up” You conclude.

“We're here.” Peter states, stopping in front of a large, ancient brick building. It looks fairly sturdy and doesn’t have too many signs of decay- just a few cracks on the outside from where it’s settled over the decades.

You walk through the front entrance and up two flights of stairs to reach the apartment. You wait patiently behind him as he struggles with the lock on his door. Once it opens, you wait a few seconds before following him into his apartment.

It is much cleaner than you imagined it, and yet somehow more chaotic. There seem to be about 10 different science projects in various parts of the room. The coffee table is covered in textbooks, all open. There is a distinct trail of socks that appears to be leading to the bedroom which Peter just entered so he could change shirts. It’s not the worst-looking apartment you’ve ever seen- and right now, it’s certainly much cleaner than yours.

“Sorry it’s a little messy- I wasn’t expecting visitors,” Peter states, exiting his room wearing a new shirt.

“No worries. I see you’ve been doing a lot of research?” It’s not meant as a question, but you are a little confused about why a photographer seems to have all these science experiments running in his apartment.

“Yeah, just side projects. Trying to uh, figure out how to improve the lenses, make them shatterproof” It is not a very convincing lie.

“Uh-huh. Listen, if you’re making,” You lower your voice to say the word, “drugs” and then return to normal volume, “I don’t care. You do what you need too- but you don’t have to lie to me about it.”

You can see him thinking of how to respond to this. A variety of facial expressions are made, and a few times his mouth opens to say something, but then he shakes his head and closes it again. Finally, he says, “You caught me. It’s” He mimics you, “drugs.”

That was somehow less convincing. Instead of pushing it, you decide to put it on the back burner to simmer on later. And that’s how your first date starts. You spend the afternoon with him, getting to know him a little more, playing some video games, and looking through some of his textbooks.

The next few dates are just as pleasant as the first. On the fourth date, you kiss for the first time. And on the 6th date, you give a pet name- doll. It’s just a few days after your ninth date- the first time you exchanged I love yous, about 3 months into your relationship, that you hear a loud crashing noise inside your apartment.

You had been preparing to go to sleep when you heard it. You pull the safety knife you keep under your pillow out, exiting your bedroom. When you enter the living room, it’s obvious what caused the noise- Spiderman is lying on top of your table, panting, face towards the ceiling. He’d knocked over the box of cereal you had left out for easy midnight snack access.

“Hey, Spiderman… are you okay?” You ask, lowering the knife.

“Hi y/n. I just need to, uh, catch my breath.” He responds.

You turn on your kitchen light and approach him, “How do you know my name Spider-” At that moment, he takes off his mask, revealing to you someone very, very familiar, “PETER?” You exclaim, dropping the knife.

“So this is not. Exactly how I planned on telling you.” He responds with a wheeze.

“Oh, you weren’t planning to crash into my apartment in the middle of the night to reveal your secret identity to me? I could never have guessed.” You say sarcastically.

“I didn’t think I’d make it home.” You examine his body and come to the same conclusion.

“How can I help?”

“I’d like to get off the table, please”

“Okay.” You respond, “Can you roll towards me?” You position yourself on the left side of the table to try to catch him.

“I think so” He responds, rolling towards the sound of your voice. When he rolls off the side of the table and falls into your arms, you fall down with him.

“Well. That could’ve gone better. Can you stand?”

“I’ll need help.” Peter says with a whimper.

“Okay. I’m gonna grab a chair from the other side of the table. You can use the chair and me as leverage to help you stand.”

“Okay”

That part of the plan works, “Where to? The bathroom?”

“Yes”

With his arm wrapped around your shoulders, you shuffle together towards the bathroom.

“Bathtub?”

“Bathtub”

You sit him down on the edge of the bathtub and start the water. Once it’s full- you help him lower himself into the bathtub. Once in, he begins to take off the spider suit- your assistance not required.

You sit on the toilet and watch as he cleans his upper half. From his hips down, he’s still wearing the suit. He winces at bruises and the small, open cuts that litter his body. “Do you want help?”

“Please”

You kneel outside the tub, take the washcloth he had been using to clean himself up, and begin cleaning the neglected wounds on his back. You try to be as gentle as you can while still cleaning the skin of any dried blood.

“What the hell were you doing that you ended up with so many open wounds” It’s a rhetorical question.

“I got dragged by a train”

You don’t respond.

“Can you turn towards me? Your back was pretty bad.” You ask.

He complies- and thankfully, it looks much better than his back does.

“Okay. How bad are your legs?”

“About as bad as the rest of me.”

“Alright. Well- you’re gonna have to take off the rest of your suit.”

“Give me a few minutes to work up enough strength to stand.” You sit in uneasy silence as, unbeknownst to you, his healing factor starts to help him out a bit.

“Okay- a moment of silence” Peter states, building up his confidence.

“We were already-”

“Shh!”

He is successful. He hands you his sopping wet Spider-suit, and you put it in your sink.

“You don’t wear underwear underneath that?” You ask, getting to work on his legs.

“Of course I do- I just attach it to the suit so I don’t give myself a wedgie”

“I see,” You say, leaning over to reach his other leg.

“When were you going to tell me you were Spiderman?” You ask the question that’s been floating in the back of your mind since the reveal about 20 minutes ago.

“I hadn’t decided on an exact timeframe yet.” He admits, “But I figured I’d wait until at least date 10.”

“Who else knows?” You’ve moved down to his feet.

“Just you and Aunt May”

You finished washing every surface of his lower body except one area- because he’s sitting on it. And you also have no intention of washing it.

“Are you good to finish up on your own?” You ask, taking his hand and pressing it against your cheek.

He rubs his thumb in small circular motions.

“I think so. Thank you, y/n”

He kisses you with the most passion you’ve felt in a very long time, and you return it, but only briefly. As you pull away you say, “Peter you -are something else. But you are washing your own ass.” You pass him the washcloth you had been using, and he removes his hand from your face.

“Noted.”

“I’m gonna try to find something for you to wear. Let me know if you need help getting out of the tub.”

“Alright. I’ll be out in another 10 minutes”

As soon as you exit the bathroom, you return to the kitchen to fetch the knife you dropped- you didn’t need any more potential hazards for Peter to injure himself on. After you return the knife to its safe place under your pillow, you rummage through your closet for something for Peter to wear. You manage to find a pair of old gym shorts in the back of your closet after a few minutes, and an even older pair of sweatpants. You hope that your one oversized sweatshirt will fit him, though you're scared he might drown in it.

You return to the bathroom with the clothes in hand, knocking on the door to announce your intention to enter. He is just stepping out of the tub as you walk in.

“Hopefully these will do the job.” You state, laying the pile of clothes on the edge of your sink. You take the towels hanging off the back of the bathroom door and hand them to him to dry off.

“Do you need any help drying off or do you think you can take it from here?”

“I think I’m good, but I’ll probably need some help getting out of here once I’m dressed.”

“By here you mean the bathroom, right? You’re not gonna try to walk or swing home when you're this injured- are you?” You ask, watching as he dries himself off and starts to get dressed.

He’s just gotten your old pair of gym shorts on when he gives you a look that tells you he absolutely was planning on doing that. “No?”

You sigh. “Peter. Can we just go to bed?” You're exhausted.

As soon as he finishes putting on your sweatshirt, he pulls you into a hug, “I’m sorry- I’ll be okay, I promise.”

“You better” You state, nuzzling your nose against his, “Now let’s get to bed.”

When Peter wakes up the next morning, you can tell something’s wrong. He’s not quite as energetic, not as quick with his words. He’s sick. You use the old method of putting the back of your hand against his forehead, against yours, and then back against his. He has a fever- and from the heat radiating out of him- a pretty significant one.

“Y/N?” He asks, his eyes barely open.

“I’ll be right back, Peter. You're too hot right now, I need to get something to cool you down.”

“You think I’m hot?”

You sigh, walking out of the room and into your tiny kitchen to moisten a towel. By the time you return, Peter is attempting and failing at trying to sit up.

“Where do you think you're going?”

“I got work- I’m gonna be late” He states, attempting to rock himself up to a sitting position. This time, he is successful.

“Peter.” You state, standing in front of him. “You’re in no state to go to work”

“I’m fine- It’s fine.”

“Peter” You repeat, lightly pushing on his one shoulder, causing him to lose his balance and fall back onto the bed, “You are, clearly, the pinnacle of physical health.”

“Mhm,” He responds with a sigh.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, about level with his chest, and lay the moistened towel on his forehead, “This should help with your fever”

“Thank you, y/n” He mutters.

**“Oh, Peter... What am I gonna do with you?” You whisper, picking up his left hand and pressing it to your lips.

“She used to say that to me all the time.” He begins to ramble, “Gwen. She would’ve been working on her doctorate by now…” There is a long, heavy silence. Peter’s eyes begin to well up with tears, “but she’s dead.”

“I’m so sorry, doll.” You reply, keeping hold of his left hand in yours, and using your right thumb to wipe away the tears from his eyes. You can tell he’s in so much pain- both from whatever infection has taken hold of him and from the grief he’s reliving.

“I thought I was gonna marry her, you know? I thought we’d be able to build a life together but then she died. And it was all my fault” He laments.

“It wasn’t your fault, Peter.” You respond, wrapping both hands around his left hand. You're pushing aside your own mixed feelings about that statement for the time being- you know he’s not saying that to hurt you.

“It was my fault. I wasn’t fast enough- I thought if I caught her with my web that she’d be okay but I wasn’t. I wasn’t fast enough. Her head- it. It. She. She-” Peter tries desperately to convey what happened that day but he can’t do it, and he starts to sob.

You let go of his hand and try to hoist him up with your arms, and you're mostly successful. The towel you had gotten to calm his fever falls off in the process. You hold him up as he sobs into your shoulder, rubbing his back the whole time. You don’t say a word- there are no words.

After a few minutes, his sobbing subsides a bit and he begins to sniffle.

“I don’t want to lose you too”

And you want to tell him that he won’t. Every part of your body is screaming at you to promise him- promise him he won’t need to deal with another trauma like this- that he won’t be responsible. That you will live a long, love-filled life. But you can’t promise him that- because you can’t be certain of when your time will come. So instead, you hug him as tightly as you can.

When you pull back from the hug- still holding on to him so he does fall back onto the couch- you brush the hair out of his eyes and give him a kiss on the forehead. He is so weak and so tired.

“Peter- get some rest. And when you're not in the delirium of a fever, you can tell me all about her.”

You don’t get a response- he has already started to drift off to sleep. You gently guide him back down to the bed. You pick up the towel that had fallen on the floor and place it back on his forehead. And you stay by his side.

[the-sound-of-her-wings]

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Oh, it'll be over and I'll still be asking, when?

AO3

As long as I've been writing, I've never nailed down how to talk about myself. It never feels authentic and perhaps it never has been. I believe you should be as anonymous as you want on the internet, and as such, there's not much to learn about me.

My pronouns are she/they/it. I have a Bachelor's Degree in Political Science and an insatiable love of learning. I am a theater adult, figure skating fan and adult skater. And mostly, I just try to live my life as happily and stress free as I can when I'm not working my 8 to 5.

Fandoms Masterlist:

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Shadow and Bone

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