yohanseyebrowmole

[yohanseyebrowmole]

Jackass

Summary : Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why. 

Pairing : Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x florist!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Secret wife trope. Cursing, Injury. Featuring the Thunderbolts*. Bucky kinda gaslights the entire team. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 3k

Note : The next chapter of spoils of war is almost here, but I just need to go over a couple of paragraphs! In the meantime, enjoy!

The Thunderbolts knew a few undeniable truths about Bucky Barnes.

One: He was grumpy.

Two: He was a private person.

Three: He never, ever let anyone see where he lived.

That last one bothered them the most. They’d pieced together the general area; a quiet neighborhood with old brick buildings, modern cafés, and just enough charm to make it feel… vintage. But no one had ever set foot inside his home, no one had even seen him unlock the door to his sanctuary, since he dodged every casual suggestion to hang out at his place with a variation of “I got plans” or another. And, curiously, every time they stopped for coffee in this part of town, Bucky would mysteriously slip into the tiny flower shop beneath a brick apartment building.

That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.

What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.

With the florist.

With you.

“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside. 

They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.

“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.

Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.

Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”

Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”

They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.

That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”

As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”

Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”

“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“She was literally wearing it—”

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.

Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.

What was the world coming to?

—

Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ. 

Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib. 

She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”

Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.

“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase

Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”

From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”

Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.

Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”

Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.

Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”

John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”

“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”

John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”

“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”

Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”

Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”

“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”

Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”

He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.

And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.

—

Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.

And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.

It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets. 

Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.

“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”

“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”

John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”

Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”

Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”

Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”

Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.

John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.

“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.

“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway. 

It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— ​​It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.

But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.

They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.

It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.

To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.

“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”

Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”

Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.

The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.

“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”

Yelena and John froze in their tracks.

James?

James?

No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.

Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”

Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Honey?

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”

Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.

You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”

Oh.

Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated

John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”

Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.

John let out a wheeze.

Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yup.”

“Like—actually married?”

“Mhm.”

Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”

Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”

“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.

Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”

“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”

“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”

“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”

Bucky could only nod again.

Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”

You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”

Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.

John looked like he was about to have a stroke. 

“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”

John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.

“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”

Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”

Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.

John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.

But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”

You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.

You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.

Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.

You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.

“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”

John scoffed, “A while?”

You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped.

“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”

John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”

Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."

Bucky only shrugged, unbothered. 

You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”

John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.

Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.

“How did you meet?”

“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”

“Does he ever actually smile?”

At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”

John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”

You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”

And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges. 

Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.

“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”

John choked.

Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”

Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut. 

For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.

And then, without thinking, you leaned in.

It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.

Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you. 

John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.

You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him. 

“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.

Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.

“Off,” you said simply.

Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.

Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say. 

John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.

You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.

“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.

Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”

And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.

The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.

A ring.

A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.

She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.

That’s why he always played with it.

Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.

Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.

-end.

Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.

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@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

[yohanseyebrowmole]

ALWAYS WITHIN REACH

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources word count: 1.3k synopsis: Jason Todd doesn’t love loudly but he shows it with his constant presence and actions. a/n: To my anon who requested this, I love you and I loved writing this, but this made me feel so single. I need a man like Jason 😭

The first time you noticed it—really noticed it—was when you were heading out to grab a coffee.

You’d only grabbed your keys and a hoodie, ready to walk the two blocks to the corner store. The weather was mild, the streets quiet, and you hadn’t planned on being gone more than fifteen minutes. As you crouched to tie your laces, yawning mid-sentence, you called out lazily, “I’m gonna go grab a coffee. Want anything?”

Jason was sprawled across the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, blanket twisted around his legs. He’d groaned not five minutes ago about needing a nap and you figured he’d be out cold by now.

But then you heard the couch creak. He was sitting up.

“I’ll come with you.”

You blinked. “You just said—”

“I’ll drive.” He was already pushing to his feet, reaching for his keys like it wasn’t up for debate.

You stared, baffled. “Jay, I’m literally going across the street.”

He didn’t seem to hear you—or more likely, chose not to. Shirt half-buttoned, boots barely tied, he grabbed his jacket in one hand and your fingers in the other, dragging you gently toward the door. You didn’t argue, mostly because you were still sleepy and not quite ready to match his brand of  stubborn.

The drive took three minutes. He didn’t say much, just rested one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, thumb brushing slow, absent circles against your skin like he needed the contact more than the caffeine. Even when he pulled up to the drive-thru window, when you took the drink with a grateful smile and settled back in your seat, Jason didn’t let go. He shifted the wheel easily with one hand, the other still anchored to you, thumb still stroking your skin. 

You didn’t think much of it at the time.

The next time it happened, it was at the grocery store.

You were pushing the cart down an aisle while Jason trailed just behind, his hand warm and steady on the small of your back. It stayed there for most of the trip—absentminded, comforting. Sometimes he’d give a gentle nudge when you paused too long comparing brands, or he’d slide his fingers up your spine for no reason at all except to feel you there.

At one point, somewhere between the produce section and the towering shelves of canned goods, Jason muttered that he needed more protein powder. His voice was low and distracted, already halfway turned toward the far end of the store. He didn’t look back, thinking you were following but instead, you nodded vaguely and veered off toward the ice cream aisle, figuring you could cover more ground that way. 

You moved slowly, eyes scanning the frosty rows of half-gallons and pints. The doors of the freezer hissed quietly as you opened one, cool air spilling out as your reached for two pints, debating between cookie dough and mint chocolate chip. 

You weren’t even half way through the aisle when you felt him behind you again. 

His arms sliding around your waist and wrapping you up without a word. The warmth of him sank through your hoodie, his body pressing close to yours. A moment later, the weight of his head dropped gently onto your shoulder. His breath ghosted over the curve of your neck, soft and steady, the contrast to the chilled air in front of you making your skin prickle.

Leaning back into him just a little, you tilted your head, angling for a glimpse of his face, searching for something—an explanation, maybe. But all you found was the slope of his brow pressed close to your temple, his mouth relaxed, his lashes lowered like he might stay there forever if you let him.

“You okay?” you murmured.

He gave the smallest of nods, the movement brushing his cheek against yours. You stayed like that for a moment longer, Eventually, your fingers drifted toward the freezer door again, and you began to move. His arms loosened, but just enough to let you walk without pulling fully away. One of his hands slid down, fingers catching yours, while his other reached for the cart, reclaiming it without comment, guiding it forward to where you wanted to go.

And that’s when you started to see the pattern.

Jason always walked on the side closest to the street, his body subtly shifting until you were on the inside of the sidewalk, sheltered from traffic. Every single time. Even if it meant cutting mid-conversation to switch sides, or gently tugging you across with a hand to your waist or a brush of fingers against your wrist. It didn’t matter how casual the outing—he’d never let you walk street-side.

He held doors open without thinking, reaching out before you could even touch the handle. And whenever you were out together, his hand was never far. Sometimes laced through yours like second nature, your fingers intertwined as you walked in step. Other times, it rested lightly on the small of your back, guiding you through doorways, around corners, through crowds. 

He insisted on coming with you for errands. Always. It didn’t matter how mundane the task or how quick the trip—Jason was already pulling on his jacket before you finished asking, sometimes you didn’t even have to. And he never complained. Not once. Didn’t check his phone or sigh impatiently. He carried the bags. He waited while you debated between brands of ice cream. Even standing in line, he’d hook a finger through your belt loop and tug you back against him, chin on your shoulder, arms looped loosely around your waist as you two waited.

At gas stations, he always got out with you—even if all you were doing was grabbing gum and a drink. He filled the tank, too, waving off your protests with a quiet, “I got it.” In bookstores, he trailed behind you with a hand on your back, the other juggling the growing stack of titles you kept passing him with a sheepish smile. He never complained about those either. 

In crowded spaces, his arm always found its way around your waist or over your shoulders, pulling you into his side without a word.

And when you ran into people you knew—coworkers, old classmates, friends of friends—he didn’t interrupt or try to charm them. He didn’t puff up or shrink away, instead he seemed content to speak when spoken to. Otherwise he was content to stand at your side. One hand stayed low on your back, rubbing soothing circles.

They often stared at him warily—he was hard not to notice, after all. Tall, sharp-jawed, rough-edged. And yet, despite how intimidating everyone else found him, Jason was soft with you. Protective, yes. But never overbearing. He didn’t tell you what to do or try to keep you in a box made of fear. He just wanted to stay close.

It was subtle, but constant. And the truth was…you kind of loved it.

He was protective in the kind of way that didn’t feel like a cage—it felt like shelter. Like he needed to keep you close not because he didn’t trust you or because he thought you were weak. He stayed close because he knew what the world could be like. He didn’t want to control you. He just didn’t want to lose you.

And maybe that was it. Maybe that was why, no matter where you were or what you were doing, you never had to reach far to find him. In a room full of people, he was there. Even in sleep, he found you. Always.

Because while the world knew Jason as the Red Hood—fearless, violent, deadly—you knew this version. The one who always held your hand, who never let you walk alone, whose constant presence promised you that he was always there for you.

And in the spaces between who he was and how the world saw him, you found the truth of him. A man who had lived through hell, and loved you like it was his personal vow.

[yohanseyebrowmole]

PAN-DEMONIUM

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources word count: 1.5k synopsis: When your boyfriend forgets to mention his dad is the Batman, things can escalate quickly.  a/n: Instead of working, I found another idea that I dug up from the depths of my crack fic drafts, hope y'all had a laugh.

The apartment was quiet—eerily so, save for the low, comforting sizzle of eggs on the stovetop. It was a familiar sound in the late hours, part of a routine that had etched itself into your life since you found out about your boyfriend’s double identity. Midnight cravings were a constant in this place. Jason would drag himself in from patrol, bruised, half-dead, and starving, usually too tired to eat anything but dry cereal or a protein bar. Somewhere along the way, you’d started preempting his return, slipping out of bed before he could crash onto the couch and coaxing something warm onto a plate.

Tonight was no different. You stood at the stove, barefoot and comfortably wrapped in one of his worn shirts—black, soft, smelling faintly of gunpowder and his cologne. You hummed absently, the tune unrecognizable and slightly off-key, as you nudged the eggs with a spatula. The warmth from the burner was a pleasant contrast to the cool of the tiled floor beneath your feet.

And then you heard it.

A sound—barely audible, but wrong. Not the front door. Not the creak of a windowpane. But something. A shift of weight. The subtle scrape of a boot across hardwood.

You froze.

The spatula paused mid-motion. Your head tilted slightly, listening—straining. Jason always made noise when he came in. A thud of boots. A sarcastic remark. A muttered curse. Sometimes he’d whistle. Always something. And he never forgot to let you know it was him.

“Jason?” you called, your voice a notch quieter than you’d intended. “Is that you?”

No answer.

Your stomach dropped. A cold ripple of dread slid down your spine.

You moved quickly but quietly, turning the burner off. The comforting sizzle of eggs faded into silence. The spatula was abandoned in favour of the frying pan—heavier, more solid in your grip. You adjusted your hold on it, stepping away from the stove and edging slowly toward the hallway.

The shadow at the end of the hall was thicker than it should’ve been—wrong somehow, dense and unnatural. You squinted into the dark, heart hammering against your ribs as your eyes struggled to adjust. The hallway had always been dim at night, but this… this was different. It almost looked like the darkness itself was shifting. You took a cautious step forward—and then froze.

He was just suddenly there.

A towering figure. The black cape flowed down his frame like oil, and his cowl obscured his face, two glowing white slits where his eyes should’ve been. He looked like something out of your nightmares. 

You didn’t think. There was no time for logic or reason, only instinct.

With a half-scream, you swung the pan with everything you had.

CLANG.

The sound rang out like a bell, followed by a low, guttural grunt. The man staggered, head jerking to the side as one gloved hand came up to clutch where you’d struck him.

You stared, breathless, pan still raised like a weapon, frozen with adrenaline. Your heart was thundering in your chest, your mind spiralling—

And then the front door crashed open.

“What the fuck?!” Jason’s voice rang out, sharp and alarmed.

You spun around, the frying pan still trembling in your grip. “Jason!” you gasped, relief breaking through in a sudden tidal wave. “There’s a man—he—he broke in—I thought—I didn’t know what else to do—oh my god.”

Jason’s eyes flew past you, quickly scanning the scene—the eggs now dripping in gloppy streaks down the wall, the now-empty skillet in your hands, the looming figure still bent slightly forward, one hand pressed to his temple.

Jason blinked. His mouth opened. Then dropped.

“You hit Batman?!”

You blinked. Slowly turned back.

The man—Batman, the actual Batman—was slowly straightening up, gloved fingers rubbing his cowl covered temple where your frying pan had made contact. The cowl hadn’t even cracked. Not a single tear or dent. He just gave you the smallest, almost imperceptible tilt of his head, as if he were trying to process the sheer absurdity of what had just happened.

He looked less furious and more…inconvenienced. A little surprised, maybe. You hoped to God he wasn’t concussed.

You dropped the pan like it had burned you, it fell to the floor with such a loud sound both Jason and the Bat flinched. 

“Oh my god,” you breathed, stepping back as panic began to claw its way up your throat. “Oh my god.” You whirled on your boyfriend, wide-eyed and flushed with horror. “I just assaulted Batman. I attacked Batman. I’m going to jail. He’s going to disappear me. Jason, they’re going to find me in Arkham.”

“Jason!” you hissed, slapping his arm with a mixture of panic and outrage. “This is serious! I just committed a felony—with your damn midnight snack!”

Still snorting, Jason tried to compose himself but failed spectacularly. His shoulders were shaking, breath hitching with every suppressed laugh as he leaned against the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

He still hadn’t told you. Not the part about who Batman really was. That his adopted father was the Dark Knight himself. That the rest of his so-called siblings also ran around Gotham in capes and masks, playing vigilante just like he did. As far as you knew, Jason was the only one with a flair for crime-fighting and danger. He’d conveniently left out the bat-shaped elephant in the room.

“He’s not gonna press charges, babe,” Jason wheezed, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes. “Jesus. You hit the Bat over the head with a pan. With a pan!” He bent double again, laughing so hard he nearly choked. “Oh man—this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You glared at him like you might hurl the pan at him next, and your mortification only deepened when you turned back to Batman—your face pale as chalk.

“I am so sorry,” you blurted, hands raised in surrender. “I didn’t know it was you. You were in the dark and you didn’t say anything and you’re—well—you’re literally terrifying.”

Batman’s silence stretched long enough that you were genuinely debating whether you should throw yourself out the window when he finally spoke.

Finally, he spoke, his voice gravelly and deep. “You hit me.” He almost sounded surprised, perhaps even confused.

You flinched. “I—I didn’t know it was you! You were just standing there in the dark! You didn’t even say anything! I thought you were a burglar! What was I supposed to do—offer you eggs?”

Behind you, Jason was biting the inside of his cheek, trying to smother his laughter. He wasn’t succeeding.

The Bat didn’t move.

You swallowed thickly, muttering now more to yourself than anyone else. “I can’t believe I assaulted Batman. I’m going to prison. Or Arkham. Or wherever he takes people when they attack him with a frying pan.”

Finally, Batman exhaled, the sound sharp and slow through his nose. “You should’ve been more aware of your surroundings.”

You gaped at him. “Excuse me? You brokeinto our apartment!”

Jason, ever helpful, mumbled under his breath, “Technically true.”

You shot him a glare but turned your frustration back to the source of your near heart attack. “You crept in like some B-rated horror movie villain!” you snapped, the lingering fear in your chest giving way to indignation. “And you have the audacity to lecture me about being aware of my surroundings? At least I listened to my instincts when I heard you move!”

“And your first instinct,” he said flatly, “was to attack me with cookware?”

You met his gaze without flinching this time. “It was cast iron.”

There was a beat of silence—and then Jason lost it all over again. He doubled over, wheezing, his laughter echoing off the hallway walls.

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face as if you could physically wipe away the humiliation. Your other arm remained wrapped around your ribs, like you were trying to hold together the shattered remains of your dignity. “Shut up, Jason,” you muttered, your voice muffled by your palm. “This is so humiliating. I literally assaulted Batman.”

“I know!” Jason wheezed, nearly breathless with laughter. “It’s great. Literally the best day of my life.”

From behind you, the Dark Knight’s voice came again—low, grave, entirely too casual. “She’s got a strong swing.”

Jason turned toward him, still grinning like a lunatic. “You should see her when we play baseball.”

A long beat passed, silence settling again.

Then Batman looked directly at you, the white slits of his cowl narrowing slightly. “Next time,” he said evenly, “aim for the jaw. The cowl’s reinforced.”

You blinked. “Wait… what?”

But he was already gone, shadows swallowing the space where he’d stood.

You stared at the space he’d occupied, jaw slack. “I think I just made his criminal list.”

Jason came up behind you, arms wrapping snugly around your waist, still chuckling against the side of your neck. “Nah,” he murmured, amusement thick in his voice. “If anything, I think you impressed him.”

You threw your arms out in exasperation—nearly clocking him in the face with your flailing limbs.

He ducked with a laugh.

“Why else would he tell me to aim for the jaw?” you demanded. “He thinks we’re gonna fight again. He’s preparing me for our next encounter!”

Jason didn’t even try to hide his grin. “Want me to get a new pan?”

“Jason!”

[yohanseyebrowmole]

You're Australian?! Batboys x Aussie!Reader 🇦🇺

Pairing: Batboys x Reader when they find out their S/O is Australian (Like me lolol) Content: Australian bogan language, crack A/N: Requested by @ilona2nerrie, my fellow Aussie Diva 😍, Idk which style you wanted so I did headcanon-esque type thing lmao, guys FYI, this is all the slang I use in my daily life. Also can I just say this was such a pain to format omfg, I actually TWEAKED AND CRASHED OUT, Tumblr please fix yourself. COMMENT IF YOUR AUSSIE 🇦🇺🦘🐨

Dick Grayson!

Reaction: "Oh my god you're Australian?!! .....Is that why you say servo?" Immediately understands the accent now

Gets excited when you casually say "Bloke" or refer to mosquitoes as "mozzies"

Doesn't understand calling McDonald's "macca's" but rolls with it

Wears the Matilda's jersey as "cultural immersion" Asks loving, yet kinda stupid questions like:"Do you guys actually ride kangaroos to school?" "Can you say crikey one more time for me babe"

Quote :"Babe teach me the slang, I wanna say good on ya like a local" proceeds to tell it to his brothers with amazing confidence Will absolutely try Vegemite™ and cry.

Jason Todd! Reaction: "....yeah I figured. Americans aren't that calm."

Stops dead hearing you say "your gunpowder pongs bro"

Loves hearing you say "Oi"

Scared asf of spiders (this is my headcanon lolol), and gets you to kill all of them. Passes away eating a tim tam, from pure joy. Can't look at regular cake anymore after trying them lamingtons Quote: YOU HAD UNIFORMS IN SCHOOL??? Tragic doll, tragic."

Will absolutely start saying mate, and call Roy, Dick and Wally "Drongos"

Tim Drake!

Reaction:

"You're Australian-Australian? Like milo-straight-out-of-the-can Australian?" (I literally love doing that I am a milo addict fight me) Highkey blue-screens

Tweaks when you say "yeah, nah"

Reconsiders your guys's trip to the Northern Territory after hearing about drop bears.

Thought you said "Esky" to be different Quote: "Pookie who do you think would win: 100 Tim Drakes or 100 Kangaroos"

Will absolutely mimic your accent and sound so stupid.

Aged up!Damian Wayne!

Reaction:

"I suspected that..." Thinks your accent is cute but lowkey thought it was fake

Enjoys fairy bread and pork rolls like the average gyal when they hit the local bakery after school

Despises Vegemite with a burning passion

English already confuses him enough, so he thought you were talking about the actual undergarment when you said "thongs" so imagine his surprise when you're referring to the ones on your FEET.

Quote: "Shush you wallaby" Denies it to be affectionate Will absolutely travel to Australia to adopt a koala and have Bruce house it in the barn, it becomes good friends with Titus and Alfred

LMFAO I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED THISSSS!!! I LOVE BEING AUSSIE! Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!

Sources! - Moodboard - @saradika-graphics

Summer dividers - @bbyg4rlhelps

This post is property of suigenerisisadiva

[yohanseyebrowmole]

Costume appreciation series: Sissi’s wardrobe in The Sissi Trilogy (1955-1957) dir  Ernst Marischka

Costume Design by Leo Bei, Gerdago and Franz Szivats

[yohanseyebrowmole]

"If you look closely, you'll see them!"

Regulus Black x fem!reader

synopsis: you swear regulus has dimples but no one believes you, not until he walks in and finds you with his eyes. the room stills, and for a breathless moment, they begin to see what you always have.

warnings: pure fluff, mentions of cold deameanor, some mild language, grumpy x sunshine kinda?

w/c: 3k

a/n: my headcanon is that regulus is very much taller than sirius and he has dimples!!! i said what i said guys, argue with me !! also this has been in my drafts for a good 7 months </3

masterlist

"Regulus Black does not have dimples!"

Sirius declares for the third time that afternoon, sprawled across the common room sofa with his legs thrown carelessly over James’s lap, his voice carrying that unbothered arrogance he wielded like a second skin.

"You’re hallucinating."

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as you stand firm before the Marauders, unyielding in your defiance. Mary is nestled against Remus’s shoulder, her eyes glimmering with barely-contained amusement as if she knows something the others don’t.

"I am not hallucinating," you retort, voice dripping with indignation, hands finding your hips in a stance that borders on stubbornness. "I’ve seen them! They’re right here."

You jab your own cheeks for emphasis, fingers pressing into the softness just beneath your eyes, and the room erupts into snorts and muffled laughter, your so-called friends delighting in your apparent delusion.

But you know the truth. You have seen them—the delicate crescents that carve themselves into his cheeks when he smiles in that unguarded way, soft and fleeting, like moonlight filtering through darkened leaves. It is a secret you hold close to your heart, something sacred and untouched, for Regulus Black is not supposed to smile like that. Not according to them.

To everyone else, he is sharp lines and cold eyes, distant and unyielding, a boy forged from winter’s breath and brittle starlight. His name drips from their tongues like a warning, a reminder of ancient bloodlines and whispered expectations. But you know better. You have seen the way his eyes soften when you laugh, the way his hands hesitate before touching yours as if afraid he might shatter something precious.

Regulus Black, to you, is soft edges and hidden warmth, tenderness folded into the corners of his smile, something gentle and achingly beautiful beneath the surface. They could not see it, would not believe it, but you did. You always did.

"Darling," James begins, slipping into his most condescending tone as he tilts his glasses down the bridge of his nose to peer at you properly, eyes alight with mischief. "I’ve known Reggie since fourth year, and not once have I ever seen a dimple. Not even a suggestion of one."

He is wrong, you think, pressing your lips together to keep the secret tucked safely in your heart.

They do not know the way Regulus looks at you when no one is watching, how his gaze softens like the edge of dawn, or how his laugh—rare and unbidden—blooms like a flower in the dark. They do not know that Regulus Black, for all his coldness, holds sunlight in his smile, and you are one of the very few who has ever been allowed to see it.

"That’s because you’re not paying attention," you shoot back, arms crossing defensively. "He does this little smile sometimes, it’s soft and kind of lopsided, and there’s this tiny dimple right here—" you poke your cheek again, more insistently, as if the physicality might convince them. "I swear, it’s like magic."

"Or madness," Remus suggests mildly, and Mary dissolves into laughter, her curls shaking as she leans further into him.

"I mean, we’re talking about Regulus Black here, right? My-face-is-carved-from-stone Regulus Black?"

"Maybe it’s just a shadow," Sirius chimes in, inspecting his nails with a grin that teeters on smugness. He hardly even glances up, as if the matter is too trivial for his full attention.

"A trick of the light. Or you’ve been hexed. Definitely hexed. I bet it’s a dimple jinx. You see fake dimples, fall madly in love." His grin widens, eyes glinting with mischief, and the others snicker at the notion.

"I have not been hexed!" you cry, voice pitching higher in your indignation, but your outburst only seems to spur their laughter further.

The sound spills into the room like the crackle of firewood, unrestrained and merry, and you stand at the center of it all, defiant and unyielding. "I’m telling you, I’ve seen them. He has dimples!"

"Right," James nods, his expression shifting to exaggerated seriousness as he claps a hand on your shoulder, eyes sparkling with that brand of Marauder mischief that rarely bodes well.

"And I’m secretly the heir to the Malfoy fortune."

"Stop it." you protest, your hands flying to your hips as if that might root your argument more firmly in truth.

"He has dimples. If you look closely, you’ll see them!"

They laugh again, the sound bubbling up like champagne flutes clinking together, indulgent and disbelieving. But you only hold your ground, chin tilted upward with all the stubbornness of someone who has glimpsed something magical and refuses to let it be reduced to smoke and shadows.

Because you know. You have seen the way Regulus’s face softens when he lets his guard slip, how those tiny, secret dimples blossom at the edges of his smile like something fragile and hidden from the rest of the world. It is not a trick of the light, not some fleeting mirage conjured by wishful thinking.

It is real. He is real. And maybe, just maybe, they have never looked closely enough.

"He does not," Sirius says flatly. "I would know. I’ve seen that miserable mug for seventeen years straight, and not once has it ever hinted at joy. If he’s smiling for you, you might want to check if he’s choking."

"You don’t know everything about him," you snap back, and it’s a bit more pointed than you intended, because Sirius’s expression shifts for the briefest moment, but then he’s back to smirking, one brow arched.

"Oh, I know enough. And I know that my miserable little brother is physically incapable of producing dimples. It would require smiling first. Which is practically illegal for him, by the way. Pretty sure he signed a contract with Death himself."

"He does smile," you argue. "Just... not around you lot."

Mary’s eyes light up at that, and she sits up a little straighter, nudging Remus. "Not around us, huh? Just around you?"

You hesitate, heat creeping up your neck. "Well… yeah. I suppose." At their expressions, you quickly add, "That’s not weird!"

"It’s a little weird," Remus says thoughtfully. "I mean, I’ve never seen him smile like that." He looks to Sirius for confirmation, who just shakes his head.

"Me neither," Sirius agrees. "And if he was going to be grinning like a lovesick idiot, I feel like I’d know. Or maybe you just have some sort of freaky dimple-seeing ability. Is that a thing? Can we get that checked?"

"Maybe he only smiles for her," Mary sing-songs, and you swat at her, cheeks blazing. "What? I’m just saying!"

You cross your arms tighter over your chest, frustration curling hot and sharp beneath your ribs. You know what you saw. It wasn’t magic or shadows or madness. It was Regulus, soft and unguarded in a way that felt almost secret. A piece of him reserved just for you, like a glimpse behind the curtain of a play only you were meant to watch.

But they wouldn’t believe you. They couldn’t. Because to them, Regulus was all sharp edges and cold stares, impenetrable as stone. But to you, he was something else entirely.

You saw the parts he kept hidden—the softness, the ache, the way his eyes would linger when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his fingers brushed yours just a bit too long when he handed you your books, the way he stood a little closer than necessary when you walked side by side. His dimples were proof of it. Proof of the parts of him that were gentle and real and yours.

"I’m not making it up," you murmur stubbornly, softer this time, almost like you’re telling it to yourself.

James leans back, stretching his legs out in front of him. "You know, I almost want you to be right. I’ve never seen Regulus with dimples before. I think it would break my brain."

The room is still shaking with laughter when the portrait door swings open. It is a subtle thing, just the soft groan of hinges and the hush of movement, but you feel it like an echo in your bones. Your gaze snaps up before you can help it, the breath stalling in your lungs as if caught between heartbeats.

There he is, Regulus Black, framed in the doorway like he has stepped out of a painting, shadows and light playing across his features in sharp relief.

He is ice and elegance, his gaze sweeping over the room with cool detachment, the sort of look that makes even Sirius go still. His brother’s grin falters, an instinctual pause as if the air has been sucked from the room.

Regulus’s eyes flicker over them, James’s raised brow, Sirius’s smirk half-frozen in place, Remus’s unbothered calm, but there is nothing there, not even a nod of acknowledgment. His expression is marble-carved, beautiful and unyielding.

But then his gaze finds yours, and it softens, melts like snow beneath the first touch of spring. His eyes brighten, lips twitching at the corners, and suddenly it is like you are the only two people in the room. The change is breathtaking, the kind of transformation that feels like stepping into sunlight after days of rain.

Without thinking, you are already moving, feet carrying you across the room as if pulled by some invisible thread.

"Regulus," you breathe, and the way his name falls from your lips feels like unspooling thread, like the first sigh of spring. His expression softens entirely, something delicate and aching sparking behind his eyes as you practically throw yourself into his arms. He catches you easily, arms winding around your waist, steady and certain, like he has been waiting for you his entire life.

Your hands are in his hair before you realize it, fingertips grazing the base of his neck as you pull back just enough to look at him properly. His smile is still there, still hovering at the edges, and it is soft and real and yours.

"I missed you," you whisper, half a confession, half a prayer, and as soon as the words leave your lips, it happens.

A tiny crease, delicate and almost imperceptible, blooms on his left cheek, like the first hint of dawn breaking over a dark horizon.

A dimple, soft and secret, there and gone in a heartbeat, as if it only exists for you.

"I missed you too, amour," he murmurs, his gaze flicking over your face like he is memorizing it. "You have no idea."

There is a tension in the room, thick and breathless, as if the very walls are leaning in to listen, the crackle of the fire muted under the weight of disbelief.

The Marauders and Mary are watching with wide eyes, suspended between fascination and utter incredulity, as if the scene before them is too tender, too impossibly soft to be real.

Regulus Black—aloof and unyielding, frost-kissed and sharp-edged—is holding you like something sacred, his arms wrapped around you with a gentleness that seems to contradict everything they thought they knew of him. His thumb brushes across your cheek, feather-light and reverent, as though you are made of something finer than bone and breath, something worth protecting.

And then he smiles—just a fraction more—but it is enough.

You do not even realize what you are doing; your body moves before your mind catches up, and you lean up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and soft and so achingly familiar it feels like slipping into an old memory. He blinks, eyes flickering with surprise, but you do not pull away.

You lean in again, pressing your lips to his other cheek, right where his smile deepens, and it happens—a twin to the first, blooming on the opposite cheek as if coaxed into existence by your touch alone.

A second dimple, tender and unmistakable, carved into his pale skin like it had been waiting there all along, hidden just beneath the surface.

You are not the only one who notices.

Behind you, there is the unmistakable sound of someone choking on their own breath, followed by a very loud, "What the hell?" from James, his voice pitched somewhere between awe and utter disbelief.

Regulus glances up, his gaze catching on James, who is staring as if he has just witnessed stone turn to gold, like magic itself has unfolded right in front of him.

Sirius is uncharacteristically silent, eyes narrowed in something akin to suspicion or maybe even wonder, while James’s jaw is completely unhinged, glasses slipping precariously down the bridge of his nose.

Remus is blinking rapidly, as if trying to clear away a mirage, mouth slightly parted in surprise. And Mary—sweet, sharp-eyed Mary—looks positively gleeful, her grin spreading slow and wicked as she nudges Remus sharply in the ribs, her eyes dancing with triumph.

"I told you," she mouths, lips curving around each word with delight.

Because it is true.

There is no need to look closely, no need to squint or peer beneath shadows—Regulus Black’s dimples are right there, clear as daylight and twice as warm, so stunningly visible that they might as well have been carved out of starlight.

They blossom wide and unguarded, softening the sharp lines of his face, and for a heartbeat, he is not the boy forged from winter’s chill and midnight silence. He is something brighter, something softer, and it is plain to see that with you, he is allowed to be gentle.

"I told you!" you practically crow, turning back to face them while still locked in Regulus’s arms. "I told you he has dimples!"

Sirius remains silent, watching with something like suspicion, but James looks like he has seen a ghost.

James is still staring. "I think I need to sit down."

"You are sitting down," Remus points out.

"I think I need to sit down lower," James clarifies faintly.

But you are not paying attention to them anymore, because Regulus is looking at you with that same impossible smile, both dimples still lingering like promises.

His hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking a gentle line across your skin. "You told them about my dimples?" he asks, voice low and edged with amusement.

You nod, breathless and unashamed. "I did. And they did not believe me."

His smile softens, stretching wider, and both dimples deepen like secret doorways to some hidden softness that only you are allowed to see.

He leans in, the space between you shrinking until his breath mingles with yours, and his voice drops to a low, velvety murmur meant only for you.

"You really should not spend so much time with Gryffindors," he whispers, his tone laced with quiet disdain that is more habit than heart, though his gaze remains warm and unyielding, crafted entirely for you. "I think they are starting to rub off on you." His eyes glimmer with amusement, but there is something else there too, something tender that settles in the quiet curve of his smile.

Your laughter spills out, bright and unrestrained, like the first crack of sunlight through winter clouds, and before you know it, your hands are tugging him closer, closing whatever space remains.

In that moment, it is just you and him, suspended in the fragile stillness that belongs only to the two of you, where the rest of the world feels distant and unimportant, something to be dealt with later.

For now, there is only this: his smile, his dimples carved like promises into his cheeks, and the gentle, unwavering warmth of his arms around you, holding you close as if he is terrified of letting go, as if this is a vow whispered into the spaces between heartbeats.

The truth is, Sirius had always known that Regulus had dimples.

He had known for years, had seen the faint creases carve themselves into his brother’s cheeks on the rarest of occasions, like fleeting whispers of a softer world beneath the ice.

But the thing is, those dimples only ever appeared when Regulus was around you, when your laughter spilled into the room like sunlight or when your name slipped from his mouth with that unguarded tenderness that seemed to unravel something deep and hidden in him.

It was as though the universe had woven this small, delicate fragment of softness solely for you to uncover, a secret threaded carefully into the very fabric of him, waiting patiently for your hands to find it, to hold it like something sacred and fragile and wholly yours.

[yohanseyebrowmole]

— @eternaldroplets on x (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

[yohanseyebrowmole]

When a Character Is Grieving Someone They Never Got to Say Goodbye To

✧ They talk about the person in past tense… then correct themselves. Then stop talking entirely.

✧ They touch things that belonged to the person like they’re fragile, sacred, about to disappear.

✧ They hoard the last voicemail, last message, last anything. Play it. Don’t play it. Just knowing it exists hurts enough.

✧ They leave something untouched, an empty seat, a half-packed bag, a coffee order that isn’t theirs.

✧ They get irrationally angry when someone else seems to be “moving on.” As if forgetting is betrayal.

✧ They don’t let themselves cry all at once. It comes in pieces. Like they’re afraid too much grief will drown them.

✧ They over-apologize. For being quiet. For being distant. For not being okay.

✧ They become hyper-aware of time, dates, anniversaries, time zones, the exact moment everything ended.

✧ They get superstitious. Ritualistic. As if doing things "right" might reverse something.

✧ They smile when they talk about the person. But it’s brittle. And it never quite touches their eyes.

[yohanseyebrowmole]

When a Character Is Angry but Doesn’t Know Why

Not all rage is loud. Sometimes it simmers. Sometimes it sneaks in. Especially for characters who aren’t used to feeling things or grew up in environments where anger wasn’t safe to express. So when it starts showing up, they don’t even recognize it as anger. They just feel… off. Wrong. Tense.

✧ They get irritated by things that never used to bother them. The way someone chews. A clock ticking. The sound of their name. They can’t explain it, they just feel raw, like their skin doesn’t fit.

✧ They isolate, but don’t call it that. Suddenly, they’re “too tired” to go out. “Too busy” to reply. But really, they don’t trust themselves to be around people without snapping.

✧ They pick fights over things that don’t matter. Because it’s easier to yell about the dishes than admit they feel powerless, unworthy, or invisible.

✧ They can’t sit still. Pacing. Fidgeting. Restlessness that feels like there’s a wasp trapped under their skin and they can’t get it out.

✧ They joke, but it stings. Sarcasm that cuts a little too deep. “Just teasing” that leaves bruises. Humor becomes a weapon they don’t even realize they’re using.

✧ They blame themselves for feeling bad. Instead of thinking something is wrong, they think I’m wrong for feeling this way. The anger turns inward. Self-criticism sharpens.

✧ They can’t cry, and it scares them. They want to break. To feel something clean. But all they feel is the pressure building, and it doesn’t go anywhere.

✧ They eventually explode, and hate themselves for it. One wrong word and suddenly it’s fire. And after? Shame. Guilt. Confusion. Like, What was that? What’s wrong with me?

✧ Their anger isn’t just anger. It’s grief in disguise. That’s the twist. Most of the time, the anger is covering up a heartbreak they haven’t admitted yet.

✧ They’re not “bad” for being angry. They’re human. Write that. Let them be messy and let them feel without always knowing why.

[yohanseyebrowmole]

Stage Lights and X-Ray Eyes

A/N: This has been in my head for a year...Enjoy!

*Plop*

“SUPERSTAR STUNS WITH CRIME-FREE SHOW IN GOTHAM!”

Clark Kent should be surprised when the newspaper is slapped down in his face, but he’s used to it by now.

Lois stares at him with a chipper smile, cheeks pulling up painfully at the sides. Eye twitching, eyebrows unnaturally raised.

“Have I got a story for you, Smallville.”

‘Another lead to pass off, more like.’

He knew by now how Lois looked when Perry pushed a story onto her that she absolutely wanted nothing to do with. That’s where he came in. Not that he really had any way to deny her. He was still the rookie in the bullpen after all. He glances down at the paper in front of him, and a black-and-white image of the titular starlet singing to a crowd of thousands dominates the majority of the front page of the Gotham Times.

“Music not your thing?” He asks smartly.

Lois blinks softly, her face relaxing from its tight, forced state. His quip having put her at ease, she gives him an easy smirk.

“Let’s just say I’m not looking to cut my teeth on how pretty a singer looks in her new designer dress.”

“I guess that’s why you came to me,” he starts. “I am the fashion expert around here.”

The chuckle that Lois lets out is warm. Clark can feel his heart skip a little and his cheeks color at the sight of her genuine smile.

“Glad we are on the same page. Let me know how it goes, yeah?”

“Y-yeah.”

It’s all he can get out in response as she happily saunters away from his desk. The tension left her body, allowing her to glide effortlessly. He doesn’t know which one of them is more excited. Lois, because she got the weekend off, or him, because she finally talked to him like one of her colleagues.

***

Tight.

Being sewn into your costume was always a ritual, one equal parts glamour and quiet suffocation. The garment, crafted to perfection, hugged every curve like it had been molded to your body. Zippers, laces, and hooks drew it snug, each fastening a promise of elegance and control.

A perfect second skin.

Well… third in your case.

You’ve never protested. You asked them to make you a star, and their hands did all of the work. You let them stitch and tug, pin and adjust, the prick of needles. Being made over like a doll. This was nothing; the easy part. And nothing compared to when you finally touched the stage.

Fame is the thing you wanted—what you had wished for. And these pre-show moments were the necessary steps to make it happen.

In these rare moments, you were allowed to be passive, transformed into a porcelain doll for them to dress and perfect. Because the moment you stepped out that door, the illusion would shatter. You would have to become her again.

They all relied on your performance. Your success was their security. Your spotlight ensured their paychecks. So you let them move around you like worker bees, tending to their queen with quiet reverence and the buzzing urgency of purpose.

“Hair next,” someone said. “The curls are starting to fall. We’ll need to reset them.”

“Is she sweating?”

A face appeared in your periphery, scanning you with quick precision. “No. Makeup’s holding.”

“Good. Those lashes were hell to get on.”

A honey-blonde girl knelt at your feet, her skin the shade of butter pecan. She fiddled with the straps of your heels, stealing shy glances up at you as she worked. Her voice trembled just enough to betray her nerves.

“Ready for tonight?” she asked, trying for casual but failing.

You saw it in her eyes—that flicker of awe, the breathless anticipation. Her hands fumbled more than once with the buckles.

Starstruck.

She was still new. The others had long since learned that your radiance wasn’t magic. It was work. Smoke and silk and sacrifice. But she would learn. For now, you gave her a soft smile to ease her jitters.

“As I can be, thanks to you guys,” you reply with a smile.

Her cheeks darken, and she shyly glances away. And for a moment, you find yourself having to suppress a chuckle. Until her grip on your leg tightens.

“H-hey!” She stutters, surprised, and then anger fills her. “You can’t be in here!”

A startled shiver runs down your spine as the chaotic room is suddenly still. The sudden silence is terrifying. Hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and fear bubbles to the surface of your skin.

You turn carefully, mindful not to undo the hard work of the artists who hadn’t finished their tasks yet.

At the door stands a man, shoulders sheepishly hunched, with wide blue eyes that seem just as alarmed as everyone in the room. The wine and white plaid shirt, partially hidden beneath an almost too tight light brown leather jacket, is enough to clue you into the fact that he is not one of your fans who’s snuck backstage for a sneak peek.

His unexpected entrance has caused a bubble of tension to fill the room, and he’s the first one to break it.

“Sorry,” he stutters out quickly, a few fingers coming up to push up the square frame of his glasses.

He has uttered an apology, but he hasn’t made a move to leave.

“Oh, you’re going to be sorry!”

You aren’t sure who screamed it, but the intruding man is soon swarmed with angry bodies pushing and prodding him out of the door. One of your dedicated stylists is in the back of the mob, threateningly waving his still-hot curling iron, promising to burn the man if he doesn’t move.

Strange that, with all the mass pressed against the intruder, none of your defenders can seem to get the man to move an inch or two.

Desperate blue eyes meet yours, and you can’t help the chuckle that slips from your lips.

It’s not the first time you’ve dealt with someone who's snuck backstage, and it won’t be the last. For some reason, people always think it’ll be easy to get to you. Maybe early on in your career, but not now. Not when so many people depend on you.

“I’ll call security,” the girl at your feet mutters, finally releasing her protective hold on your leg to go and find someone’s phone.

Oh yes, how did he manage to get past your security?

“Please, I didn’t mean any harm.” It’s a desperate thing that falls from his lips. A soft voice with the barest hint of a midwestern drawl is pleading with you for mercy.

Curious, your fingers find the shoulders of the blonde girl before she can press send on her call.

“Then what did you mean by coming back here and scaring us all?”

The room settles into a rumble of accusatory mumbles at your question, bodies waiting for the man to answer. The pinging of metal prongs lets you know the curling-iron-armed stylist is ready to act should the man not have a satisfactory answer.

“I-I just wanted an interview. I’m Clark Kent, with the Daily Planet.”

It’s an earnest answer, and he can’t keep the grin from forming on his face when a few in the mob begin mocking him. He shows his press badge as proof.

You have vague recollection of the Daily Planet, having given an interview or two when you’d passed by on tour before.

Your lips twist in amusement, and the crease of his frown on his face only gets larger.

“If you can find me after the show, I’ll give you one.”

The tension eases from the room at your decree.

The man’s eyes light up, and for a second, you feel bad for giving him an impossible task.

“Thank you,” He gushes as he finally begins to slip back through the door frame. For a man so large, he’s quickly able to shrink back into the shadows of the dimly lit hallway.

Your team doesn’t move until he’s entirely out of sight, their wary glances following him until they are sure that he is gone.

The door shuts, and your intruder is gone just as quickly as he appeared. The room seems to relax for a second. Tension drains from the room as worried beings lock eyes with each other, seeking comfort. That man truly didn’t seem to understand the high alert he put everyone on.

If you had any intention of giving him an interview, you would have been sure to impress upon him the issue of his interruption.

The lull in activity is over in a moment. Like clockwork, hands resume their tasks, and you’re back to being primped and preened for your performance tonight. You all realize that you must put the disturbance behind you. And you're mentally blocking out the audacity of that reporter.

You almost feel bad for that reporter; whatever angle he was thinking of writing about will be gone in a few hours, and he’ll have waited through the whole concert for nothing. But there's nothing to be done about it now; it’s not as if you’ll ever see him again.

***

It always feels strange to slip back into your own body—a sudden relief filling you, like the sensation of slipping off a too-small latex glove.

Your alter ego was a little taller, eyes a little bigger, and mouth slightly poutier. But she was still you. You looked enough like your other form that people often asked if you were related, but most never bothered you in public.

You were subject primarily to silent speculation and whispers between friends. And that is just how you wanted it.

Fame without the downsides. Most of the time. You were still free to be yourself without having to worry about how you would manage a life.

Slipping away from your handlers had always been something you were good at. Those close to you were more than trustworthy enough to keep your secrets.

Once you changed back into your regular form, you were able to slip out of the stadium with some of the stragglers, concertgoers too drunk to find their ride or still high from the experience, and those taking pictures.

You sit on a bus stop bench watching small groups of people stumble along sleepy, dark roads. The total opposite of the congestion

“There you are!”

You freeze.

A large form passes in front of you before you’re able to comprehend what’s happening.

There in front of you stands the journalist who forced his way into your dressing room. He looks at you with excited eyes and a nearly boyish smile. He looks at you with a mix of relief and excitement because he’s fulfilled his task, and now he’s here to ask you whatever inane questions he has for his paper.

But how did he…?

“I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong person.”

That should be enough. The difference in tone of your voice should be enough to throw him off. Like your other features, your voice is a little deeper, with slightly raspy tones, different from your facades' honey-dipped tenor. Your eyes flicker away from his and back to your phone screen, willing the car icon to move closer to your location.

Your eyes flicker back up when you realize that he hasn’t moved.

He’s looking at you blankly for a second. All joy and relief at having found you drained from his face. His eyes flicker up and down your form for a second as if he’s trying to confirm what he’s seeing.

Then he tries again.

“I’m sorry, I know we met in kind of a weird circumstance earlier, but I’m Clark Kent. You told me to find you after the show for an interview.

You bite the inside of your cheek in irritation.

“And I told you I think you have the wrong person.”

Your lips pull down in a frown, and your eyes squint in practiced irritation.

His brows furrow at your confusion. “If you want to reschedule, we can do this at another time, it’s just that you said to find you after the show.”

Your throat tightens, and the hairs on the back of your neck begin to stand on end. Something isn’t right with this guy. Earlier, when you met him, you didn’t think that he had any ill intentions. But what kind of freak was he that he could see that you were…well…you?

You clench your fingers around your phone tightly, the muscles in your belly clench tightly, and you become nauseous.

It’s the second time in the day that the man has caused you fear.

White light hits the corner of your eyes, and your phone vibrates in your hand; your ride has come just in the nick of time.

The only thing you must do is to get away from this extremely dedicated reporter.

He’s still looking at you with clear blue eyes, eyes too bright and lively for this time at night. You know he’s waiting on your next move, hoping for an answer you were sure you were incapable of giving him at the moment.

Your throat is tight with anxiety. This man appears to be either a stalker or overly aggressive at his job. And neither one of those possibilities is something that you want to deal with right now.

“I have to go, my car is here.”

Your explanation is mumbled as your eyes cut away from him, unsure why you are giving the strange man an answer in the first place.

“But-,”

You rise quickly from your seat, and he takes a measure two steps back, his reflexes surprisingly fast for someone of his size.

You dash to the car waiting for you across the street, its driver now flashing his headlights in annoyance.

The moment your foot steps onto the gravel-paved road, you feel a twist—an awkward roll of your ankle inward. Your knee gives out at the sudden irregular feeling.  The realization that you're falling comes fast, your eyes close quickly, and one of your hands comes up to protect your head almost instinctively.

Your blood is tingling with apprehensive jitters as you wait for the feeling of cool, rough pavement to scrape against your exposed body parts.

Then you feel it, a warmth spooled against your ribs.  Large hands splayed against your back and side, wrenching you from the grip of an unfortunate, and highly embarrassing, spill.

Your eyes open in bewilderment as you realize that you are more right-side-up than you expected to be a few seconds prior.

Straight ahead, you see your ride share driver throwing his hands up in exasperation, beckoning you to hurry to your paid-for seat.

“Are you all right?”

It’s not until you feel warm breath on the back of your neck that you realize that you are being cradled by the man who’s had you on edge.

“I’m fine.”

You're forceful when you rip your body away from his. But he’s quick to release you without any fight. His hold had been so light it had almost seemed like he’d been afraid you would break. Your clumsiness is probably making him feel as such.

His brow is furrowed in a look of concern, and he appears gentle.  A hand of his reaches out to steady you when you step down off the sidewalk.  His concern seemed so genuine that you almost feel bad for not trusting him. Almost.

You walk away, heading to the car and trying to assuage the guilt that’s building in your stomach.

You only make it to the halfway point before you turn around.

“You have a card?” Your voice is little more than a mumble, but the reporter is either an excellent lip reader or has the hearing of a retriever because he perks up immediately.

His large hand shoves its way into one of his jacket pockets as he easily steps over the sidewalk.  He does it with such ease, it's almost as if he's mocking your little spill earlier.

 Your fingers brush against each other when you take the card from him.

His cheeks burn red.

You cut your eyes away.

"I'll text you," it's a mumble. You wonder if he can tell how defeated you feel.

 You don't dare meet his gaze again to find out. Instead, you hurry to slip into the car, sliding down the back seat to wallow in your pity.

Was this how everything ended?

***

“Interview With a Shape Shifting Starlet!”

No, that felt wrong. She hadn’t even agreed to the interview yet. How about…?

“Superstar Disguises Self to Live Among Us?”

No, that felt worse. Invasive. Icky.

Clark Kent didn’t sleep last night. He’d been haunted. He didn’t see it when he caught her sitting alone last night, how spooked she’d been.

How genuinely scared she was.

Even when she had practically run away from him, he’d been too enthused actually to notice those buckeyed looks she gave him.

She hadn’t even seemed that scared when he ‘found’ himself in her dressing room.

She was so in control then, so above it all. Ethereal, almost blinding.

‘And half dressed.’ ‘

He feels his cheeks burn, and he’s sure that he’s red as a tomato.’

He had tried his best not to look, but it was all happening so fast. He was glad that he had gotten a good look at her, though. Without it, he never would have found her again.

Her posture had changed. Her voice, her gait, even the lines of her jaw. But those eyes. He could pick those pretty eyes out of a crowd, a solar system away.

But he’d been too indulgent to read the distress.

Imagine that Superman couldn’t tell when someone was afraid.

Clark sits at his desk at the Daily Planet, pencil twirling in his hand. He doesn’t have the heart to write any of his proposed headlines on the computer. He was too worried he might accidentally get inspired.

He wasn’t looking to write an exposé on a woman who looked like she was genuinely in fear for her life.

But what was it that he was supposed to do now?

The city skyline starts to pale as the sun begins to creep up. Light was cracking through the big open windows of the office.

Clark leans back in his chair, glasses off, finger rubbing at his nose bridge.

She had told him no twice and had tried to run away from him.

And still she said, “Do you have a card?”

Guilt.

It's eating him up.

While he may have remembered those eyes at first because of how beautiful they were, he can’t stop thinking about them now because of how familiar they seem.

He flips the page in his notebook.

He couldn’t write the article, it wouldn’t be right.

But he could write a letter.

“You looked afraid when I found you. Not afraid of me, but afraid of being seen. I know that feeling. I live it every day…”

***

“And it was unfair of me to put you in this position without thinking.”

One of your legs is folded on your lap as you read the letter. Sun warming your back, you reread the letter. The whole thing is lengthy and filled with other versions of apologies, admissions, and small memories that he must have held onto. He recounts their first interactions – awkward and uninvited — and how unprepared he was for her presence. He writes about the moment he saw her alone at the bus stop and how he should have seen more than just a source for a story. Because his mind could see her for what she truly was at that moment. A woman who just wanted to vanish into the night, and he hadn’t let her.

Somewhere between the small apologies and the anecdotes, you forget yourself; a small smile cracking the façade you had put on when you had agreed to meet him here at the park. You had told yourself that you would be stoic, solid as a rock. But you couldn’t.

Not when he handed you the letter and hurried away with a wave, blush of embarrassment on his cheeks. Not with all the self-deprecation and the indications that this man was just a giant dork who loved his job.

You press the paper against your thigh, eyes still skimming the last few lines. There’s something comforting about the slant of his handwriting, the way he loops his lowercase' e's as if he’s not in a rush.

“I won’t publish a word,” he wrote. “I just wanted you to know someone saw you and didn’t look away.”

You exhale slowly. That line—it settles into you like warmth after cold rain—a slight relief.

Then your fingers hover over your phone.

You shouldn’t reply.

You’ve told yourself to let this go. Fame and privacy can’t coexist. That people like him, good at heart with keen eyes, are too dangerous to let close.

But still, you type out a message.

Coffee? Somewhere quiet? No interviews.

Your finger hesitates above send.

Then taps.

You set the phone down beside the letter and pull your knees to your chest, letting the city move outside your window.

Maybe this doesn’t have to be about headlines.

Maybe this time, it’s just about being seen.

***

The café was tucked between a laundromat and a shuttered bookstore—quaint and forgettable.  It had been her suggestion. Clark had suggested a dinner, but received an emphatic “No!” in response. He supposed that a superstar wouldn’t be a fan of somewhere loud and crowded, like a dinner in a busy city. But she also probably personally wasn’t a fan of the noise when she was herself either.

He arrived early. He had already claimed a corner table where the light didn’t quite reach, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee and nervously rereading the message she had sent. It had come early in the afternoon, but he couldn’t read it at his desk. Not after he handed her that letter and ran away like a weirdo.

He also didn’t want to be seen on his phone after he failed to put the story Lois had so graciously given him. She was quick to send him daggers when he came in that morning and had nothing to show for the expensed ticket that was bought for him.  

But when he had read it, his heart thumped with relief.

Coffee? Somewhere quiet? No interviews.

Would it have been wrong if he had admitted to himself that that was precisely what he had hoped she would write?

The bell over the cafe door jingles as it opens, and Clark is surprised. She’s here, the real her, like she agreed to.

She wore sunglasses even though the sky was overcast. Understandable. But the style was different from the sweatpants and hoodie that he caught her in that night.

He catches her gaze, and she gives him a nod; he smiles. He hoped he didn’t come off too eager. She didn’t give him one back; instead, she opted to head to the counter and place her order before coming to sit down.

For a moment, neither spoke. She didn’t remove her glasses, and he couldn’t keep the awkward smile from his face.

He realizes he’s doing it when she furrows her brows a little, confused.

Clar cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming.”

“I almost didn’t.”

Her voice is steady, but he can tell that it is not entirely the truth.

He goes along with her words.

“I figured.” He paused. “I meant every word I wrote.”

“I know.” She looked at the table, then up at him. “You have kind eyes. It’s annoying.”

Clark huffed a quiet laugh. “Sorry about that.”

A server came by and placed her order in front of her—a light coffee-based drink with a cinnamon-coated rim.

“I thought you’d ask for tea,” he starts. She stared at him blankly. “…you know…because…singer.”

She doesn’t even crack a smile.

“So, I wasn’t sure if you’d want to talk,” he said. Or…sit.”

“Still deciding.”

Silence again. But it wasn’t tense. Even as she stared him up and down, he didn’t feel any pressure. No feeling that she meant him any harm. She was just…unsure. Measured.

Finally, she asked, “How did you know it was me?”

Clark’s expression softened.   “I didn’t. Not at first. But when you looked at me backstage, then again at the bench, I saw the same thing. Something under the surface.”

Her lips purse.

“Bullshit.”

***

His blue eyes go wide at the curse, like he didn’t expect you to be capable of the words. And he was right. You weren’t usually one to confront someone for lying; something about that felt hypocritical. But for you, this was a matter of life and death.

You take off your sunglasses, and he averts his gaze.

“Tell me how you knew it was me.”

He turns red quickly, from the tip of his nose to his ears. His jaw clenches for a moment like he’s wrestling with something—whether to lie again or to admit something that might make him sound crazy.

Finally, he exhales.

“Two things,” he holds out two fingers like he’s going to lose track of the number if her doesn’t. “Y-your eyes.”

“My eyes?” You questioned.

“They’re pretty both ways.”

He sounds so shy and sincere, saying that your heart thumps in your chest, and a burst of heat paints itself across your cheeks.

“Thanks. What’s the other thing?”

He exhales.

“I saw your heartbeat.”

You blink.

“What?”

He rubs the back of his neck, shoulders hunched slightly. “It’s going to sound… weird. But I have certain abilities. And one of them is… I can see things. Hear things. Like your heartbeat, the rhythm of your breathing. It didn’t change. Not when you changed your hair, your clothes, even your voice. It was always you.”

You’re silent.

Not out of fear, but surprise. Maybe a twinge of understanding.

He continues, voice softer now. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just something I pick up on sometimes, without trying.”

“And you didn’t write about that either?”

“No.” His answer is immediate. “Because that’s not the story I care about.”

You lean back, studying him again.

You want to ask, “Did you make a wish on a magic stone too?” But that seems a little invasive. So you ask instead.

“So, you’re special too.”

He nods.

You bite the inside of your lip. You're supposed to think it's not really the weirdest thing to happen to you. More and more remarkable individuals seem to emerge in the world all the time. Aliens too.

You nod slowly. The quiet stretches between you again, this time with something new inside it—recognition.

And maybe a little bit of trust.

***

Is it wrong to text a stranger nonstop for days? It’s what you’ve been doing since your last show. Your last performance in Metropolis was the final stop of the tour. And you were in no hurry to leave. Not since you made a new friend. One where you could be just you. Without lace, lashes, or lenses.

Clark’s messages are short. Sometimes funny, sometimes awkward, always genuine. You were glad he agreed to keep messaging you, though. He preferred talking on the phone. You hated it.

He never pries. Never asks about your performances, your set list, or the gossip swirling around your name online. He talks about the city mostly. The places he likes to visit are late at night. Where to watch the best sunrise. Which rooftop cats are the boldest.

And you find yourself telling him things, too—mundane things. About the tea, you burn your tongue on, about how you bring blankets from home because you can’t sleep on hotel sheets. About your favorite movies, and the pair of socks your aunt gave you for your birthday.

Sometimes, you don’t even realize how much time you’ve spent talking to him until your phone buzzes with a low battery warning.

Tonight is one of those nights. You’re lying on the hotel couch in an oversized hoodie, bare-faced and warm under a blanket. Your phone buzzes.

“Rain’s coming in. You ever watch the storm from the museum steps?”

You smile. You hadn’t. But now you’re curious.

Twenty minutes later, you’re there. Hood up, sitting on the cold marble steps of the Metropolis Museum, the city stretched in hazy lights below. The sky rumbles softly overhead.

He joins you without fanfare. No surprise this time. Just a quiet presence beside you, holding out a paper cup.

"Chamomile," he says. "I guessed."

You take it, letting your fingers brush his. "You’re getting better at this."

"I had help."

The two of you sit in silence for a while, sipping tea as rain starts to fall in soft, lazy drops. The city glows through the mist, warm and alive.

You speak first. "I haven’t stayed in one city this long in years."

Clark hums. "That a bad thing?"

You shake your head. "No. Not bad. Just... different."

"Different can be good."

You glance at him, and he’s already looking at you. And for once, you don’t look away.

Your voice is quiet. "Do you ever wish you could just be one thing?"

"All the time," he admits. "But then I remember—some people get to be two. And that’s not a curse. It’s a gift."

The rain gets heavier, but you don’t move.

Neither does he.

***

She doesn’t notice the figure.

How could she?

She’s wrapped up in the rain. Watching it roll down the uncovered stairs, catching a few drops in her hands, and smiling up at him. But Clark does. His head shifts slightly, just enough for his brows to furrow.

Her pretty eyes become concerned when she feels him stiffen next to her. His hand comes up to lightly touch her arm.

“We’re being watched,” he says. Voice so low it nearly vanishes beneath the rain.

She stiffened beside him. He didn’t need to use his vision to know the figure had moved. The glint of a lens confirmed it. Then it was gone, tucked back into a coat, and the shadow turned away, walking off with a pace far too smooth.

She was already up, hood drawn tighter. "Paparazzi?"

Clark shook his head, rising beside her. “No. They would have taken more than one photo. That was deliberate.”

He didn’t like the way the stranger carried. Smooth, unbothered by the fact that they had been noticed. Someone who had already known exactly where to stand, when to photograph, and when to vanish.

She checked her phone as it buzzed, and her face paled.

Nice disguise. Shame if the world found out.

His jaw locked. That cold, gnawing anger he rarely let surface crept in.

"We should go," he said immediately. "Now."

They descended the museum steps. The rain grew harsher, but he kept her close, matching her pace without crowding her. Her breaths were short. Her hands shook.

Back at her apartment, she bolted the door while Clark scanned the perimeter. Every window, every corner of the rooftop across the street. His hearing stretched into the quiet.

Nothing.

Yet.

She asked the question without turning around. "Who would do this?"

He hesitated.

Then: “Someone who knows what you are. Or… who—what I am. Maybe.”

He sees it flash on her face for a moment—Who are you? But she quiets it quickly.

He was relieved. He should tell her, shouldn’t he?

He knows who she is. What she is. Was it only fair?

And she asked slowly, “You think this is about us?”

Her eyes seem to flash a bit brighter just so her meaning is clear.

“I do.”

She pauses, and he can read the expressions on her face, the trains of thought that she is going through.

And then she exhales. Her shoulders, which had been taut since the moment he spoke at the museum, finally lowered.

“I’m tired of running,” she says quietly. “And hiding.”

He takes a step closer, his hands still open and nonthreatening. “Then don’t. Not alone, anyway.”

She meets his eyes. Hers are uncertain, but not unwilling.

“I’ll need your help,” she says.

“You’ve got it,” he answers. “Whatever it takes.”

And somehow, despite the fear crawling in the back of her mind, she believes him.

She finally believes someone.

***

You had hoped it was a one-time thing. A scare in the rain. A photo that never surfaced. That the person that Clark had sensed was nothing more than a person walking by, in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

But then the second message came.

You looked tired tonight. Maybe you should sleep more.

You haven’t performed in nearly a month. Haven’t left the hotel room that’s become your apartment, since that night.

Clark had taken to checking in on you more frequently, sometimes in person, sometimes just through text. You didn’t tell him everything. Not yet. There was a part of you that didn’t want to look helpless. Not to him. Not when he looked at you like you were someone still whole.

A part of you also didn’t want to tell Clark because you were angry with him. Furious that he found you out. And angry that he wasn’t the only one now. That this started happening after you had met his stupid, wonderful face. How could you need him to be around and be so rage-filled at the same time? But you need him.

Because the eyes—whoever they belonged to—never left.

Sometimes, you saw them out of the corner of your eye when you slipped out for groceries. A reflection that lingered too long in a passing car. A silhouette at the edge of a building that disappeared before you could double-take.

The worst part? You started to second-guess your own senses. Was it paranoia? Or instinct? A part of you had started to regret your wish. Not just being famous or having a perfect form part. But you felt silly. Who makes a wish and doesn’t ask for some kind of superpower? Something that you could have used to protect yourself.

Because, the threat is getting closer, one night, the elevator in your building chimed at the wrong floor. No one stepped out. But when the doors closed, there was a folded piece of paper on the floor.

Your name. Scrawled in ink.

You opened it with trembling hands.

I liked the black hoodie better. You don’t need to hide from me.

You don’t remember the last time you screamed.

But you did then.

By the time Clark arrived, the note was on the floor, and your hands were still shaking. He didn’t ask questions at first. Just stepped inside and locked the door.

You didn’t ask how he knew you were home, or how he had gotten there so fast. You were just glad that he was there.

Sat on the couch together, you fiddled with your hands, clammy with nervous sweat.

“I think he’s getting closer.”

“He?” Clark asks. But nothing in his tone screams surprised. You were sure he’d known that entire time, too.

“I feel it in my bones,” you say, giving him a nervous smile. “I don’t think I’ll have to worry about being alone anymore.

It was a horrible attempt at a joke, one to make you feel better.

But the way that Clark’s face seems to crumble in on itself…How could he find himself carrying just as much as you had? You were still a stranger.

And that’s why you said.

“I don’t think you should hang around me anymore, Clark. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

His eyebrows raise, and his face softens, but there is a bit of anger in those blue eyes. A bit of darkness you hadn’t seen before.

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

He takes the note from your coffee table. “But him. I think it’s time that I meet him before he meets you again.”

You nodded, throat too tight for words.

If he was done waiting, then you were too. Whoever was following you has stopped being patient, and so have you.

***

It was her fault.

How couldn’t it be?

She knew what she was doing every time she stepped on stage and smiled. Oh, and that voice of hers.

Enchanting.

He hadn’t minded it if it was hers or not. Not that he couldn’t tell which things were intrinsically hers. Her hair color, skin, the smile, the way her knees knocked slightly together. And god, those eyes! He couldn’t get enough.

But he was fine not being the only one that got to see the here that was perfection, in both forms.

Because she was generous, she toured around the world. Letting the world see her perfection.

But the key was, she shared.

This spending, time with a newspaper writer, wasn’t exactly fair. And it wasn’t exactly him. Who was Clark Kent to monopolize her time? To get her to lock down her time in Metropolis when she never stayed in any place for more than two weeks, tour or not?

No. It wasn’t fair.

Clark Kent hadn’t quit his job for her.

Clark Kent hadn’t followed her around the world.

Clark Kent hadn’t lost his family for her.

So why did Clark Kent get to have her?

No, he’d nip it in the bud before it got that far. Before the larger man could even get the chance to lay his hand on her.

Because no one loved her the way Henry Miller had.

***

I promise I won’t be more than 15 minutes.

How many times had you begun to type it out? But you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You knew what you were doing, so it makes sense. He had made you promise to tell him anytime you went out.

“I’ll be there,”  He said.

But how could he? And how could you bring yourself to ask that of him? He needed to work and live his own life.

The one that was far less complicated than when you had entered.

If you had just agreed to give him that interview, he wouldn’t be involved in this mess in the first place.

And perhaps, neither would you.

So you went out.

Hood up. No makeup. Your “real” face.

It was supposed to be fifteen minutes, just as you promised in the text you never sent.

Just enough time to breathe, and just enough time to get some ice cream from that bodega on the corner that you and Clark had passed so many times.

And then it happens.

That itch.

A bit of twisting of your skin, your instincts on fire. Too heavy a silence in the aisle. The store felt eerily empty. You couldn’t see the cash register from back here, but you could see the back door, and the fact that it is slightly cracked open, just enough space for you to run.

And so you do.

Or you would.

If your wrist hadn’t been grabbed.

If you hadn’t frozen where you stood.

“I liked you better in the black one.”

The voice itself wasn’t remarkable. Averagely low, bland, nothing remarkable about it.

But you recognized the cadence—the words.

You turned slowly.

He looked like any other man. Slight frame. Brown short hair. Jeans, coat, bland like oatmeal. But his eyes were already devouring you. Wide and too bright.

You don’t recognize his face.

But he knew yours.

And worse, he smiled like he owned it.

“Who are you?” you asked, already backing away.

He didn’t answer.

Just tilted his head, like a curious dog, and said, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You turned and ran.

And then you screamed.

***

It pierces his ears, that scream. He’s never heard anything like it. It seemed to be happening right next to him, but also all around him. And he’s not alone because everyone in the office seems to wince.

Like a dog whistle, they could all hear it calling to them, but they didn’t understand. Lois looks confused for a moment, but she shakes off the tone. Others do too.

But Clark can still hear her, and the anguish in her tone is evident.

He’s up and moving before Lois can even ask what’s wrong. His glasses are in his pocket, and the elevator is ignored entirely. Within moments, the wind howls past his ears as the city blurs beneath him.

He follows the sound.

***

He has you pushed up against the wall, a hand clamped over your mouth. One of his eardrums is bleeding.

You don’t know what you did to cause it—screamed too loudly? Fought too hard? But it doesn’t matter.

Henry Miller is panting, ragged, and furious. His face is a mask of desperation and obsession. Spittle dots the corner of his mouth.

“I loved you first,” he hisses. “I saw you before all of them before you changed. Before you hid. You think Clark Kent sees you? You think he deserves you?”

You shake your head under his grip, fury rising even as panic claws your chest. You try to knee him again, like you did moments earlier, but he pins you harder.

“I’ll release it,” he growls, fishing in his coat pocket. “All of it. Your face. The raw footage. Let them see what you are. Then we’ll see who comes crawling back.”

Before the words even finish leaving his mouth, there’s a sudden whoosh of displaced air and a crash like thunder.

Henry is gone.

One second, he’s pressing against you; the next, he’s across the room, slamming into a metal shelf that crumples behind him.

Clark stands where Henry had just been. No glasses. No hesitance. Dipped in Blue and red.

Superman.

“Don’t touch her again,” he says, voice ringing with something ancient and absolute.

Henry groans, trying to scramble toward the device he dropped. Clark’s foot lands on it, crushing it with a satisfying crack.

“It's over.”

You slump to the ground, breathing hard, chest heaving. Clark is already at your side, crouching low, hands not touching but ready.

“Are you okay?”

You nod, but it’s shaky. He sees the tremble in your hands. Without asking, he pulls off his cape and wraps it around your shoulders.

Henry is moaning behind the shelves, but you block it out. You stare at Clark, this man who had been beside you as a reporter and now hovered like a myth come to life.

“You’re him,” you whisper. Not a question.

“I am,” he says. “And I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”

But you shake your head. You pull the cape tighter around you

“No, I’m sorry. I should have texted, like you said. I just…”

Your voice breaks, but only slightly. You shake your head again, angry at yourself—for the fear, for the pride, for letting it get this far.

Clar doesn’t press. He simply lowers himself beside you, his presence a shield against the world.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says gently.

“I just wanted some ice cream.”

It’s pathetic as it comes out of your mouth. Voice slightly hoarse, exhaustion beginning to overcome you.

Clark smiles, and it’s not the kind of smile people give when they think you're being silly. It’s soft. Understanding.

“Then next time,” he says, “I’ll go with you. We’ll pick the flavor together.”

You close your eyes for a moment, the tension slowly seeping out of your shoulders. His words shouldn’t mean as much as they do—but right now, they mean everything.

A moment passes. Then another.

You finally look at him. “I think I need to go back to the hotel.”

His expression shifts—not surprised, but attentive.

“Okay,” he says. “Come here.”

You hesitate. Not out of fear. Just awe. He’s already removed his jacket, his cape unfastened, catching the low streetlight in soft folds. He steps forward, arms steady, posture sure.

You nod.

When he lifts you, it’s effortless. Like you weigh nothing. His arms are warm, one beneath your knees, the other around your shoulders, and then—

The city drops away.

The wind roars past you, but his body shields you from the worst of it. Lights blur into lines. Streets become threads of gold and red. You press your face lightly into his chest, breathing steadily, eyes closed.

You’re safe.

He lands on the hotel balcony like a whisper.

You don’t move right away. Neither does he.

Finally, you look up.

“Thank you,” you say. And it means more than just for the flight.

He sets you down gently, brushing your hair back from your face.

“I’ll stay close,” he says. “In case you need me.”

You look at the empty room behind you, and then back at him. The night suddenly feels too long to spend alone.

“Would you stay?” you ask. Quiet, but sure.

Clark blinks, then nods. “Of course.”

You leave the balcony doors open as you walk inside together. He shrugs off what’s left of his suit jacket, draping it over the back of a chair. You grab a blanket from the bed, tossing it onto the couch, then hesitate.

“Bed’s big enough,” you murmur.

He meets your eyes—not with surprise, but with understanding. “Only if you want me to.”

You nod once.

You both settle in, silent but not uncomfortable. The hum of the city becomes a lullaby beneath the glass windows. His presence is steady beside you, not looming, just there.

You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing, warm and human and close.

And this time, you don’t dream of being followed.

***

Clark was awake before the sun broke over the city.

Old habits. A farmer’s clock buried under years of heroism and secrecy. He didn’t need much sleep anyway, not really. But he had stayed still through the night, careful not to wake her. She had curled closer sometime during the night, her head resting on his shoulder, the steady rhythm of her breath easing something tight inside his chest.

It wasn’t until the sun began to shine with a soft morning gold that she began to stir.

She blinked slowly, tugged the blanket up over her shoulder, surprise eking out of her very being. Then she blinks. Clark can see the wheels turning in her head as she remembers the events of yesterday.

A smile then a frown, before her face settles on a look of unguarded contentment. They sit in that silence for a moment.

Then:

“I have a question.”

Clark turned his head to her gently. “Anything.”

Her brows furrowed slightly, lips pressed in thought. “When you’re flying… what does it feel like?”

He blinked, then smiled softly. That wasn’t the question he expected.

“It feels,” he began, voice quiet, “like the world lets go. Like gravity forgets to hold you. And for a while, all you can hear is the wind and your own heartbeat. Like nothing else matters.”

She nodded slowly, like she was memorizing that.

Then: “Do you feel free?”

He hesitated. “Sometimes.”

“And the other times?”

He glanced out the window, where the skyline glimmered.

“Other times, I feel like I’m flying toward something I can’t quite catch. A danger I’m always late to stop. Or… a life I’m still figuring out how to live.”

She was quiet at that.

Then she reached for his hand beneath the sheets.

“You weren’t late last night.”

Clark turned back to her. Her expression was earnest. Honest.

“No,” he said. “Not last night.”

Silence for another beat.

“One more.”

He nods.

“Do you twinkle or were you born that way?”

Clark’s brows narrow in confusion. “What?”

Her mouth purses, “I mean like this.”

Her eyes seem to flash, and all around her, small twinkling lights seem to appear like fireflies. When the haze disappears, she’s in her perfect form.

With another flash of her eyes, she seems to release that state, and she’s back to normal.

“So do you twinkle?”

She laughs—real, unguarded—and the sound makes his chest ache in the best way.

“Well, don’t let it get to your head,” she says, pulling the blanket higher around her shoulders. “It’s just light-bending particles. A little reflexive shimmer. Not even that impressive.”

“It’s beautiful,” he says plainly.

She goes still at that. Not because she doesn’t believe him, but because maybe, in that moment, she does.

Clark shifts onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “Does it hurt?”

She shakes her head. “Not really. It’s more like... holding your breath. You can only do it for so long before you need to let go.”

He nods slowly. “I know that feeling.”

Their eyes meet again. Something unspoken lingers between them. Not fear. Not tension.

Hope.

A gentle knock on the hotel door breaks the spell—room service.

She looks at Clark, a question in her eyes.

He smiles. “I’ll get it.”

As he moves toward the door, she sits back against the headboard, arms wrapped around her knees.

He opens it, signs, thanks the server, and wheels in a tray stacked with covered plates and two mugs of coffee.

“Did you—?”

“I called down while you were sleeping,” he says with a shrug. “You had a rough night. I figured waffles might help.”

She laughs again, shaking her head in disbelief.

“You’re kind of ridiculous.”

“And you’re kind of amazing,” he replies, placing a plate in front of her.

She blushes but doesn’t argue.

As they eat together, the morning light grows stronger. Outside, the city stirs with its usual chaos. But inside the room, there’s a rare and sacred kind of quiet.

Not the kind born from fear.

The kind born from beginning again.

***

It’s a Friday morning. Weeks since the storm at the museum. Since Henry Miller's arrest.

The world had moved on. Quietly and then all at once.

Your name never hit the headlines. Footage of you never released. Clark made sure of that with the stump of his foot. If anyone had known about your run-in with Superman, it would have been the bodega clerk. And as far as he was concerned, you were just another girl that Superman saved. That was good enough for you.

Clark had promised to protect you, and he had kept his promise. So you figured it was only fair that you kept your promise to him, too.

***

The bullpen at the Daily Planet buzzes with its usual chaos—phones ringing, reporters arguing over phrasing, coffee machines hissing nonstop.

Clark is at his desk, unable to focus. He hadn’t talked to the girl since last night. She had sounded mischievous on the phone. Promising him that she had a surprise for him.

He’s halfway through rereading the same sentence for the fifth time when the room goes quiet.

It’s not total silence, but a shift—a collective breath held.

He glances up and sees her.

She stands just inside the bullpen doors in her full form. The version of her that the world knows. Posed. Radiant. Not intimidating, but undeniable.

She offers a small wave.

Clark blinks.

Then stands.

“Hi,” she says. The same mischievousness he heard on the phone is alive in her eyes.

“Hi,” he echoes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You really didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” she interrupts, walking closer, pulling a notebook from her bag. “Besides… I figured you’ve waited long enough.”

He recognizes the notebook. The one he’s seen her scribble in more than once, always closed before he could sneak a peek.

“For the interview,” she clarifies.

“You’re serious?”

She nods. “You still want it?”

Clark stares at her for a moment, then laughs—a soft, disbelieving sound. “Of course I do.”

“Then find me a quiet room, Kent.”

His coworkers are still watching as he leads her into an empty, glass-walled conference room, which is private enough.

He pulls out a chair for her. She raises a brow, amused, but she sits. He settles across from her, pulling out his recorder, notepad already open.

“You can ask anything,” she says. “But I might not answer everything.”

Clark’s smile turns thoughtful. “That’s fair.”

The recorder clicks on.

And for the first time, without fear or disguise, the story begins—on her terms.

***

METROPOLIS TIMES “SUPERSTAR SINGER SETTLES IN THE CITY OF TOMORROW” Beloved international star surprises fans—and local reporters—by calling Metropolis her new home.

Sources close to the performer say she’s “ready to write a new chapter.”

[yohanseyebrowmole]

DAVID CORENSWET as Clark Kent/Superman aka moments that made me go 🤩😮‍💨💘

[yohanseyebrowmole]

ch 1: idyllic

the reluctant empress

jacaerys velaryon x targaryen!reader

previous: prologue

next: updates every friday

summary: Crown Prince Jacaerys Velaryon is set to meet his intended future bride, yet the first meeting does not go as planned.

rated: pg13 (will go rated R/18+ in later chapters)

word count: 2.3k words

masterlist

“How strange, she thought, to be a part of what would surely become history, and yet still worry that she might trip on her heavy skirt.” ― Allison Pataki, The Accidental Empress

Growing up in the placid, tranquil countryside in the crown lands away from the hustle and bustle of King’s Landing, Y/N had learned to appreciate the simpler things in life. While her mother and sister always wished for finer silks and rarer jewelers, she had her sights on something else.

Despite the blood of Old Valyria running in her veins, she was forbidden from claiming a dragon, and there were no unclaimed dragons that were not guarded voraciously by the dragon keepers in the capital, as Queen Rhaenyra fiercely knew to keep dragons only within her immediate family. Only the main line of Targaryens had right to even claim one.

For now, her beloved stallion will do. There is nothing Y/N loves more than roaming around the streets of her childhood castle, of the quiet yet satisfied populace, a close knit community that did not have much communication beyond trade routes.

Her cream hued dress seemed almost mahogany colored after having been submerged in the dirt and waste, almost unwashed as a pig sty like the servants would lament, but she did not care.

Lying on the grass and feeling the sun kiss her skin as she dazes and enjoys the fine spring weather, her peace and serenity is interrupted when she hears the galloping hooves of a horse she knows is not hers.

“Princess! Your mother, Lady Alicent, commands you to return to the palace at once.” The loyal master of arms of your late father informs you and you groan as you stand up, smoothing the leaves and soot that stick to your hair and clothes.

“Alright Ser Arryk, I shall return immediately.” She climbs on her beloved stallion Majesty, as the knight escorts her back home. As you approach the gates of the brick castle, you see your mother and sister Helaena waiting for her by the cobbled steps.

Her identical auburn hair is in a tight knot on the crown of her head, in contrast to your loose, unruly curls down your back, and you sometimes think you are looking at a mirror of yourself seeing your mother, a preview of how she would appear when she aged. The same auburn hair, yet contrasting spirit.

“Where have you been, Y/N? You should have been studying with your septa.” Alicent coldly inquires, disappointed yet not surprised at her wild youngest.

Looking down apologetically, the young princess gulps as she approaches closer with a palm on the leather reins.

“I- I was studying my High Valyrian and etiquette with Septa Dyanna, and when I was doing well, she let me have a break and I got carried away. I explored the streets of our city, and…I’m sorry mother.”

“This will not be happening again. Get washed up for a bath, your things are packed and we make our way to the capital immediately.”

…

The Prince of Dragonstone wiped his brow as he attended his umpteenth council meeting for the day, having lost track of what needed to be taken care of, whether it was the safety stops in Dragonstone, rising crime in Flea Bottom or trade disputes between merchants in King’s Landing.

As he reviewed the notes he made alongside the commentary of his mother, he sighed as his eyes grew blurry in a daze of exhaustion, head rolling back as he rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, hoping to feel some bout of wakefulness.

Ever since he was nothing but a babe, Queen Rhaenyra had a great future planned for her eldest the moment he was born, even when she was just Crown Princess herself under her doting, yet absent minded father.

“You will be nothing like your grandsire. I will make sure of it” She whispered to him as she looked down at his sleeping form, wrapped in the finest red and gold cloth.

As he hears the surreptitious footsteps of his stepfather’s boots, Jacaerys stands up straight, arms pinned to his side as Prince Daemon, Prince Consort to the Queen arrives to meet him with an indistinguishable expression.

“Lad, we have delayed and put up with your mother long enough. You can no longer delay your quest of finding a bride, Jacaerys. I have not forgotten the slight you have made in rejecting any issue of marriage and robbing your sister Baela of her birth right to be Queen.” The silver-haired warrior warns his son tiredly, brow creased and the wrinkles on his forehead growing.

Jace viewing his step-sister and aunt only platonically was not helped by how Rhaenyra was indifferent to marrying him back into the Velaryon line, where his younger brother, the future Lord of the Tides Lucerys, was already well married to her sister Lady Rhaena Targaryen for over a year.

“Daemon.” The younger exasperates. “I know you have not forgiven me for my avoidance of the altar, but you must understand my reasons-”

“You risk putting all the work us Targaryens and Velaryons have put to work with your delay! With you, the family line could end and our house will have no future. Reasons? What reasons? Pathetic.”

Where the avoidance of romantic feelings had been an issue of contention to his parents, Baela remained among his greatest confidants, a dear friend who advised him and objectively was a source of feedback when the matters of the state overwhelmed or confused him.

“I will eventually marry! I never said that I would remain unwed, and seriously accept whatever bride mother dangles in my face!” Jace slams the table in frustration, knuckles turning white as his fist curled tighter.

Daemon’s explosion of anger turns contained, restrained in a cold, expressionless gaze, unyielding and on the precipice of surrender.

“I have given up in the hopes of making Baela queen, but you will marry by the end of the year, by hook or crook, Jacaerys. You are as stubborn as your mother!”

…

“Your Grace.” Jacaerys bows as he enters the throne room, still bothered from his confrontation from his step-uncle.

Rhaenyra smiled at the sight of her eldest making his way as she sat on the Iron Throne, her ruby and amethyst crown glimmering from the sunlight trickling in from the stained window. Dressed in ermine and silks, she was dressed according to her rank, her voluptuous form after several childbirths adorned only in lavish fabrics, alongside the rings, bracelets and necklaces around her.

“Jacaerys, I assume you had spoken to your father.” She raises an eyebrow in slight amusement, knowing the reason of his arrival. The issue of paternity has always been a rocky one for him, with rumours of his bastardry because he did not resemble his late father Lord Laenor Velaryon. Prince Daemon Targaryen, his mother’s true love after both were widowed and her uncle, of course, was the only father figure he truly knew for most of his life.

“Yes, my queen. I have come to announce my intent to marry. I am aware you keep a long tally of eligible Valyrian maidens for me to marry to strengthen the purity of our blood and house.”

The Queen beckons him to come closer, as her trusted handmaiden Lady Elinda Massey unleashes a gold binded book in obsidian velvet titled ‘The Most Illustrious Valyrian Families’, compiled by the loyal Maester Gerardys.

“Our first choice for your bride was the Lady Baela Targaryen, your sister and Daemon’s eldest, but I think I have a better match for you. Do you remember Lord Maekar Targaryen and his wife Lady Alicent Hightower?”

“Yes. Lady Hightower was your childhood companion and he sired two daughters with the lady. Princess Helaena who was widowed by a Lord Celtigar, and her youngest daughter Princess Y/N.”

“I seek to finally connect all House Targaryen back to the main line to prevent any Valyrian blood to enter other houses. You should marry the Princess Helaena, widowed with a child, yes, but she is still young and has proven fertility, something we urgently need.”

Jacaerys was taken by surprise, his usually controlled expression unable to be reined back in but he gulped and nodded in acceptance.

“Of course, my queen. I have heard of correspondence that the widowed Lady Hightower and both her daughters are to arrive in the Red Keep. When is their expected arrival?”

“In a fortnight, the Lady Hightower and both Princesses of Dalston Keep shall arrive. The only thing we need left to seal the match and bring assurance and stability for the realm’s future is you formally ask for her hand at the Grand Ball three nights after. You reassure the kingdom that House Targaryen will continue and an heir will come.”

…

Cramped up in a worn down carriage that had been given to her father many decades ago, Y/N did not find it comfortable cramped up in her frilly, bulky black mourning gown.

Still mourning the loss of her mother’s uncle, Lord Hightower and the Voice of Oldtown, Lady Alicent and her daughters remained draped in ebony, black veils and ribbons everywhere. Packed in another carriage following their change of clothes, they would change to less muted colours once they were closer to the capital.

Yet the rocky path and turbulent weather said otherwise, as they could not change in time and had to reroute to make in time to the capital without upsetting the Queen and the royal family.

“Y/N, if you were not so careless and got lost in the wilderness, we could have already been there and spared the poor weather we have here!” Alicent scolded her youngest, sleep deprived with shadows under her large, brown eyes. Her black bereavement gown still had undertones of verdigris green, with subtle jacquard patterns of the tower of Oldtown with its green flame seen only in some lights.

Y/N awkwardly avoided meeting her mother in the eye while Helaena held onto her hand for sympathy and comfort, as the latter shook in agitation at the presentation that would change her fate.

Little Jaehaera was left in the care of septas, considering the distance was not too great from the castle and Alicent assumed she and Y/N would return briefly after Helaena would formally become betrothed to the Prince of Dragonstone.

Caught up on a slight slumber before their arrival at their destination, Y/N slowly opens her eyes as she sees the sunlight between the curtains percolate, as a gloved hand moves it aside, while her mother and sister are already wide awake, freshening themselves up knowing how close they are to making a match that would improve their stations greatly.

The musty aroma and ghastly sights of the streets of King’s Landing coming into view, the pungent waste from Flea Bottom wafting, and the curious, desperate pleas of starving children and peasants begging to their windows of their carriage left a burning mark on Y/N’s impression of the great, big city.

As they make it to the behemoth of architecture that is the Red Keep, the carriage makes a halt as it stops by the pavement, the crier announcing the arrival of Lady Hightower and her two daughters the Lady Targaryens.

Y/N reaches the handle to open the door but the doormen swings open the door before she even touches it, nearly tripping on her feet on the way down but she salvages it awkwardly.

Smoothening the wrinkles and stray taffeta on her gown, she gets off the carriage first, as the younger sister and the one who will not be queen, they save the best for last. Her mother follows gracefully before Lady Helaena arrives, her pale features adorned in her silver-blonde hair braided up the crown of her head and the veil making her appear as pale as a ghost.

Yet where Helaena is washed out and her features are diluted and contrast in mourning clothes, it only brings out the best of Y/N's burgeoning beauty. And the prince does not fail to take notice.

Crown Prince Jacaerys, The Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne awaits gallantly, dressed in his full regalia donned in the most formal of ceremonies of the throne. The abdicated King Viserys is too weak and frail, yet mustered the strength to leave his chambers, guided on a makeshift seat with wooden wheels assisted by a handful of servants to see his beloved grandson’s future bride.

Queen Rhaenyra smiles affectionately as she sees her companion in her youth, embracing Alicent after the latter curtseyed at her. Rubbing her shoulder in condolences for their loss, Lady Alicent gathers a smile that does not meet her eyes.

Dazed and distracted by the wonders of the exterior of the castle, a gentle tap against her ankle reminds Y/N to curtsey before the royal family, not wanting her blunder of etiquette to rob them of Helaena’s match that could change their fortunes overnight.

As Jace moves down the escalade to greet the ladies, he stands in front of Y/N, takes her hand and brushes his lips against her knuckles for a peck. “Lady Helaena-”Murmured whispers and panicked eyes abound the court present at the scenario, where Prince Daemon impatiently corrects his stepson, murmurs under his breath.

“That is Lady Y/N, the younger sister, my prince.”

Without missing a beat, Jacaerys nods with an apologetic grin, flashing his charm to make people forget his blunder, before he greets her mother and then his intended betrothed. Like clockwork, he whips out a compliment that all were so beautiful and the Lady Alicent was still so youthful you would think they were all sisters.

Helaena, already skittish and shaken by social events, greets the prince in a rehearsed speel and bow, nails digging into the beds of her calluses until they turned bloody. She, who painstakingly attended each lesson expected for a future queen, in the eyes of the court.

Although expected to marry Helaena, Prince Jacaerys held his breath upon his first impression of Lady Y/N instead. Taken by her wild, independent streak and glaring beauty that was highlighted in their obsidian gowns, he knew he would choose his own destiny.

…

I hope you guys liked it! The story has finally started and drama is just about to start <3 Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist. Updates will be every Friday night PST time.

[yohanseyebrowmole]

When a Character is Falling in Love but Doesn’t Trust It

Love is terrifying. Especially for characters who’ve been hurt, shut down, or raised to believe vulnerability is weakness. So when they start falling? It doesn’t look like a Disney montage. It looks like panic in slow motion.

✧ They start noticing everything and it unsettles them. The way their voice cracks when they laugh. The way their fingers tap when they’re thinking. These little details burrow in and refuse to leave. And that awareness makes the character feel exposed.

✧ They become hyperaware of their own body. Where their hands are. How close they’re standing. If they’re blushing. It’s like being inside a body that’s betraying them constantly.

✧ They act a little mean. Not because they are mean. But because being cold is safer than being real. Sarcasm, distance, teasing, they use it like armor.

✧ They hate how much they want to share things. They’ll see a funny meme and instinctively want to send it. Then stop. No. Don’t get attached. They want to tell them about a childhood memory, then bite it back. Too personal.

✧ They become inconsistent. Warm one moment, distant the next. Showing up, then pulling away. They’re testing how much of themselves they can reveal before it feels like too much.

✧ They assume the worst. They know it won’t last. That this person will leave. That they’re misreading everything. Love doesn’t feel safe, it feels like a countdown to pain.

✧ They self-sabotage. Pick fights. Flake on plans. Pull away emotionally just to “protect themselves” before it goes wrong. It’s tragic and messy and real.

✧ They notice silence more. What wasn’t said. A delayed reply. A joke that didn’t land. Everything becomes a sign that maybe this love thing was a mistake.

✧ They want to run, but never do. The desire to bolt is constant. But they don’t. Because something about this person is pulling them back, despite every warning bell going off in their head.

✧ They don’t trust the feeling, but they keep falling anyway. And that’s what makes it beautiful. And heartbreaking. Because they don’t want to fall. But they do. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the bravest thing they’ve ever done.

[yohanseyebrowmole]

What I hate about writing is when I have to write so much before I finally get to the part I actually wanted to write.

[yohanseyebrowmole]

💬𓂃 ࣪˖. texts w/ 𝓓𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄—𝐀𝐋 𝐆𝐇𝐔𝐋 as your boyfriend .ᐟ

♡ · 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐘 — fluffy texts w/ 𝓓𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄—𝐀𝐋 𝐆𝐇𝐔𝐋 .ᐟ

🧾 · REQUEST — ❝ Can you do texts with bf!damian ? ❞

⊹ 💬 · it is implied that reader is a vigilante as well. there is some hurt/comfort here. damian is like,,, the second most popular wanted character on my blog. the translation for names used: "قلبي" (qalbi - my heart). please tell me if there is a mistake,,, jason version.

ഒ DIRECTORY⠀;⠀RULES⠀;⠀REQ (CLOSED).

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© petalbcrnes | all rights reserved. these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, or modified. viewer discretion is advised.

[yohanseyebrowmole]

ㅤ۟ㅤㅤ──ㅤ𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓ㅤ۫ㅤ ͏ㅤ𑜞᭄ ㅤ۪ㅤ⊹ㅤ𓈒

🧷 𑁯 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐘 ── 𝓙𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 w/ an 𝐈𝐓 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 ! reader ഒ

♡ · REQUEST ── ❝ Could I pretty please request a fic thats Jason Todd X reader!!! But like... Reader is THAT girl . . . She has and always will be the shit of Gotham . . . Jason and reader have been friends since his robin dayz, and after he dies they still get back together and resume their bad bitch couple shit . . . it melts ppls hearts. ❞

⊹ 💬 · these reqs are so fun i love writing jaybeans and reader totally in love and being the hottest people in the room <3

ഒ DIRECTORY⠀;⠀RULES⠀;⠀REQ HERE (CUR. CLOSED).

Jason thinks he knows what sanctuary feels like—heaven built brick by brick by the hands of an angel he once knew before the waves of the Lazarus Pit covered him completely. It changed his young skin into something marred.

He did come back. He clawed his way out of his grave. But he came back wrong. He left something of the boy he used to be under that dirt. The name ‘Jason Todd’ etched upon that gravestone was long forgotten by most.

By most. Not all.

There had been white lilies upon his grave. It was like clockwork. Every month She came to him—or where She thought he rested. He watched from afar. His eyes never left the angel he used to know—his sanctuary.

She had grown up into something otherworldly. She wasn’t the girl he used to see during the Galas Bruce dragged him to, clinging to her parents as if everyone else around her scared her. Her glossy eyed stare had found him then. It had been so easy to attach himself to Her.

She was his friend. Is still now by the look of it. She never stopped visiting with those White Lilies, grieving losing something as if he was something She held dear.

She’s something different now. The girl She was still lingered behind those sharp eyes—hypnotizing to a fault—eyes that used to trap him in their hold and still continue to do so to this day.

She walks with a purpose now. Every step is calculated. People in Gotham City worship or curse the ground She walks on. It doesn’t change the fact everyone knows Her. Everyone notices Her.

She shines the brightest in this whole damned city.

He had wished She could shine upon him as well. He took his chance. Like a dog scratching at its owner’s door, begging to be let in—he caved and ran to the only sanctuary he’d known—Her.

She opened the door.

It was a dark night when he visited Her. The alabaster moon’s light was akin to a halo around Her. Her hair was perfectly imperfect—styled but slightly messy from sleeping. Her skin just as alive as he remembered it.

Her eyes still looked at him as if She loved his own sea-green eyes. Her hands now slender and soft—different from the calloused hands of his—still tender as they grazed his face, testing if he was real. As if this was a dream for Her, as if She dreamed of him.

The way She brought him into Her hold felt like a dream. The way She let him wrap his arms around her felt like a dream.

He’d entered the sanctuary again after that night alongside Her. Or maybe, the sanctuary was always just Her.

Next to Her he felt alive. The boy Jason Todd came alive under Her touch. It felt akin to lightning under his fingertips. It felt like a drug he was getting addicted to.

She was his. He was Hers.

The wide-eyed stares the two of them got was ever so worth it. Gotham City’s angel had brought heaven to the devil. Her hands played the entire Gotham elite like an instrument. She was Gotham City’s crowned princess, and him—the prince.

The media was alive with rumors about the two of them.

‘Is Love Real? Jason Todd's Soft Eyes™ Only for Gotham's It Girl: Gotham gasps. Media combusts. Hearts melt.’

Jason wasn’t used to this kind of light.

Not from the moon, not from Her living room dimmed by candlelight, not from the soft flash of paparazzi bulbs trying to catch a glimpse of their joined silhouettes through the tinted windows of a passing car.

He wasn’t used to being seen like this.

Not as a weapon. Not as a story of resurrection gone wrong.

But as Hers.

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There's something about the way She walks beside him. Like Gotham belongs to Her and She’s just letting everyone else borrow the sidewalk.

Jason doesn’t flinch under the eyes anymore. He used to. Used to brace himself for whispers or stares, expecting judgment or recognition or worse.

But now—now the stares are different.

They’re envious.

Jason said, “You wanna ditch this place?” His voice carried the weight of a man who’d learned the value of simple pleasures after tasting both death and resurrection.

She turned to him, eyes gleaming like She knew every life he'd lived—and said, “Yeah. But I'm driving.” The words simple but carrying universes between them.

He’d never loved a voice more in his life.

The next morning, tabloids were in flames.

‘Gotham's Golden Girl and the Reformed Robin.’

A grainy photo of them in a booth at some dive on the east end—Her in his leather jacket, him smiling like he forgot how to scowl, like happiness wasn’t just something that happened to other people.

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Tim said, “So, this is a thing now?” His voice cutting through the manor’s morning quiet like a curious bird.

Jason shrugged, sipping coffee in the manor kitchen like he didn’t just spend the night wrapped in silk sheets and Her perfume, like dawn hadn’t broken over his skin with Her breath against his neck. “Guess it is.”

“Since when?”

“Since she opened the damn door.” And with those words, heaven had let him back in.

Dick walked in, caught sight of the look on Jason's face and went, “Oh my god, he's in love.” The words hanging in the air like a revelation.

That’s when Roy burst in through the back entrance, wild-haired and sleep-deprived, clearly running off three hours of rest and one Red Bull, a whirlwind of motion and disbelief.

“I just saw the photo, and I swear to God, tell me it's Photoshop.”

Jason blinked. “Morning to you too, Harper.”

Roy stormed into the kitchen, phone in hand, showing the now-viral tabloid shot of Her sitting on Jason’s motorcycle in a black leather mini-dress and his jacket like she was the poster girl for ‘my boyfriend’s a reformed vigilante and I run this city.’

“This. This is real?! You and her?!”

Jason didn't even look. “Yeah. Real.” In those two words, the certainty of a man who’d touched divinity and lived to tell about it.

Tim sipped his drink like this was better than reality television.

Dick leaned against the fridge, smirking. “He’s been soft for her since we were kids.”

Roy stared at all of them, processing, then slowly sat down at the kitchen island like his legs gave out. “No, I need a minute. I’m dizzy. Jason Todd has a goddess who voluntarily chooses to hang out with him?”

Jason raised a brow. “You good?”

“No! I am not good!” Roy pointed dramatically. “You’re hot in a feral, ‘I fought my way out of hell’ kinda way. She’s hot in a ‘Vogue cover and private yacht in Monaco’ kinda way. That math doesn't math.”

“Sounds like jealousy to me.” Jason just grinned like the devil himself got a second chance at heaven.

© petalbcrnes | all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, or modified. viewer discretion is advised.

[yohanseyebrowmole]

i am nooooot locked the fuck in. im locked the fuck out. call the locksmith