#too many story ideas but uh i need to write this one

[temporary-gentleman]

[Bloodborne OC]

William, The Good Hunter (based on my in-game character)

A doctor of medicine by trade, he ironically finds himself relying on Yharnam's famous blood ministration to cure an illness. But all does not go as planned and he finds himself enrolled as a hunter in very cryptic circumstances.

Although not a Yharnamite, he has studied at Byrgenwerth during a few semesters before going back to his homeland.

His weapon of choice is the Threaded Cane (my beloved) and he relies heavily on strategy to handle a fight.

[becca4leafclover]

Future Becca: if youre looking for the brainstorming to bridge between the river and "why do you care?" Check your drafts on this blog

[ellipsus-writes]

Stories of resistance; communities of power

(Read over on the blog!) The first time I met a queer character was a literal flash in the dark: stumbling onto Maurice on the IFC channel, sometime around midnight—the Merchant-Ivory adaptation of E. M. Forster's novel where the two leads actually get a happy ending.

Before that, the only queer characters I’d ever seen were Scar and Ursula, camping, preening, and scheming their way to classic villainhood—swishy, fabulous, undeniably doomed. And then I found Oscar Wilde at the library: an actual gay writer (thrilling: I bought a poster on the nascent internet of the author lounging on a settee and taped it too my bedroom door—abandon straightness, all ye who enter here). And then I learned how it ended: destroyed by the state, dragged through a prejudicial court system—the ultimate doomed narrative, for the crime of being human.

There have been big strides in the, uh… how many intervening years? (Y2K was 10 years ago, right?) We no longer have to sit quietly, waiting for a flicker of queer joy on late-night TV, clawing our way through a wasteland of tragedy to feel seen.

Now, we make our own stories.

I wrote my own stories in high school; digging through the cracks to find historic queer spaces I could enter, rediscovering buried worlds and realizing we’d always been here. (Ask me about mid-18th-century gay life in Paris, or ‘20s Berlin... or don’t.) And fanfic, which went mainstream a little later, changed everything. It’s the way so many people carve out space for themselves—claiming stories that were never meant for us and making them our own.

Of course, it’s 2025. There are tragedies happening right now. Big ones, small ones, ones so personal they’ll never make the news; losses so massive they leave entire communities grieving. They can feel insurmountable.

But we have something stronger—community.

You’re already doing the work. You’re making yourselves visible—writing without permission, without waiting for gatekeepers to tell you what’s marketable or appropriate. You write anyway. You’re valid because you write. Your stories spread across the void, forming bonds when they most want to divide us. Instead of more tragedy, you’re making whole universes gay (literally).

Telling stories—messy, joyful, painful, honest, true—will always be a defiant act. Every time you write a queer character, spin a fanfic with queer headcanons, share a few lines that spring straight from your gut, you’re pushing back. The act of creation sets off a chain reaction—visibility, empathy, and the simple, profound reminder that you’re not alone.

That’s the gift of stories: to expand someone’s world, to help them see others—and themselves—more clearly, no matter what the world tells you. The power of storytelling has always been revolutionary, and the beauty of community is that it makes us unbreakable.

Our community proves this every day. You show up for each other—offering feedback, encouragement, shouting 2AM prompts and plotbunnies into the void (and the void answers back). You share your worlds, your ideas, your selves. You make space for each other, and you make Ellipsus stronger, more resilient, and more fiercely alive.

That’s why Pride matters. And why writing matters—more than ever.

For us, this work is personal. As a queer-founded company (myself—Rex—and my partner, John—hey how are you), we built Ellipsus as a home for creators who, like us, find deep belonging in community and creative expression.

With queer voices under attack—rights stripped away, books banned, Pride erased from calendars (FCK GGL)—we don’t need to tell you we’re worried. You’re worried, too. But together, we’re determined. We’re courageous and connected.

For Pride Month, we’re excited to give back to the community that gives so much to us—and to launch a few things along the way…

A new Pride theme for Ellipsus

Because queer joy should shine in every word you write. (Yes, it’s forever—not just for June!)

And coming soon…

You’ll be able to support your favorite little writing tool in more ways… yep, we’re jumping on the merch gambit. But it’s not all about us—50% of all proceeds from our shop will go directly to LGBTQ+ organizations fighting back against censorship, discrimination, and erasure:

The Trevor Project—Supporting LGBTQ+ youth.

Trans Lifeline—Providing life-saving resources for trans people.

The ACLU—Fighting for freedom of expression, trans rights, and against book bans and censorship.

... Pride is about all of us—so we want to hear from you.

What does Pride mean to you as a writer? How does your creativity reflect your community, and your hopes for the future? How does writing get you through it, help you make connections, and bring you joy?

Share your stories in our Discord, or shout into the void of Tumblr, Bluesky (and tag us!). We’ll be sharing some of your responses throughout the month. Our aim is simple: to give you a space to write freely, protect freedom of expression, and uplift queer voices—not just for a month, but for as long as it takes.

[pukefactory]

I was reading through your ENA writings, and I was wondering: Would you do headcanons or stories for a more angsty prompt? I was wondering how ENA might navigate the downs of a relationship. 'Cause like, ENA literally has a part of herself called her "meanie side". She'd definitely say something she regrets at some point. Doesn't help that she probably hasn't had very many relationships of this type.

Could you write some headcanons for what happens if ENA's meanie side says something... well, really mean, and how she navigates the aftermath of driving her partner to tears?

It's fine if not! That definitely seems to be a little outside the general vibe with these. Plus, I even have some ideas of my own for this, too!

(For example, maybe her partner gains a bit of a phobia of her meanie side's voice, so she forcefully tries to change it into her more friendly-sounding salesperson voice, but that's really hard because it seems like her meanie side talks when she's distressed in general, like her PTSD-like response to the vending machine refusing to sell her stuff, or when Froggy calls her when she arrives at the Purge event.)

Sorry, you're making my own creative gears whirl, lol! All that to say, it's cool if you'd rather do more wholesome stuff.

•☽────✧˖°˖ I DON’T KNOW HOW TO LOVE ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson Ena Trying To Make Up To The Reader After Saying Something Hurtful

★ Character(s): Salesperson Ena (Ena: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ The words are out before she even processes them. Ena’s Meanie side, fueled by frustration, sharpens her tongue like a blade, and the moment your face crumples, her geometric form glitches. “Oh… Oh, WAIT.” The red side is already scrambling to take control, but the damage is done. A hard swallow, a glitchy stammer, and her face flickers between a grimace and a forced salesman’s grin. “A-alright, that was a limited-time offer of cruelty—uh, poorly advertised, terrible customer service. I’d like to issue an immediate recall—”

☆ The realization sends her into a spiral. She grips her hat, her polygons jagged, her expression contorting between stiff remorse and an agonized smirk. “No-no-no-no-no, I-I, um—LOOK OVER THERE!” (There’s nothing there.) “Uh, NO NEED TO CRY, HAH, IT WAS A JOKE! …A bad one, really bad, I mean, did you get it? No? Not funny? Oh. Ohhh, geez.” Her hands wave wildly, like trying to physically catch her mistake midair, but all she’s doing is digging the hole deeper.

☆ The Salesperson side desperately tries to salvage the situation, slipping into her usual corporate babble as if she can sell her way out of emotional devastation. “I have an INCREDIBLE deal for you today! A fantastic, once-in-a-lifetime, super-duper-special ‘I’m Sorry’ package! It comes with—uh—regret! Profound self-loathing! A, uh, complete reimbursement of all emotional damages! Act now and receive bonus guilt!” She grips her hat. “That… that didn’t help, did it.”

☆ The Meanie side hunches forward, knees drawn to her chest, voice quieter now, almost trembling. “I—I didn’t mean it like that…” The weight of the moment presses down on her, cracks spiderwebbing along her skin. “I say stupid things. Mean things. I-I don’t even think before I—” She hiccups, trying to contain the mess of static in her chest. “I just wanted to be heard. Not… not this.”

☆ The second you leave, the performance is over. No business chatter, no outbursts—just silence. Ena folds in on herself, static fizzing at her edges. Her polygons warp and distort, a physical manifestation of regret. She hugs herself, claws digging into her polygonal sleeves, whispering, “That was so, so stupid. Stupid. Stupid.” The word repeats until it’s nothing but glitchy noise.

☆ Ena isn’t great at this. She tries every trick in her book—witty remarks, elaborate business metaphors, even writing an entire jingle about how sorry she is (it’s terrible). But when all else fails, she just slumps forward, hands clasped, voice trembling between glitchy laughter and something achingly real. “I really don’t want to lose you. Not over my dumb mouth. Not over me.”

☆ She leaves gifts that make zero sense—a business card that just says “SORRY” in bold letters, a rock painted like a sad face, an actual coupon that reads, “Redeem this for one (1) unfiltered Ena sincerity session.” Eventually, she just shows up, staring, fingers twitching. “So, uh… did you use the coupon yet?” A pause. “I-It’s refundable.”

☆ Eventually, she cracks. Underneath the layers of glitchy bravado, underneath the business-talk deflections, she’s just… scared. “I don’t… I don’t know how to do this right,” she admits, voice warping between pitches. “I don’t know how to be—uh—soft. Or gentle. Or—consistently good. I just—” She wrings her hands. “I never meant to hurt you. But I did. And that—it—it sucks. And I suck. And I wanna—fix it. If—if you let me.”

☆ The Meanie side knows she’s the problem. Always the one who pushes too hard, who says the wrong thing. What if this is the time she can’t fix it? What if she just… loses you? That thought alone is enough to crack her voice into something unsteady, her edges blurred with static. “You… you don’t have to forgive me,” she murmurs. “But I—I really hope you do.”

☆ When you finally—finally—lean into her, still sniffling but not leaving, Ena’s entire form stabilizes. No more warping polygons, no more distortion. Just a deep, shaky exhale. “Okay,” she whispers, almost afraid to move. “Okay. This is still a disaster. But, uh… I think I can work with ‘disaster’ better than ‘gone.’” A small, wobbly grin. “Let’s… let’s fix this together, yeah?”

[1800-fight-me]

An Experiment in Desire

Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader

Rating: E (EXPLICIT - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT)

Warnings: Explicit sex, takes place in a brothel

Word count: About 2k

Synopsis: You find yourself in a brothel and have an unexpected encounter with the one eyed prince.

Author’s note: So uh... that brothel scene in the last episode really did a number on me,,, this is the filthiest thing I've ever written and I make no apologies thanks @arcielee for the inspo! and also i borrowed this beautiful gif from @aegonx i hope that's okay!!

I do not have a taglist! Instead if you would like to be notified when I post new fics follow my side blog @jo-writes-fanfic and turn your post notifications on! Here's the link to my Aemond Masterlist if you want to check out my other stories! Also my requests are open, please send me some more!!

You weren’t quite sure how you found yourself in this particular predicament. Despite your loud and frequent complaints throughout the night, you had none to voice now. 

It was a night out with your friends to celebrate the impending marriage of the loudest of your friend group to the baker’s boy. It was a good match, you were happy for her, she liked him well enough and he would be able to provide for her, which was as much as anyone could ask as smallfolk in King’s Landing. 

What you did object to however, was when the group decided that leaving the tavern, after entirely too many rounds of surprisingly strong beer, and heading to a brothel was a good idea. 

She had expressed nerves about her wedding night, and some of the others in your party overruled your protests and decided that bringing her to a brothel so she could ‘at least see what it’s all about’ was the perfect idea. 

You needed no such education, having laid with a man once before, well the word man was a stretch, it was a couple of years ago and he was a boy not much older than you who worked in the stables of the Red Keep. It wasn’t anything to write home about, but it had been sufficient, and your interest in sex had decreased since then. 

Now, you wondered if you had been wrong to not explore other options. The dark rooms were filled with incense, curtains, and moans of ecstacy. Many fornicators weren’t even hidden by curtains, but were completely out in the open for any and all to see. 

Your friends gasped and giggled, watching and whispering as a woman on her knees choked on a man’s cock. You were surprised that she seemed to be enjoying it, and it made you wonder if it was something you would enjoy too. 

A hand slipped into yours and you let your friends tug you along, this time you bit your lip to withhold your gasp as a man licked and feasted on a woman’s cunt. This was something you knew immediately you would enjoy, as a rush of heat filled you and you felt the desire to not just observe anymore, but to participate. 

There was a bit of commotion as a group of loud men filtered into the room and in an effort to get out of their way as the silver haired leader of the group stumbled through yanking back curtains in search for someone- your hand slipped from your friend’s and you were separated from your group. 

One of the men in the group slapped your ass, which startled you so much you stumbled back and pressed yourself against a wall in order to get away from the rowdy intruders. 

Some of the crowd paused their copulation, to look at the disruption and there were whispers. 

“What did you say?” you asked the unclothed woman walking past you. 

“That’s the king,” she replied. Then she looked you up and down, an innuendo in her eyes, and held out a beckoning hand to you. It took all your self control not to slip your hand in hers and follow her anywhere. 

Instead you politely declined with a small shake of your head, and she shrugged and continued on. You stuck to your post guarding the wall, and wondered where your friends had drifted off to. 

You decided you should wander into one of the adjoining rooms to find them, when a man stomped out of the enclosed curtained area the king and his man had gone into. 

The man was completely nude, that was the first thing you noticed. It was difficult not to notice. He was difficult not to notice. He looked like a carved statue, long hard planes of muscle everywhere on his tall form. Long flowing silver hair and an eye of sapphire also caught your eye.

You heard him mutter something to the king, “One whore is as good as another.” The king laughed, but Prince Aemond seemed to shake with anger. 

His presence was intoxicating and you couldn’t look away, especially not when he noticed your attention, and looked directly at you. 

You suddenly forgot how to breathe, how to stand, how to blink as he pinned you within his intense gaze. He stopped his stride as he approached you, standing closer than would ever be considered appropriate for a stranger, and looked you up and down. 

You resisted the urge to squirm as the nude prince dragged his gaze up your body and made you feel laid bare. 

He held a hand out to you, “Come with me.” 

Your pulse jumped and your hand itched to slip into his. 

“My prince, I am not a whore. I am here with friends…” 

He pursed his lips, “Even better. And you appear to be alone. Will you come with me or not?” 

His voice was rough with an unnamed emotion and you wanted to please him, to be the reason for relief from his torment, and you threw all caution to the wind. 

You placed your hand in his, his callouses scraping against your own, and you shivered as he brought your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, as if you were a proper lady and not the bastard daughter of a blacksmith. As if this were a courtship, not a fuck between strangers in a brothel. 

He then slipped his hand across your back and down to your waist and led you out of the large room filled with others. You were quiet, but the same could not be said of the pounding of your heart as a prince of the realm led you to a room with a door. 

“What is your name?” he asked as he shut the door behind him, sealing the two of you alone in a small room with only a desk and chair within it. 

You answered and when he murmured your name back to you, your breath caught in your throat. 

“My Prince,” you breathed out as he took a step towards you. 

“Aemond,” he corrected. 

“Aemond, this is out of character for me, I-“

He raised his brow at you, and you acted rashly, fearing you were losing him, this opportunity, and decided not to talk anymore, and practically threw yourself at him. 

He groaned as his lips met yours, and as he stepped forward to meet you, your bodies collided and he guided you back a few steps until your back hit the wall. 

His tongue was inside your mouth and it was better than any kiss you’d ever had. He moved it with expertise that made your clit throb and you wondered if he would indeed want to use that tongue in other places. 

You realized there was nothing preventing you from touching him, not a single scrap of clothing, and so you let your hands explore. Down from his muscled chest, to his toned abs, lower… 

Aemond gasped in your mouth as your hand grazed his now hardening length. Your hand

continued its journey, cupping his balls and he ripped his lips from yours, a wild look in his eye. Before you could blink, he was ripping the clothes off you, baring you completely. 

You had half a second of feeling insecure as he took a step back and surveyed your naked form, before the prince murmured, “Perfect.” 

His lips and body crashed into you again, your back slamming into the wall, but you didn’t care, didn’t care, didn’t care as his bare skin brushed against yours, as all your curves pressed into his firm muscle, as his cock pressed against you, begging for attention. 

And as you reached a hand between your bodies to once again touch him, his lips pulled from

yours and he looked you in the eyes as his hand followed the same journey as your own. 

He ran a hand from the side of your throat, down your breast, taking a moment to gently squeeze and fondle which had you gasping. His thumb circled your nipple as your hand gripped his hard

cock. 

You both moaned in tandem at the action, and then his hand drifted lower, lower, and lower still, until his large hand cupped your mound and found you soaked beyond belief. 

He groaned as those nimble fingers spread your lips and explored your soaked cunt, quickly finding your clit, just as you rubbed your thumb across the sensitive underside of cock. 

“Fuck,” you panted as you both pleasured one another with your hands. You gripped and pumped his cock as you stared into his lust blown gaze. 

This, you’d never felt so wanted, so attractive, so powerful as when you held a prince

of the realm’s pleasure in your hand. 

His fingers drifted, and with a smirk, he plunged two inside you. You gasped, pleasure unlike

any other as your cunt squeezed him. 

And you could see that release was barreling towards you both, you knew he could tell the same as he batted your hand from him, yanked his hand out of you, and pressed you back against the wall. 

His lips were on you again, consuming you, as he lifted you up, using the leverage of the wall and you followed his lead as you wrapped your legs around his trim waist. 

His tongue tangled with your own as he plunged his cock inside you. 

His impressive length hit you deeper than you’d ever experienced before and you let out a whine. He chuckled, a cocky sound, and gripped the flesh of your hips tightly as he began thrusting in and out. 

You let your head fall back against the wall as you submitted to the waves of pleasure he brought you. 

His lips pressed against your throat, his

tongue and teeth, taking turns to make you whine as he continued to thrust inside you, his tempo hard and punishing and rough and everything you needed. You tried to grind down on him, to meet his thrusts, but he growled and gripped you tighter, pressed you harder against the wall, and you submitted control to him completely and let him use you. 

One hand tangled in his hair, the other gripped any muscle you could find, as his lips traveled down your throat to your breasts. 

As he licked and sucked your nipple, his cock hit the deepest part of you, and his groin ground against your clit, you shattered completely. 

You practically screamed his name as you came harder than you’d ever experienced before. 

This only encouraged him, and his grip on you tightened, you knew you would have bruises tomorrow, and you clenched down his cock as his thrusts increased in pace and intensity. The unholy squelching sound as he pounded inside you was music to your ears, you had no room to be bashful, not as you felt full, deliciously so. 

The frames on the wall shook as he pounded into you, and just as he was about to reach ecstasy, he pulled out of you and put you back on your own two feet. 

You watched as the prince touched himself, that large hand gripping his even larger cock, and your cunt throbbed at the sight. He moaned as his come splattered all across your stomach and breasts. 

You both watched each other, panting, coming down from unbelievable heights. You looked at his beautiful form and thought he was carved by the gods. 

He lifted your head with a finger under your chin, and as you met his gaze once more, and he pressed a swift kiss to your lips. 

“Perhaps we’ll meet again,” he murmured. Then he dropped his hand from your face, turned and left the room. 

You stood there, alone, completely naked, and covered in a royal come and wondered how you found yourself in this situation, but also hoped it could someday be repeated.

[hazbinhotei]

sense of style.

warnings: none

word count: 1106

summary: Alastor finally snaps after days of catching you staring at him, convinced you're smitten—only to find out you've just been admiring his sense of style.

alastor x gn!reader — can be read as platonic or romantic! thank you to the anon who requested this story! after writing four fics so far, i've come to the sudden realization at how often i use the same words. time to open a thesaurus i guess.

Of all the things Alastor expected in the wretched Pride Ring of Hell, being stared at so persistently was not one of them.

For days now—days!—you had been watching him. He'd feel it like an itch at the back of his head, a tingle up his spine that made his fur bristle and his grin quiver at the edges. Whenever he turned, there you were, eyes fixed on him, expression unreadable, so intense it made his stomach twist into knots.

At first, he thought—Well! Isn’t this fascinating! Perhaps you had fallen for his undeniable charm! Who wouldn’t after all? Alastor wasn’t foreign to the concept of others falling for his appeal, even if most of his admirers met him when he was more human-like. But Alastor was never one to judge, especially when the good graces favored him.

However, the more your glances continued, the more wrong it felt. You never swooned, never batted your lashes or fumbled over your words. No dreamy sighs, no pink in your cheeks. Just that look; the kind that made him feel exposed. He could never tell what you were thinking, his mind going into overdrive every time he saw your eyes land onto him with that indiscernible expression.

And now—oh, now, he was at his limit!

Bursting through the doors of the hotel lounge with a flair of dramatics, Alastor snapped his staff against the floor, a red flush creeping high on his cheekbones. His grin strained, stretched thin like a radio signal struggling to reach its audience.

“Alright! Spill it. What, pray tell, is so absolutely captivating about yours truly that you feel the need to stare at me like some lovesick fledgling?” His voice, usually laced with mocking amusement, had a sharp edge to it, and his ruby eyes burned as they pinned you in place.

He watched your head turn from your spot on the couch, those damn eyes of yours moving from your smartphone to his with confusion. But instead of looking caught or embarrassed, you just… laughed.

A bright, bubbling laugh that took him entirely off guard. His ears flicked back, his brows twitching as his mind reeled like someone scrambling to understand the punchline of a joke. What was so funny?!

“Oh my God—” you wheezed, trying to collect yourself, but the look on his face only made it worse. You waved a hand in front of your face, gulping down air before managing to explain, “I—I wasn’t staring at you because I like you like that! I was looking at your outfit!”

That seemed to take Alastor completely off guard. He blinked owlishly, his entire form twitching as if you had just rewritten reality. “…My outfit?” he repeated, stunned.

“Mhm. I was just admiring your style,” you hummed with a casual shrug, sitting up. “It’s… well, it’s classic! Old-fashioned, sure, but stylish. I like that you dress more on the modest side, too. Made me wonder where you found such clothes when most boutiques in Hell seem to prefer, uh… less clothing.” You finished with a little laugh, gesturing to his attire.

Alastor felt something short-circuit in his brain, continuing to blink repeatedly at you with wide eyes. He suddenly became hyperaware of himself; his high-collared waistcoat, the neatly buttoned shirt beneath, the long, tailored coat that hung off his shoulders. He had always prided himself on dressing with dignity, despising the scandalous displays so many demons indulged in these days. But the idea that you—a fresh soul, meaning you hailed from the generation he found far too provocative—also preferred a more refined sense of dress?

That, for Alastor, was certainly unexpected. And, dare he say it… utterly delightful!

“Well now,” Alastor’s grin stretched wide again, his previous frustration vanishing like smoke in the wind. “I must say, I wasn’t expecting such an appreciation for good taste! How refreshing.” He tilted his head, his flustered frustration melting into something far more amused. “And here I thought you were simply admiring me!”

You snorted. “I was, just not in the way you thought.”

“Hah! How intriguing,” Alastor leaned forward on his staff, eyes gleaming as he inspected you in a new light. “And what? Are you looking to refine your wardrobe as well? Perhaps replace those ghastly modern rags with something a bit more respectable?”

“That’s actually what I was hoping for,” you admitted, placing your phone down in your lap as you tilted your head at him. “I was gonna ask if you knew any good places to shop in Pentagram City, since you’re the only one I know around here who dresses like this.”

If Alastor could wag his tail, it would be practically wagging out of its socket.

“Do I?! My dear, you are in luck!” He hummed with theatrical flair, the excitement in his voice practically crackling through the air. “There are plenty of hidden gems scattered throughout the city. Places where true craftsmanship is still appreciated, where one doesn’t have to settle for the flimsy, tasteless garments of the masses.”

Your eyes brightened at his boisterous tone. “Oh, that sounds perfect! I’d love some recommendations.”

“Recommendations?” Alastor tapped his fingers against his chin, then snapped them together with a click. “Why settle for mere suggestions when I can show you firsthand!”

You blinked, realizing you had just accidentally signed yourself up for a one-on-one shopping trip with the Radio Demon of all people. “Wait, you mean—?”

“That’s right!” He beamed. “An outing! You and I, gallivanting about the city in search of proper finery. What fun!” He threw an arm around your shoulder as he sat down next to you, his grin positively glowing with excitement as the couch shook from his movement. “We’ll make a day of it. And you, my dear, shall be my most esteemed guest!”

It was hard not to be infected by his enthusiasm, and before you knew it, you were grinning right along with him. There was something surprisingly charming about him when he got like this—when the showmanship melted into genuine excitement, his sharp edges softened by an undercurrent of something almost… tender.

“Alright,” you said, nudging him playfully, ignoring the way the radio static around you buzzed in response to your gesture. “I’m down. But don’t think you can just dress me however you want. I won’t try on anything too ridiculous.”

Alastor’s grin widened, but there was something else in his gaze now—almost like he was starting to see you as more than just a wayward Sinner seeking a half-assed attempt at redemption. He simply shook his head, chuckling under his breath. “We’ll just see about that, cher!”

[guspartenza]

SUPERWOMAN: BEGINNINGS

This is a fragment of my fanfic "The Superwoman from Krypton". You can read it here SUPERWOMAN FROM KRYPTON-FREE ILLUSTRATED FANFIC by lordmallory on DeviantArt or here THE SUPERWOMAN FROM KRYPTON - LordMallory - Just three chapters pending!

If interested only in this complete chapter, you can read it here THE SUPERWOMAN FROM KRYPTON: THE ETERNAL COURSE - Chapter 11 - LordMallory - Multifandom [Archive of Our Own]

September 1945

Metropolis

"Nothing to see here, nothing to report. I don’t know what brought you folks down, but it’s just routine detentions. Now, kindly move along."

A stout, red-haired policeman with an almost absurdly friendly face was trying to shoo away a small swarm of reporters from the precinct. Among them was Clara Josephine Kent, an assistant reporter for Major Louis J. Lane at the Daily Planet—on probation, of course. She had only been at the paper for two weeks. Gone was the nurse’s uniform; she’d invested in a few smart suits and shirts, landed a decent little apartment—old, cramped, but with a hatch in the ceiling that would certainly come in handy—and picked up a new pair of glasses, elegant but thick, designed to obscure her gaze a little more.

The journalists groaned at the officer’s dismissal. Most of them were men, but there were also two strikingly well-dressed blonde women, polished to perfection. Clara felt a little plain, a little unkempt in comparison. She pulled out a cheap lipstick—money was tight—and began touching up her reflection in the glass door.

She needed a story if she didn’t want Major Lane assigning her only to translations and typing up dull reports, but the idea of writing about herself felt dishonest. She hadn’t made any real friends yet, though the Planet staff were polite, if too busy to chat for more than five minutes—except Major Lane, who left her with an odd mix of frustration and admiration.

Then, the precinct door creaked open. Out slipped a short, dark-haired man, middle-aged and slightly disheveled, carrying two cameras—a small one dangling from his neck and a larger one in his hand. He regarded Clara with sharp curiosity.

"Well, well! Hello there!" The little man winked.

"Uh… Hello?" Clara answered, hesitant.

"You’re new, aren’t you? Haven’t seen you around." He struck a match and lit a cigarette.

" Yes, yes - I'm afraid I'm new”. Clara offered a small smile.

"Pleasure’s mine. Leo Bernzy, photographer. And where the devil did you come from, sweetheart? Who do you work for?"

Clara shook his hand. "Clara Kent. Daily Planet. Just started a few days ago."

"Ah! But you're not a local, right?"

"No, I’m from Kansas. Smallville."

"Oh, Smallville!"

"You know it?"

"Not in the slightest, but I’m always in favor of bright-eyed Midwestern girls making their way to the big city."

Clara bristled at the remark but decided to let it slide. It was typical Metropolis banter—half playful, half intrusive, sometimes crude, sometimes snobbish. She was still adjusting.

Bernzy pressed on. "So, who’s your boss?"

"Oh, I��m assisting Major Louis Lane."

"Louis Lane’s a Major now? That chutzpahdik! Didn’t know he was back in town. Say, I know everyone from your paper. Catherine Grant’s a friend, and I grew up misbehaving in the same neighborhood as Bob Mailer. Been published plenty of times there. Just ask around for the Great Bernzyni. You’ve got the best director in the city—Perry Weiss—and the finest chief editor, George Taylor. You know ‘em, don’t you?"

"Yes, sir…" Clara wasn’t sure how to steer the conversation. Chutzpahdik? What did that mean? Metropolis was so different from Kansas. So many people from so many places… The Planet newsroom was a symphony of accents, peppered with Yiddish and Italian. She had also noticed with sorrow that the city was a bit segregated compared to Smallville. But she had expected that. She had seen it firsthand in the Navy.

Bernzy leaned in, lowering his voice. "So, Miss Kent… You and Major Lane—what do you make of these rumors?"

"Oh, Mr. Lane doesn’t think much of them. Me? I think there’s something there."

“Let’s share information, I like you. I like your newspaper.”

 Clara cleared her throat and flipped open a small pink notebook. In a softer voice, she listed the facts: "Sixteen anonymous detentions since August 27th. A hit-and-run prevented by what witnesses described as a ‘fast-moving shadow’—maybe two. A liquor store holdup thwarted by a woman dressed like an aviator. Three fires extinguished before the fire department even arrived…"

Bernzy gave a low whistle. "You’ve done your homework, huh? And they expect us to believe nothing’s going on? Ridiculous. Now, what’s really happening? That’s the question."

"Oh, maybe it's something like Gotham’s Bat."

"Bah!" Bernzy scrunched up his face in disgust. "That’s a joke. A cop or a thug in a bat-shaped tin suit, cracking skulls in back alleys? Gotham’s a madhouse. Everyone’s nuts over there. With enough money and a screw loose, sure, you can run around dressed like a flying rat. But this? This is something else. Stranger. I figured it was just the usual pile-up of absurd coincidences—classic Metropolis. Or maybe a case of mass hysteria… You know, the bomb? People lost their marbles over that. The war ending, the whole damn world changing overnight."

"Yes, yes… It’s awful." Clara’s naivety was sincere.

Bernzy leaned in. "But hell, this is different. Something big is happening here—something unnatural. FBI’s swooping in on this case, which means they’re getting ready to feed us a load of bunk. But a pal of mine let me snap a photo of something incredible…"

"Oh? The FBI?"

"A gun. Bent. Crushed. Like it had been twisted by a force no man alive could muster—not a hundred men, not a thousand. Found right beside the detainees. And that’s not the work of some lunatic in a bat suit."

"You’re serious?"

"Dead serious. And doll, if you’re looking to get ahead with this story, this photo should be yours. I can send you a copy—bit grainy, but clear enough to get you thinking. A goddamn gun, twisted like taffy. Special price, just for you—twenty bucks. A welcome gift for the new girl, and a little something to build a beautiful friendship."

***

Louis Lane peered through a magnifying glass at the small photograph Leo Bernzy had sent free to the Daily Planet, struggling not to laugh.

“Good Lord. Welcome to Metropolis, Miss Kent.”

“What do you think? I believe we might be onto something serious here…”

“Are you joking, Kent? You’ve just met the great schlepper Leo Bernzy—the best photographer in the city and also a first-class swindler, a born vagabond despite the fact that everyone admires him and bought his book. This is nonsense. That gun was put through a press or some kind of machinery to play a prank on us, to make us believe something that isn’t real.”

Clara huffed, knowing full well that she herself had bent the gun in the blink of an eye with her superhuman strength. “Well, he seemed sincere.”

“Oh, he’s sincere, all right. And he’s also a master of pulling legs. And an artist. And a man with deals on both sides of the law—the police and the mafia. For all we know, someone put him up to this, spreading the photo to stir up fear or send the city into a frenzy. He saw you as a rookie and went in for the bite. If you see him again, tell him he’s a momzer.”

“And you don’t think there might be something behind all this, Major Lane? The rumors are piling up.”

“Miss Kent, there is no ‘fast-moving shadow’ putting out fires or stopping runaway cars. There is no woman dressed like a pilot, wearing aviator goggles, arresting criminals and bending metal guns. It’s end-of-war madness. People are exhausted, ecstatic. They’re pulling your leg, Miss Kent. At best, they don’t even know what they’re seeing.”

“Then let me write a piece on that—covering it as rumors and hysteria, a chronicle of the city’s nerves…”

Louis regarded her for a long moment, then allowed himself a small smile. “It's a nice idea. Human interest. Kind of like what you wrote during the war that Perry liked so much. Let's see if the rumor picks up steam. Cat would have our heads if we published that people believe there's a mysterious figure moving at super speed, even if it's just to make fun of them.”

Clara couldn’t quite hide her frustration. “I understand.”

“Don’t get obsessed with this story, Kent. Keep pounding the pavement. They gave you a generous probation period—three months. You don’t need to bring me an exclusive just yet.”

***

Clara adjusted the aviator jacket—two sizes too big—along with the helmet and goggles. She was completely unrecognizable. She had found them at a clearance sale and thought they made for the perfect disguise, even though she moved at super-speed to ensure no one saw her. She still hadn’t decided when to reveal herself to the public in a deliberate, controlled way. The war was too recent. The bomb was too recent. She didn’t want to cause too great a disturbance—not yet. But sooner or later, she would.

Her Kryptonian suit was still there, carefully folded in the dresser of her new apartment. She had felt secure, resolute when she wore it—so why did she hesitate now? She wanted to wear it again, but the right moment never seemed to come. Soon, she kept telling herself. She had been telling herself that for a month now.

Soon, the rumors in Metropolis would spiral out of control, whether Major Lane wanted them to or not. And Clara wasn’t just operating in Metropolis. Though she moved like a shadow at super-speed, she was already acting across the world. It was only a matter of time before someone started piecing together the pattern behind these impossible, miraculous rescues. And that could lead to even greater fear and chaos. She needed to show her face—to let the world see her, to trust her.

Clara soared through the sky at great speed, then descended onto a deserted rooftop. That evening, she would patrol Metropolis. Then, the skies of the world. In Alaska, Kelex and the projections of her Kryptonian parents had trained her to sharpen her hearing to near-impossible extremes—and, just as importantly, to filter out the background noise. She had learned to listen only for cries for help, for distress signals. It was a Herculean task. Could she truly handle it?

Then she heard it—a cry for help. A child was falling. In less than a fraction of a second, she was there. Twelve floors above the street, the boy plummeted toward the pavement. Clara caught him in her arms just before he hit the ground, hovering in midair for a few seconds. The child’s eyes were wide as saucers. On the street below, people saw her. In broad daylight.

She moved fast. In the blink of an eye, she carried the boy to the safety of a rooftop corner. “How did you manage to fall?” she asked, her voice sharp with worry, the tone of a mother scolding a reckless child. “You nearly killed yourself! Do you realize you could have died?” The boy stammered something about reaching for a ball. Clara pressed her goggles tighter against her face. Below, her super-hearing picked up the excited shouts of a dozen curious onlookers. They had seen her. A woman flying through the air to save a child.

She exhaled. Then, in an instant, she vanished like a whirlwind.

*** 

The projector flickered, its final frames dissolved into white static on the small screen. The lights came on, revealing an elegant hotel room. Fifty, maybe sixty people sat in hastily arranged chairs.

At the back of the room, Clara stood frozen, gripping her handbag so tightly that she had nearly torn it apart in a fit of anger and shock. Half an hour ago, she had felt radiant. She had gone to the hairdresser to have her hair styled into an elegant bun, her makeup carefully applied—something she had never been good at. She had rented a navy-blue dress and a string of pearls, wanting to look her best. Now, her entire face was streaked with tears. Her makeup had run, her glasses were fogged over.

In the audience, many people looked disheveled, as if they had run their fingers through their own hair in distress. Some rose heavily from their seats, sighing. Others sat with their faces buried in their hands. At the front of the room, standing near the screen, Louis Lane remained motionless. Dressed in a black tuxedo, he did not look pleased, yet silently lit a cigarette. A few people attempted to applaud, but the gesture felt inappropriate. They hesitated, uncertain.

Clara stared at Louis, her gaze unyielding. He met her eyes, his expression weary and sorrowful, absently smoothing his mustache.

The small audience, mostly journalists close to Louis and a handful of well-known figures, slowly approached him, offering their congratulations with difficulty.

Clara had been invited the day before, after a heated argument with Louis about the credibility of witness accounts describing a flying woman saving a child. She had been excited to receive the invitation, despite knowing that the event was bound to be dark, heavy, suffocating.

Finally, she made her way toward Louis.

“Are you alright, Clara?”

“Yes… Excuse me, it was just… a little overwhelming.”

She felt foolish, but Louis smiled at her.

“I perfectly understand Clara, thank you very much for coming.”

“Thank you for inviting me, I’m very grateful.”

“I think it’s important that we all see these things.”

“Yes… Are all these yours?”

“The Dachau footage? Yes. The Nordhausen reels were shot by a friend of mine. I couldn’t visit any of the extermination camps in the East—I was not allowed due to…bureaucracy. But this… this gives us an idea of the scale.”

Clara lowered her gaze, murmuring a quiet thank you.

No one had the heart for the cocktail reception that was supposed to follow. She declined Louis’s offer to call her a taxi. She walked for a while, then, when she was certain she was alone, soared into the sky. Above the clouds, Clara curled into herself, floating weightlessly.

Tomorrow, she would wear the cape.

Tomorrow, she would reveal herself to the world.

She needed to act freely.

October 1, 1945

Metropolis, Afternoon

Clara stood uncertainly in front of the mirror, undoing her shirt again and opening it slowly, gazing with lingering disbelief at the red-and-gold crest of the House of El and the vivid blue tights beneath. Her fingers gently traced along her back, feeling the neatly folded red cape that lay inconspicuously flat under her shirt. Wearing the ceremonial Kryptonian garment beneath her everyday clothes felt oddly surreal. It wasn't uncomfortable; in fact, the fabric was remarkably pleasant against her skin, and surprisingly easy to conceal. But knowing that millions of people would soon recognize it made her dizzy.

To openly wield her abilities and justify their origin, she knew she had no choice but to wear it publicly. Despite her reservations, she admired the suit’s elegance, and deep inside she felt a profound sense of pride whenever her eyes caught the striking colors. Still, its boldness—its vivid hues, unique texture, and striking contours—sometimes made it feel extravagant, even scandalous, despite covering her fully. She had briefly considered layering a red skirt over it but quickly dismissed the idea. There simply wasn't a fabric strong enough that wouldn’t shred to pieces as soon as she took flight or moved at super-speed.

Last night and throughout the morning, she performed her heroics still secretly disguised in her aviator outfit. But now, the decision was irrevocable. Clara would step into the light, act freely without hiding, and strive to bring hope. Yet a nagging doubt lingered… Could she maintain her life as Clara Kent, or would someone inevitably recognize her?

The phone rang abruptly, jolting her from her thoughts. Her mother’s voice called cheerfully from Smallville, announcing she had adopted a puppy. Her mother had chosen to name it Krypto and hoped Clara would take the little dog back with her to Metropolis for company. Clara nervously agreed to everything, keeping silent about her recent decision.

With a deep breath, she gathered her belongings and headed back to the Daily Planet, her mind racing as she prepared to deliver an article proposal to Major Lane.

***

“Death, destruction, total chaos,” Louis Lane’s voice, simultaneously melodious and solemn, drifted distantly as he paced around the office. Clara hardly heard him; she was lost in her own thoughts, knowing that in just a few short minutes she would reveal herself to the world.

“Excuse me, Major Lane?”

“It was a joke, Smallville. Your article is actually very good. Wouldn't you prefer writing this kind of story rather than that fantastical tale about some flying woman dressed like a pilot?”

“Oh yes, absolutely… Ordinary people’s troubles. Honestly, I really want to write about this,” Clara responded earnestly.

Louis shrugged dismissively. "Meanwhile, they've got me going to a party on a damned, supposedly indestructible zeppelin - just another one of Lex Luthor's brilliant ideas - so I can report on how optimistic we should all be about the future of transportation and the end of the war. I'll be forced to spend hours drinking and chatting with terribly dull people, and Luthor himself won't even be there.”

“I understand.”

“You seem distracted.”

“I'm just very tired, Major Lane, I…”

“Go home. You've done enough for today. The article is decent, perfectly usable.”

Clara nodded distractedly, offering Louis a faint smile as she noted his white tuxedo.

“You look very elegant, Major.”

“I look like a bloody waiter. Haven’t worn one of these since Christmas of '41,” Louis grumbled.

Clara’s lips curled slightly into another faint smile, though her thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

“Go home, Miss Kent. I’ve never seen you look this exhausted.”

I’m not tired…

***

A couple of hours later, night had already begun to fall, and Clara Kent had yet to take flight with her cape. She was about to leave the Daily Planet, uncertain of where to go next. Meanwhile, high above Metropolis, the small helium-powered airship Gilded Swan, built by TELCORP, glided through the sky.

Inside the zeppelin, a young, cheerful man, accompanied by a product engineer, presented a model of the very machine they were traveling in to nearly a hundred guests.

"As you can see, thanks to the combination of helium and antidermis, along with the use of alternative metals and plastics, we've created an airship half the size and weight of the previous generation—far more resistant to electrical storms and, of course, much faster. The fusion of helium and antidermis not only eliminates the risk of fire but also allows for a gondola and cabins twice the size. The Gilded Swan and this new series of mini airships aren’t designed for long, treacherous journeys spanning days but rather as modern and efficient short-range transport. Being smaller and lighter makes launching and landing much easier—and quicker. If converted into a passenger cabin, this model could transport up to 300 seated individuals. It’s an alternative to trains and airplanes—faster, safer, even if it may seem cumbersome at first..."

Louis stifled a yawn. He was a vaguely snobbish yet well-educated man, born into a family of modest origins that had already clawed its way into high society. His father had even served as an auxiliary admiral. Yet, despite all that, he felt completely out of place at that gathering. It had been nearly four years since he had attended anything similar, and he still couldn’t believe people insisted on those damned zeppelins after the bloody Hindenburg.

The mayor—an insufferable man in Louis' opinion—applauded enthusiastically. He moved toward the panoramic windows of the gondola and pulled back the curtain. Lighting a cigarette, he recalled TELCORP’s cheeky advertisements: "On these airships, you can smoke!" Meanwhile, the shrill, relentless voice of Metropolis' most notorious reporter, Tess Harding, grated on his nerves.  The whole scene irritated him. The Daily Planet irritated him. Clara Kent and her wild tales about a flying woman irritated him—though he tried to be polite. The young woman was a talented writer, an excellent typist, and deserved a fair chance.

With a sigh of resignation, he leaned slightly out the window. The air was brisk at this altitude. Below, the skyscrapers of the city sprawled out, barely a few hundred meters from his reach.

"We're going to descend a little, carefully now—you'll get a stunning view of the city. We're also considering a prototype with a reinforced glass floor, though only for those without a fear of heights."

Polite laughter filled the zeppelin’s gondola.

Louis flicked his cigarette into the air. He had only been in the city for two months. Happy to reunite with his daughter—whose first four years of life he had mostly missed—as well as with his parents, siblings and old friends. Beyond that, he felt disconnected, out of place.

His pact with Pat remained intact—her coldness wounded him, but he repaid her in kind. Separate bedrooms. They only sat together to discuss their daughter. Louis didn’t miss the war. Maybe some of his fellow soldiers, but not the battles. He had done too many things he wasn’t proud of. And he had no intention of ever picking up a weapon again.

"Now we’re going to descend so you can enjoy an extraordinary view of the skyscrapers of our beautiful city."

Applause. The crowd surged toward the windows, and Louis positioned himself at the edge of the last viewing pane. The dirigible descended swiftly, yet gracefully, hovering just two or three hundred feet above the spires and domes of Metropolis’s tallest towers. Among them stood the towering Empire Estate, the elegant Crysler, the TELCORP tower, the twin-spired St. Cloud—whose sibling loomed in Gotham—and the stately American International.

Murmurs of admiration—though directed at a view all too familiar to the locals—filled the gondola. The publicist explained, in a voice both rehearsed and upbeat, that within two years, there would be a dedicated docking station for these small urban airships atop both the TELCORP and St. Cloud towers.

While the crowd marveled, Louis ducked behind a curtain to sneak a swig from his flask. Meanwhile, the airship crew—nervous from the trial run and thrown off by the ever-changing instructions of the publicists—initiated an ascent to avoid passing to close to the Crysler building but such ascent was far too abrupt. The lightness of the gases and the delicate materials of the zeppelin made ballast management deceptive. To make matters worse, the winds were stronger than forecast.

Without warning, as the airship rose, it suddenly tilted at a sharp angle. Nearly all the passengers tumbled across the floor, sliding among tables, chairs, and shattered champagne bottles, their screams of panic ricocheting off the walls. Louis instinctively grabbed the curtain, his heart clenching in terror. “NO, NO, NO—NOT ANOTHER HINDENBURG, FOR GOD’S SAKE.”

The dirigible jolted again, veering violently in an attempt to stabilize. Had the swerve been any more forceful, dozens of passengers might have been hurled out the windows. But only one was. Clinging to the curtain, Louis was wrenched out through the glass, finding himself dangling from the very same drape—only now outside the gondola, suspended above the vast cityscape nearly fifteen hundred feet in the air.

***

Few pedestrians paid much attention to the dirigible overhead, and even fewer noticed the two violent lurches it made within the span of ten seconds. A few pointed skyward, sensing something was off. But it was the chorus of cries for help that reached the ears of a woman capable of hearing from many, many miles away.

Clara Kent was walking down a quiet side street. She’d stayed late at the Daily Planet, hoping to get ahead on tomorrow’s work so Louis would find everything prepared, and to make another effort—albeit mostly fruitless—to connect with her colleagues. The only one she’d managed any real rapport with was the young photographer Jimmy Olsen, who seemed as out of place in the chaotic, abrasive newsroom as she was.

Now, Clara was slowly making her way home, waiting for the moment—any excuse, any flicker of urgency—that would finally let her shed her clothes and soar, cape unfurled, with that peculiar indifference that sometimes grips the heart just before a great leap.

But the cries—dozens of them—and the groaning metal of the zeppelin shattered her stillness. Her heart seized. She straightened sharply, instinct taking over. Spinning on her heels, she looked skyward, eyes narrowing. With her telescopic vision, she saw the airship tilting, rocking now with less violence, its gondola full of partygoers tumbling about in formal wear...

And then her breath caught. Her heart dropped.

There, clinging to a curtain billowing out into empty air, was a figure she knew too well. A face she would never mistake.

“Louis! Oh my God!”

Clara gritted her teeth, resolve flashing through her. Without hesitation, she sprinted into the nearest alley.

***

Louis didn’t last more than thirty or forty seconds. They felt both eternal and fleeting.

At first, there was a strange calm, and with it, the quiet certainty that he was going to die. A gentle, fatalistic voice within him whispered that he should let go, that he should surrender to the fall. But then, the nearness of death became unbearable—too real, too close. A blurry image of his daughter flashed in his mind, and something inside him rebelled.

With a desperate surge of will, he clung tightly to the curtain, now tearing in the wind. Just beside him hung one of the dirigible’s many support ropes. It looked thicker, sturdier than the fragile fabric beneath his fingers. Instinctively, he believed he could climb it—if he could just hold on, if he could just try.

He reached for it with defiance. He didn’t dare let go of the curtain. Inch by inch, he brought the rope closer and finally managed to grip it with both hands. For a fleeting moment, there was hope. Then he looked up. He followed the line of the rope with his eyes, saw where it anchored, and understood: there was no way to climb back toward the windows. Not now. Not from here.

But once again, disbelief overrode reason. And then—the rope gave.

Louis plunged into the void.

A sudden, shattering awareness of what was happening, the cold, the wind, and a clumsy attempt by his brain to begin a prayer blurred his senses as he dropped, heavy as a stone and vertical, into the open air.

***

No human eye could have seen it clearly—the shadow of a well-dressed woman, wearing a beige office suit beneath an autumn coat and hat, her face half-hidden behind thick, round glasses, slipping hastily into an alley. Nor could they have seen how that shadow blurred, how it shifted color, transforming into a brilliant streak of red and blue as clothes, glasses, shoes, and stockings flew off in every direction.

Then the red-and-blue blur shot into the sky like a meteor.

A few bystanders, who had just gasped in horror as they watched a man fall from the dirigible, let out a deeper, more breathless sound as they glimpsed that strange, radiant shadow tearing through the heavens.

*** 

The fall lasted ten seconds.

A fleeting jolt of pain pierced Louis as he plummeted. He didn’t see his life flash before his eyes. Instead, he thought of his daughter. Of his younger brother, with whom he didn’t talk to often enough. His mind scrambled for the words of the Lord’s Prayer,  but stalled at the first line. He saw nothing around him, the wind and the velocity turned everything into shadowy streaks, blinding him, battering his senses.

And then… something changed.

It was as if the fall slowed. As if something—someone—had wrapped around him. Firm, yet gentle arms caught him, held him. The descent shifted, no longer vertical but gliding, diagonal, as though he were being cradled by the air itself. A luminous red-and-blue shadow enveloped him, shielding him from the night.

"Death," his mind concluded.

But the motion stopped. He was no longer falling. He was floating—suspended nearly three hundred feet above the ground. The shapes of buildings restored around him. The deafening rush gave way to the sound of fabric rippling like torn silk. The blur resolved into a floating red cape, a sculpted blue form, and the strong, steady arms of someone holding him.

His mind still lagged behind. Was he dead? Louis turned his head, instinctively—and saw her.

A face unreal in its kindness. Striking blue or turquoise eyes. Tousled, dark curls. The soft, fierce features of a woman who did not seem possible.

"I’ve got you. Don’t worry, sir. You’re safe."

Her voice was clear, sweet, commanding—almost regal.

Louis, still dazed, still convinced this might be the afterlife, choked out a question.

"What the hell is going on? Who’s holding you?"

She smiled. And kept floating with him, descending gently through the night.

"Please calm down, sir. I’m grounding you now. Everything is under control."

Clara’s chest brimmed with relief, with joy. Louis was alive. His eyes were wide, stunned, but it wasn’t fear she saw—it was something like wonder, disorientation, and overwhelming disbelief.

Below them, a wave of gasps and cries pointed skyward.

Clara touched down carefully on the sidewalk, surrounded by a frozen, half-hysterical crowd. She helped Louis to his feet—he was barely reacting, still in shock. With a quick pass of her X-ray vision, she scanned him for fractures. Nothing broken.

Louis seemed to finally register that he was alive. On solid ground. A crowd was gathering fast.

He looked at her and croaked:

“Who... who are you?”

“You didn’t recognize me! What a relief!”

Clara smiled, ignoring the shouts and flashes of curious onlookers.

“A friend.”

Then, with a graceful nod, she turned and soared skyward once more. The crowd erupted into cries of awe and disbelief as she vanished into the night, transformed again into that blazing blur of red and blue.

And Louis, trembling, reached into his coat in search of his flask.

The liberation was absolute, exhilarating. The feeling of freedom—of being able to show herself to the world at last, to act without concealment, to smile and greet the very people she helped—was like shedding a weight that had pressed upon her for years. During what was, for Metropolis, a single night—but for her, a sequence of night and day across the globe—hundreds, perhaps thousands of people responded with a strange blend of astonishment, wonder, joy, and disbelief to the sight of a flying woman in a strange costume and crimson cape. A woman who arrested criminals, prevented accidents, untangled bizarre dilemmas, and shielded the weak.

Telegraphs chattered, telephones rang off the hook, and radios buzzed with conflicting reports. People abandoned their suppers, their evening shifts, their quiet routines, to peer out of windows or gaze skyward, searching for a glimpse of that mysterious figure soaring above. There would be many nights like this.

The flying woman in the red cape delivered thieves to precinct doors, extinguished fires, pulled ships from storms, warmed the freezing, carried the injured to hospitals. To all, she gave the same radiant smile—no longer tinged with melancholy. And when asked who she was, she declined to say.

In the vast of the night, as a meeting of utmost urgency convened within the White House, the mysterious woman appeared seemingly out of thin air. With impeccable manners, she requested a brief audience with the President. The conversation lasted no more than twenty minutes, but it left Harry S. Truman somewhere between dazed and reassured.

Millions were roused from sleep or gripped by sudden alarm as reports spread—warped, distorted, amplified—by the slow-moving machinery of communication. Many refused to believe it: A woman? Flying? Impossible.

But within hours, or days at most, they accepted it. Not without confusion. Not without questions. But they accepted it.

*** 

Clara scooped up the frightened cat with a soft smile, cradling it gently in her arms as she floated down to the ground. There, she handed it to the little girl, who looked up at her beaming, her school lunch bag swinging excitedly at her side.

How do you fly?” the girl asked, eyes wide with wonder.

“It’s... complicated,” Clara said, chuckling softly. “But it took me a long time to learn.”

“Why do you wear those clothes?”

“Do you like them?”

“The cape is wonderful. You look like a princess.”

“It’s from my planet,” Clara replied, with a playful twinkle in her eye.

“You’re from another planet?”

October 2, 1945

Metropolis, Morning.

Clara landed dressed in her Kryptonian supersuit behind a stack of beams at a construction site near the Daily Planet. A second later, she emerged dressed as Clara Kent. She smoothed out her skirt, adjusted her hat. It felt strange to wear her Kryptonian suit underneath, but it was comfortable—like slipping into a snug silk pajama beneath her everyday clothes. She patted her back several times, still incredulous that the cape didn’t create a noticeable bulge. She had an irrational fear that, somehow, her red cape would peek through, revealing itself to the world. But no—it fit tightly, and her daily attire concealed it perfectly.

It was only the second day of her life wearing the cape.

She glanced around. No one had noticed her. People hurried past, engrossed in their newspapers, chattering excitedly, or moving with urgent purpose. The construction workers had gathered inside a large tent, listening to the radio, which was breathlessly reporting on sightings of the mysterious flying woman. American-occupied Korea. Brazil. Seventeen states across the U.S. Belgium. Spain. Ethiopia. The open seas of two different oceans. All within the last twelve hours.

All true, Clara thought nervously.

With her super-hearing, she could catch hundreds of conversations at once. The world was stunned—but enchanted. There was tension, nervous excitement, countless questions—but, above all, there was wonder. The voices of awe and joy outweighed those of fear or alarm.

She bought five or six newspapers, her hands trembling slightly. The Daily Planet’s headline read: "CAPED WONDER STUNS CITY". It was the same title from last night’s special edition, though the subtitle, accompanied by a blurry photograph, now added: "SIGHTINGS AROUND THE WORLD IN THE LAST HOURS—FLYING WOMAN PERFORMS INCREDIBLE RESCUES AND STOPS CRIMINALS". "Caped Wonder." She liked the sound of that. Still, she planned to publicly announce her Kryptonian name: Kala-El. The Metropolis Times had chosen a different name: "SUPERWOMAN". That one unsettled her a little more. Their cover featured a profile shot of her mid-flight, her face nearly blurred beyond recognition. Another newspaper called her: "MIRACLE WOMAN."

Clara sat down at a café, tuning in to dozens of nearby conversations with her super-hearing while scribbling a thousand-word article about Metropolis’ reaction to the events. The piece would read as if Clara Kent had spent the night interviewing citizens on the streets, not soaring across the world. It felt slightly dishonest—disrespectful, even. But she needed the job. She needed an explanation for why she had been unreachable until ten in the morning. A father and his small children gushed excitedly about her, as if a comic book had come to life. A solemn-looking couple debated whether she was a war machine or some kind of demonic trick. A young officer passionately argued with the bartender, convinced that the flying woman was the result of an atomic experiment gone wrong.

Clara smiled to herself, timidly. "Most of them aren’t afraid of me. They’re not terrified. They… they like me. Or at least, they like what I do. I just hope they never come to fear me”. She paid for her coffee and hurried off to the Daily Planet, skipping lightly with a quiet joy—though she had to focus hard on not floating off the ground, something that had happened far too often in moments of happiness lately.

Stopping before the newspaper’s towering headquarters, she took a deep breath.

"Here we go."

The newsroom was a frenzy of voices, movement, and barely controlled chaos. People rushed back and forth, shouting for testimonies, demanding photos. Artists sketched; editors pored over maps. In the center of the main newsroom, a massive world map had been pinned up. George Taylor and a group of journalists were busy sticking bright red flags onto every location that had reported a sighting of the flying woman. And in the middle of the storm, lounging with an air of studied nonchalance, sat Cat Grant—wearing sunglasses, sipping a glass of whiskey, and seemingly paying attention to nothing at all.

Jimmy Olsen, a new intern photographer, nearly collided with her.

“Miss Kent! Where have you been? Mr. Lane has been looking for you everywhere!”

“Oh, Jimmy! How are you? Crazy, right? Can you believe it?” Clara waved the freshly scribbled pages of her notes. “I’ve been working. The city is absolutely excited.”

“Come with me to see Mr. Lane. Yes! It looks like she’s the real deal! We’ve recorded up to sixty sightings worldwide—ten of them right here in Metropolis. And still, not a single clear photo of her face! She’s too fast! People say she’s beautiful, that she’s like an angel. Most think she has something to do with the atomic bomb. Can you believe that? The government hasn’t said a word! Did you know the FBI detained Mr. Lane for four hours? They wanted to know exactly what he had seen! Have you read it? He’s lucky to be alive!”

Clara hadn’t yet read Louis’ article. In truth, she hadn’t even thought about him since she had set him safely on the ground after saving his life. How would he be?

She followed Jimmy toward the office she shared with Louis while the young photographer chattered on nervously.

“I’m going to grab my camera and stay awake for the next 24 hours. She’s bound to show up in Metropolis again, and I have to capture her. Can you imagine, Miss Kent? What it would mean to get that shot?”

Clara responded with a small smile, adjusting her glasses. Sooner or later, full, clear photos of her face would be plastered across the world. Would anyone recognize Clara Kent in Superwoman?

They stepped into the office. Louis Lane was still wearing the white tuxedo from the night before when she had rescued him—only now, the jacket was unbuttoned, his shirt unkempt. He looked utterly exhausted, deeply troubled. And, of course, he had a drink in hand. He glanced at them with weary eyes.

“Major Lane! How are you? I just heard! Are you all right?”

“Where the hell were you, Kent? Never mind… Congratulations. You were right.”

Louis said it almost begrudgingly.

“I was doing my job, sir. I spent the night and morning all over the city, interviewing people. I think I’ve got a solid article.”

Louis took her notes and read them in silence, his expression dark. “It’s very good, Miss Kent. Very good. I think it captures the mood of the city well. Take it to George Taylor—tell him I think it should go in the midday edition. Title it ‘Metropolis Faces the Unthinkable: How the City Responds to the Emergence of the Caped Wonder’.”

He buried his face in his hands.

"Well, I saved his life, and thanks to me, he’s got an exclusive story. He was the first person I publicly rescued, and yet… He looks absolutely defeated. What a strange man," Clara thought.

“Are you leaving the paper?” Louis suddenly asked, straight to the point.

“Oh? Why would I? Mr. Lane, first of all, I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re safe…”

“We just cost you a massive exclusive. You were the only one at the Planet who took those early rumors seriously—stories of a woman dressed like a pilot, rescuing people and catching criminals. And you wanted to write about it.”

“Well, it’s fine. No newspaper in the world would have published that story back then. Besides…” Clara grinned playfully. “She doesn’t seem to dress like a pilot anymore.”

Louis let out the faintest of smiles. “Well, your trial period is over. You’re officially hired as an assistant reporter. I’ll try to get your piece on her first rescues published in the Sunday edition.”

“Thank you so much, Major Lane! Was that what you were worried about?” Clara asked gently.

Louis frowned. “Don’t be childish. Aren’t you worried? Don’t you think this is a radical, absolute upheaval? A flying woman with super strength, appearing all over the world? There are even rumors she can shoot fire or beams from her eyes.”

"Oh, I can do a few more things than that," Clara thought with amusement.

Then, putting on her most convincingly naïve voice, she sighed.

“Of course I’m worried. I mean… Who is she? Where did she come from? She’s incredible… You saw her, didn’t you? What was she like?”

Louis made a strange face.

“She’s… I don’t know how to put it. She wasn’t human. It all happened so fast. She seemed calm, composed—heroic, even divine—but not human. She was like a statue come to life. I don’t entirely understand what she was wearing… a red cape, some kind of emblem—a stylized ‘S’? Why an ‘S’? And the worst part… I didn’t notice it myself, but people say she wears some kind of briefs over her tights—like a circus performer. It’s odd. Even scandalous. But those details don’t matter. What matters is… She wasn’t human, Miss Kent. She was something else. She saved my life, and so far, she only seems interested in rescuing people, helping them… But only God knows what comes next.”

Clara bit her lip, slightly disappointed, as she sat down to type her article.

Louis kept talking. “Almost everyone thinks she’s connected to the atomic bomb. A government experiment or something of the sort. It makes sense. The bomb drops, and a month later—this. God, I hope she’s a robot. If she is, then sure, her costume is a bizarre choice, but whatever—a robot. That would be simple. That would be fine. But if she’s an alien? Or worse, if she claims to be some self-proclaimed angel or goddess… Imagine if she says she’s here to bring Judgment Day. Or that she’s Athena, come down from Olympus.”

Clara adopted a deliberately somber expression. “What would be so bad if she weren’t a robot? Or if she were an alien?”

“For God’s sake, you must be exhausted. I haven’t slept either, Miss Kent, but think. What are we supposed to do with someone that powerful?”

“Maybe… Maybe she just wants to help.”

“That’s not the point.”

Louis sighed again, deeper this time. “I should have grabbed onto her leg or her cape—something—and demanded she tell me who the hell she was. But all she said was… ‘a friend.’ A friend. What kind of bloody answer is that? Disastrous. I was too shaken.”

“You’ll have more chances, Major Lane,” Clara said with a small, knowing smile.

A knock at the door—then, without waiting for a response, several people burst into the room. Perry Weiss, the newspaper’s director. George Taylor, the editor-in-chief. Hank Ibsen, the best portrait artist in the city. And, leaning casually against the doorframe, Steve Lombard—the paper’s most popular sports reporter, and someone Clara found deeply unpleasant.

Only Weiss greeted her. “Well, well, Miss Kent! Quite the morning, huh? Have you ever seen anything like the madness in this newsroom?”

Louis gestured toward her with uncharacteristic deference. “Miss Kent spent the entire night and morning pounding the pavement. She’s put together a solid article on the city’s reaction—it’s going into the midday edition.”

“Yes, yes, very good, whatever,” Weiss waved dismissively. Then he turned to Louis.

“Lane, we need you to put some real effort into this. Give us a thorough, detailed description of the woman. We’ve brought some of the blurry photos people managed to take. We want a proper portrait of her for the back page of the midday edition. Ibsen here is the best portrait artist in this damned city.”

Louis sighed, resigned. Ibsen sat down between Clara’s desk and Louis’, pulling out his sketching materials while Taylor tossed the grainy photos in front of an exhausted and thoroughly annoyed Louis.

“Come on, Lane,” Taylor urged. “Just get through this, then go home. Your wife and daughter will want to see you.”

Lombard smirked from his perch at the doorway, clearly amused by the scene. Then, turning to Clara, he drawled in a mocking tone: “Clarybelle… Wild stuff, huh? A flying woman. I really hope she’s a robot. Because if she’s not… Well, then we’re screwed. You ladies will start demanding pay raises next.”

Clara forced a smile, thin and sharp as a blade.

Lombard grinned wider. “Come on, Clarybelle—place a bet. We’re all doing it. What do you think she is? Robot? A real woman, a product of atomic experimentation? Alien? Fairy? Angel? Ancient goddess? Divine messenger?”

Clara’s voice was dry as dust, “I’ll bet on fairy, thanks.”

Meanwhile, Louis was laboriously describing the flying woman to Ibsen, “Yes, like Gene Tierney, but with a stronger jaw and larger eyes. No—Hedy Lamarr’s face is too long. Something in between. Give her thicker eyebrows. Not plucked, but not too bushy—just natural-looking. And her eyes—piercing turquoise. I don’t know if they were blue or green, but they were… striking. And the expression… more like a statue. Divine. Her hair—thick, jet black, a little wild. Almost curly.”

Ibsen worked quickly. A few minutes later, he lifted the finished portrait for everyone to see.

Clara’s face burned. It was her.

Exactly as she had seen herself in the mirror that morning dressed in her Kryptonian supersuit.

Everyone nodded in agreement - except Louis and Clara. Then, suddenly, Taylor's usually gentle face took on a strange expression. He stared at the drawing, then turned sharply to Clara.

“Ibsen… You’ve basically drawn Miss Kent with messy hair and no glasses.”

A pause.

Then—laughter. Loud and raucous. Everyone laughed. Everyone but Clara, whose face was now the color of a ripe tomato.

Louis, mercifully, stepped in, “Ibsen—no. That’s not right. Make her less human. Less… normal. That face is too warm, too familiar. She—or it—was regal. Composed. Divine. But not human. Not friendly. Think… I don’t know… Alma-Tadema, something decadent, something distant.”

Ibsen huffed but adjusted the sketch. He held up the revised portrait. Clara no longer recognized herself.

“That’s it,” Louis said at last, sounding utterly exhausted. “It’s close. Still… something’s missing. I don’t know what. But it was something like that.”

“Perfect, thank you, Louis. Goodbye, Miss Kent.” Weiss said quickly before vanishing into the chaos.

“The story of the year,” Clara murmured hesitantly.

“The damn story of our lives,” Louis replied, thoroughly exasperated.

Clara glanced at him sideways. Great. Just my luck—I get stuck with Louis, the Grand Master of Skepticism. She sighed in frustration and finished typing up her article.

“Let’s take it to George,” Louis muttered, rubbing his temples. “He might suggest some changes… Now that I think about it, the tone might be too optimistic. A little too cheerful. Then again, no need to scare people. There’s probably plenty of time for that.”

Idiot. Clara bit her tongue to keep from rolling her eyes.

The two of them walked toward the newsroom as Louis shrugged his jacket back on. Taylor reviewed the article and gave it an immediate nod of approval without further comment.

The newsroom was a whirlwind of movement, voices clashing in the frenzy of breaking news. Perry Weiss, short but commanding, dashed from desk to desk, barking out chaotic orders. Cat Grant was nowhere to be seen—until suddenly, she reappeared, her ever-present sunglasses and whiskey glass in hand.

Clara wasn’t particularly fond of Cat—she found her brash, arrogant—but she also had to admit the woman was brave, a gifted writer, and still men found her strikingly attractive, her resemblance to Barbara Stanwyck only adding to her undeniable presence.

Without preamble, Cat leaped onto a chair in the center of the room and, without clearing her throat or greeting anyone, bellowed: “I just got off the phone with Senator Taft. The White House is releasing a statement in one hour, but we need to start working on it now.”

The newsroom fell silent.

“The flying woman met with the President last night.”

A wave of murmurs, gasps, and even a few stunned whimpers spread through the room like a shockwave.

Louis looked like he’d been punched in the gut.

“She’s an alien,” Cat continued, her voice sharp and theatrical, milking every ounce of drama. “From another planet.”

Clara barely heard the words over the rush of blood in her ears.

"I forgot!"

So much had happened in the last few hours that she had barely thought about her brief meeting with the President at the White House in the dead of night, reassuring him, calming his fears. She hadn’t wanted to hold a press conference. She still didn’t know what to say. She wanted to stay anonymous. Maybe she should reveal her Kryptonian name—but even that felt too intimate, too personal.

“She comes in peace,” Cat continued, her voice cutting through the newsroom. “She claims to be an American citizen, raised here since childhood. She just wants to help. She’s offering her service to the government and the United Nations. The President will stand beside her at six o’clock this evening to give further details. They don’t think she’ll speak.”

Perry Weiss took over, his voice booming over the noise. “You know the drill—every man for himself! Call everyone—scientists, politicians, philosophers, cops. Hit the streets. Grab your cameras. If anyone wants to go to Washington, they can—but on their own dime. We’re chartering a small plane, but management decides who gets a seat.”

Cat sauntered over to them, her sharp gaze landing on Louis. “Louis, darling, you were the first to see her last night. If you want a seat, you’ve got one. We leave in an hour. It’s me, Mailer, probably Perry. I’m trying to convince that diva Leon Bernzy to come as our photographer—I want real photos of the press conference. Dark, raw, natural. But you know how expensive he is…”

Louis sighed and shrugged.

“The first person to hear about her was Clara Kent,” he said flatly. “Apparently, this woman was performing small civic actions while disguised as a pilot these past few weeks. It was an open secret among the police. I refused to publish her article.”

Cat turned to Clara with a mixture of arrogance and reluctant admiration. “I don’t blame you, Louis. Miss Kent, congratulations on your instincts, but let’s be real—no one would have believed it back then. You’re too young, too green to come to Washington this time, but I’ll be keeping my eye on you. Welcome aboard.”

Clara suppressed a small, proud smile. “Well, I’ll be in Washington anyway,” she said to herself.

Louis turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “Clara, I’m going to church. Then I’m going home to my wife and daughter—I haven’t seen them in almost 24 hours. We’ll talk tomorrow. If you want to walk around Metropolis tonight and report on how people react to the alien’s press conference, fine. I don’t want you stuck in that kind of journalism forever, but for today, it’s the most useful thing you can do.”

Clara nodded, though her super-hearing had already picked up something urgent. She was needed again. Superwoman had work to do.

“Of course, Mr. Lane. I’ll head out now, get some rest, and start right away.”

“Do whatever you want,” Louis muttered, already making his way out the door.

The newsroom roared with frantic energy. No one noticed Clara quietly slipping into her office.

In a fraction of a second, she shrugged off her jacket, unbuttoned her shirt, pulled out the pins in her bun, and placed her glasses carefully in the desk drawer. The red cape, folded neatly beneath her clothes, unfurled as she kicked off her skirt and stockings, revealing the unmistakable blue and red of her Kryptonian suit.

She took half a second to glance in the mirror.

She felt strong.

She felt ready.

"Here we go… Up, up, and away!”

A red and blue blur streaked across the sky, weaving between the skyscrapers of Metropolis.

Hundreds—maybe thousands—of people pointed, gasped, and cheered as they watched the impossible come to life before their very eyes.

***

Superwoman soared at full speed over the Metropolis skyline, fresh from battling floods in Anglo-Egyptian Sudan. She had spent the night and most of the morning there—redirecting torrents of water, pulling people from drowning currents, constructing dikes at super-speed. The only break she had taken was a brief stop at the Daily Planet, just long enough to be seen as Clara Kent.

She entered the building unseen, a red-and-blue blur vanishing into an empty corridor, and, in the stairwell, she changed back into Clara Kent. For the first time in nearly two weeks, she felt a flicker of exhaustion. Two incredibly intense weeks. The most intense of her life. And yet, she was happy. Energized. Eager to keep helping.

Still, the sheer attention she was generating made her uncomfortable. Since her first public appearance, she had become the single most talked-about subject in newspapers, on the radio, in casual conversation—even in diplomatic relations. Just that morning, the Soviet Union had issued a scathing statement, demanding that their supposed ally, the United States, clarify whether the so-called “Superwoman” was truly an extraterrestrial or some elaborate propaganda campaign for a military android. Most people, however, were in awe.

And that made her happy. She loved helping them, using her powers openly, flying—it was freedom. The moment she transformed from Clara Kent into Superwoman was liberating. When she unfurled her cape and took to the skies, she felt filled with hope, with purpose, with an unshakable determination to work for others.

Despite her doubts. Despite the cruel voices of a handful of detractors. Despite the memory of her father. Even with all of that… she was happy.

Her mother, Martha, was ecstatic. She had been buying every newspaper and magazine that made it to Smallville, clipping and saving every mention of her daughter, despite Clara’s repeated pleas for discretion. Martha had framed the best photos of Superwoman, images of a face now recognized around the entire world. Clara just had asked her to keep them stored away in case of visitors. The Daily Planet’s Sunday edition from the first week after her debut had been Martha’s pride and joy. The front page featured a stunning full-color photograph by Leo Bernzy—Superwoman levitating above a stunned crowd. The headline read:

"YOU’LL BELIEVE A WOMAN CAN FLY."

Inside, among countless articles, was a piece Clara herself had written weeks ago—back when she was just following rumors of a flying woman dressed as a pilot. The very article Louis had dismissed as nonsense. Now, it was republished with a preface acknowledging that the so-called pilot had, in fact, been Superwoman, acting in secret.

But Clara had decided she would never write about Superwoman again. It felt dishonest. There were far more important stories to tell—about Metropolis, about the world. And besides, her father, Joe, would never have approved of her using her own heroism to advance her career at the Daily Planet. She had the job now. She had to be honest. Responsible.

She was beginning to feel the first signs of real fatigue, and she was worried about how much scrutiny she was under. The fact that the public had settled on Superwoman as her name, out of all the possible monikers, unsettled her.

And yet… these were happy days. Clara believed—truly believed—that what she was doing mattered. Crime in Metropolis had plummeted. No one wanted to face a flying woman in whom bullets simply bounced off. In cities across the U.S.—even beyond the U.S.—criminals were growing wary, knowing that the Woman of Steel could show up at any moment. But the further from Metropolis, the better their chances of acting before she could arrive. She couldn’t be everywhere.

And then there were the refugees. The world was full of them. Millions upon millions. Displaced by war. Homeless. Wandering. Suffering in the cold, in the heat. The victors. The defeated. As Superwoman, Clara had seen the camps. And she had begun to feel the crushing weight of the fact that, during the war, she had done nothing. Not because she didn’t want to. But because she didn’t know how. Most of her time now was spent protecting refugees, delivering humanitarian aid—hauling tons of food, blankets, and medicine across continents. But none of it weighed as heavily on her as the guilt of having waited.

She had heard the whispers—both with her super-hearing and without it.

"Why didn’t she appear sooner?"

"Why didn’t she stop it?"

"Why didn’t she help then?"

And they were right. It was the shadow that crossed her heart.

Sighing, Clara Kent stepped into her office and, at super-speed, typed up the translations Louis had requested. Louis hardly spent time at the office. She barely saw him. He gave her free rein to chase stories across the city, completely unaware that, in reality, she was taking flight—racing to help those in need. Occasionally, Major Lane would assign her tedious administrative work—filing reports, translating articles—blissfully ignorant that she could finish in minutes, sometimes seconds, and spend the rest of the day on her true mission.

Like everyone else, Louis was growing increasingly fixated on Superwoman. But unlike many of his colleagues, he hadn’t thrown himself off a building window just to force a rescue and try securing an exclusive interview. He seemed to respect her more as a journalist these days—though, at times, Clara got the distinct impression that he found her… dull. He rarely invited her along to investigations or meetings, and when he did, it felt like an afterthought. But she played the fool, insisted on tagging along. Other times, Louis was incredibly considerate, even charming. It all depended on the day. At times, Clara found him infuriating. At others, oddly pleasant.

“Smallville, if you’re done with the translations, you can go. If you need me, I’ll be on the roof—I need some air.”

Louis leaned in through the doorway, his voice dismissive, and disappeared just as quickly as he had arrived.

Clara smirked to herself. Louis doesn’t work too hard sometimes…

He no longer carried a cane or wore his military uniform, though, technically, he was still enlisted. Then, suddenly, an idea struck her. She liked the way Louis wrote. He was a good interviewer—he had a way of making people feel at ease, making them talk more than they intended. He was a gentleman. And when he wanted to be, he was a relentless bulldog. A respected journalist. Her newspaper’s journalist. And, after all, he had been the first man she had ever saved publicly—without hiding her face, without vanishing at super-speed. They worked at the same paper. Maybe it was time. Maybe Superwoman should give an interview. Maybe the world deserved to know more about her. It was time to tell her story.

Clara pushed the thought away. No. Louis was arrogant. They argued too much. Tess Harding was the best interviewer in the world—if anyone should get the first exclusive, it should be her. Clara admired Tess, almost as much as she admired Miss Roosevelt. And yet, the thought lingered. She needed to start telling her story. And she liked Louis as a journalist. Sure, he was a snob. Arrogant at times. Dismissive. He seemed skeptical of Superwoman—though, in recent days, he had spoken of her almost admiringly. But he was a good writer. A gentleman. He had hired her. He respected her work, even if he found her presence annoying. He was a war hero.

And once again, Clara couldn’t resist her own impulses. In a swift spin, she became Superwoman. She shot out of the window at super-speed, a blur of red and blue streaking across the sky and landed gracefully atop the golden globe crowning the Daily Planet building.

Below her, Louis Lane—jacket off, sleeves rolled up—stood at the rooftop’s edge, cigarette in hand, staring absentmindedly at the city. It was one of the few things they had in common. Both of them had an uncanny ability to lose themselves in thought.

Louis was at her feet. She cleared her throat, adjusting her voice—neutral, aristocratic, commanding. She erased every trace of her Kansas accent.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lane.”

Louis jolted as if struck by lightning. Whirling around too quickly, he slipped. Before he could hit the ground, Superwoman caught him effortlessly and lowered him gently onto the rooftop.

He lay there, wide-eyed, staring up at her in stunned silence. She hovered above him, her cape billowing in the wind.

“Superwoman…” He breathed, barely a whisper.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Lane?” Her voice was steady, calm—but warm, almost playful. “I apologize for startling you. That was never my intention. I saw you while flying past and recognized you from the other night. I hope you’re doing well—that was quite a fall…”

“Thank you… Thank you so much… You saved my life.”

“It was nothing. A small leap.” She gave him a polite, measured smile, “I hope you don’t find my greeting too forward. I didn’t know who you were when I rescued you. But I’ve read your work, and I’ve heard you on the radio. I simply wanted to introduce myself properly and make sure you were well.”

Louis still looked dazed, overwhelmed. Clara tried not to enjoy it too much.

Then, suddenly, he pulled himself up, regaining his composure. His voice, too, shifted—more controlled, more professional.

“Once again—thank you, Miss Superwoman. I’m honored.” He hesitated. “May I ask you a question?”

“I’d prefer not to be called Superwoman, Mr. Lane.” She folded her arms across her chest. “But of course. Go ahead.”

“My apologies,” Louis said smoothly. “How should I address you?”

She didn’t answer.

He continued, “I wanted to ask… Are you planning to hold a press conference soon? The world is full of questions. You barely said anything alongside the President.”

For a brief moment, Clara recalled her own hesitant words when she had stood beside President Truman, addressing the world for the first time.

"Hello, everyone. Thank you for your kind greetings and warm words. I only wish to say that, as the President has indicated, I was born on a distant planet that no longer exists. As a very young child, I was sent here, where I developed these abilities during my journey. I am an American citizen, raised in the United States of America. I only want to help and to use my abilities in service of all of you. I deeply appreciate your kindness and ask that you pray for me.”

She exhaled slowly and looked Louis straight in the eye while planting her hands on her hips. The wind sent her long red cape rippling behind her. “Mr. Lane,” she said, voice firm. “I’ve been told you’re the best interviewer on the East Coast.” She let the words hang in the air. “Perhaps,” she continued, “I could tell my story, explain my origins, my true name… in a private interview at another time.” She arched a brow. “What do you think?”

Clara smiled to herself. “All set for high adventure, excitement, and romance… as Superwoman!”

[wonderjanga]

Marvel is Kryptonian

This takes place when both of them are first starting out. Clark started first. Then, the bubble popped. Now, since this is early in Supes’ career, that means, sure, there are other heroes around, but none else in Metropolis. So, when he heard of a hero that recently popped up who was suspected by the media to be related to him, he grew curious. He was even more curious when he found out the guy had similar powers to him, not to mention they looked alike. So, when he’s at work, writing a paper, imagine his surprise when he sees many people crowding around one of the tvs in the lounge. Lo and behold Captain Marvel, the guy he’s been hearing about is on live, fighting a giant monster somewhere in Kansas— wait a darn minute, he’s right next to Smallville. Looks like this is a job for Superman.

When Supes gets there, the monster goes down with one final punch from the Captain. When Clark saw the man floating, wearing a warm smile with his cape billowing in the wind, he was struck with the idea that maybe, just maybe they could be related after all.

Marvel: *notices Supes and gives a little wave, torn between wondering if Clark is another hero, or a dude who just happens to be wearing spandex*

Superman: *Flies up to him* “Hey.” *awkward*

Marvel: “Hey?” *also awkward*

*awkward silence of two super powered dudes floating mid-air*

Superman: “Right! Uh- Kal-El.” *offers handshake*

Marvel: *wondering what a “Kal-El” is* “I’m Captain Marvel? Or Marvel? Or Cap? You can call me whatever.” *shakes hand*

Superman: *little disappointed Marvel didn’t respond with his own Kryptonian name. Then says some form of greeting in Kryptonian*

Marvel: *confused at the sudden gibberish from the other man until Solomon translated it for him. Responds back also in Kryptonian*

Superman: *face lights up brighter than the sun*

They got burgers after that. They became super good friends after that too! I mean, sure, Clark’s new friend hasn’t really told him anything about himself yet, but that was fine! Marvel’s super nice, and he’s always willing to help the Kryptonian if Clark needs it. I mean for Rao’s sake, when he got mind controlled for the first time, the Captain was the one who held him off. Then when all was set and done he took Clark to get ice cream. (Buddy doesn’t know he’s boarding the Dad Marvel bus)

The media’s picked up on their new friendship too. There are more and then a couple videos of Marvel’s 8 foot 5 self, picking up a 6 foot maybe 4 inch Superman like he’s a toddler. People think they’re brothers, or at least cousins.

Speaking of cousins, we can’t forget about Kara. When Kal said that there was another Kryptonian, she was skeptical, but then she met Marvel. She was excited when she learned he could speak Kryptonian. She also found it awesome he spoke like an old man. The man also had no problem in learning any new traditions from her. And, he also had no problem in teaching her ancient traditions that she had no clue how he knew. The man looked at to be in his mid thirties at most. (He has knowledge of really really really old Kryptonian traditions and history because a long, long time ago a previous Champion got married to a Kryptonian woman and visited the planet whenever they could. Though, it wasn’t often due to their champion duties.) He also gets her to bake with him while he told her stories about old wars and conflicts she hadn’t even heard of. Not only did she get to teach more of their culture to Clark, she got to learn more about it from Cap. (Is also unknowingly boarding the Marvel Dad bus)

Also, Ma and Pa Kent love him and he helps around the farm as much as they allow him.

[vaguely-concerned]

I think there is no better illustration of the more intimate, internal angle veilguard chooses to approach its characters and themes with than the fact that like... listen in this game we get to follow so much pain back to its source, and we find it really does permeate everything in thedas today on a level that evokes a kind of cosmic horror. the bones of the earth itself are broken open and drenched in trauma; the world is mired in suffering down to the core and the marrow. as above, so below. as outside, so inside. on the big scale, and the small. all of creation is a throat gone to bloody shreds from screaming in agony, when you allow yourself to listen. (maybe that's why we usually don't, or can't, bring ourselves to listen.)

...and yet the thing that makes me personally so desperately gnaw-my-own-arm-off sad that it feels like I could die from it is that in a run where you save minrathous, lucanis never gets out from the ossuary in his mind. what's worse, no one even knows he's in there. he's still in there. and there is no rescue on the way, because he's locked down so deep inside himself this time that there's no way for anyone to even understand there's a need for it. would he be able to welcome one, if someone did realize it and tried to reach him? You know him -- you can open the door, but he won't walk through. He won't move. There's nowhere to go. the way he says 'it doesn't matter what I want' with such utter, leaden, final resignation in the wrecked treviso cutscene is going to haunt me forever. it makes perfect sense to me you can't romance him after that, I'm not sure he's ever really here completely in that version of events, at least within the timeline the game takes place. he's just standing in the shitty awful ossuary torture room all alone, and no one's coming to find him.

and what is that, next to the millennia of suffering screaming through all of history and creation? well. nothing, of course, not really. a single plucked string in an endless deafening symphony of despair. one singular trapped and broken soul among the untold millions that have gone before and the untold more that will surely come after, that are being made as we speak in the conflicts and tragedies unfolding through the game. but more importantly it's also everything. to me. and to the game too. the game says this also matters. just as much as anything else, this pain matters and deserves to be loved and comforted. even in the face of all the suffering in the world, beneath the systems perpetuating all the banalities of evil, for good or for ill sometimes, we matter to each other. and what would be the point of anything, if we didn't? that's where hope lives. as long as you're alive, the right key might still arrive to gently open the locks of your mind, the right hand might reach out one day and you will bring yourself to take it. you don't know what tomorrow's going to be. if in the meantime the only thing we have to gain in staying is each other -- isn't that enough? isn't that everything? why does this one guy saved mean the world saved to me, a little bit? hello. hello. hello. there's stuff going on in the deep here.

when I say that the deep thematic spine of this game is so good and solid that the occasional clumsiness and false tones of the writing on top of it simply cannot hurt me... I think this is part of what I mean. works for every single one of the characters of course! lucanis' is the predicament that speaks to me most viscerally. for. uh. personal reasons there simply is no time to get into at this juncture lol. but just as much the idea that davrin can die before he could see the world freed from the blight and the need for wardens, or that harding can get cut down right at the beginning of a great revelation that could change everything and heal things no one had even dreamed could be healed. all of them are like this. each and every one of us has a world and so many stories inside that matter, and it's not to dismiss the larger systemic forces and evils that create so much of the suffering in the world to focus in on that for one installment of the series -- only to view it from a different angle that brings other things to light than what we're looking for normally in this series. it's worth looking at what's actually here.

(have you ever heard the poem 'good light' by andrea gibson? it's very good. you should check it out if you haven't, you can find it on youtube. it has these lines:

Come make it count Our finding each other like we found God Come root for the salt Come believing we can heal it all, even everything Even everything that has ever been done I know how much the pain of this world weighs But I can still tip the scales in light's direction Whenever I have your name on my tongue

and yeah. I think that's basically what I'm trying to say here.)

[landososcar]

jump then fall ; ln4

chapter one — i’m feeling you, baby

— pairing(s) ; college basketball captain!lando norris x college tutor!reader

— summary ; in which lando was so worried about his grades falling, he didn’t realise he was too.

— warnings ; 1692 words, death of a parent (mentioned), alcohol mentioned, nothing else i don’t think!

— note ; longer note at the end but i know this is set in america but i refuse to write ‘mom’ instead of ‘mum’ idc who that bothers

masterlist , next

°:. *₊ ° . ☆ °:. *₊ ° .• *₊ ° . *☆. °:

the library was not a popular hangout space on a friday night for many of the people i go to school with — i know this because i'm one of the few people who regular the two story building.

tonight, like most nights, my corner of the library was deserted. a few students sat scattered across the first floor, scrolling through their phones or cramming for last-minute deadlines, but upstairs, where i always worked, it was silent. the kind of silence that wrapped around you like a blanket, soothing and distracting all at once.

i had just opened my laptop and pulled out my notes for monday’s tutoring session when i heard the unmistakable sound of sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.

i looked up, half expecting a lost freshman wandering in search of the printers, but what i saw instead almost made me freeze.

lando norris.

he was hard to miss — tall, broad-shouldered, perpetually disheveled in that annoyingly effortless way athletes always seemed to master. his varsity basketball jacket hung loosely on him, and his backpack was slung carelessly over one shoulder. he didn’t belong here. not just because he was the school’s golden boy or because his team was undefeated this season, but because lando norris had a reputation. parties, games, and the occasional appearance in class—those were his natural habitats. the library was not.

he stopped a few feet away from my table, glancing down at a crumpled piece of paper in his hand, then back up at me.

“are you y/n?” he asked, his voice deep but tinged with uncertainty.

i blinked at him, trying to piece together how he even knew my name. “uh, yeah. why?”

relief washed over his face, and he shoved the paper into his pocket. “good. i need your help.”

i arched an eyebrow. “with what?”

“passing calculus,” he said, flashing a grin that was somehow both charming and exasperating.

i stared at him for a moment, unsure if he was serious. “calculus,” i repeated, as if saying the word out loud might somehow make this whole interaction make sense. since when did he care about passing classes?

“yeah.” he dropped his bag onto the table across from me with a soft thud and sank into the chair. “i have no idea what’s going on in that class. coach says i’ll be benched if i don’t pull my grade up, and the professor said you’re the best tutor on campus. so, here i am.”

my brain took a second to catch up. calculus wasn’t exactly light reading, and the idea of tutoring lando norris—someone i’d only ever seen surrounded by teammates, fans, or beautiful women—felt surreal. i’d heard his name in passing a hundred times, seen him on flyers for basketball games, but this was the closest i’d ever been to the school’s star athlete.

and now he wanted me to help him?

“why now?” i asked, leaning back in my chair, my brows furrowed. “the semester started months ago. you’ve just realized you’re failing?”

he scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “something like that. look, i know this is probably the last thing you want to be doing on a friday night, but…” he paused, his hazel eyes meeting mine, almost pleading. “i really need this… i can’t be benched—it’ll ruin my shot with scouts, you know?”

i wanted to say no, that i didn’t understand. i had other students to tutor, i had my own workload, and honestly, i wasn’t sure if he was the type to take tutoring seriously. but something in the way he looked at me—equal parts desperation and genuine hope—made me hesitate.

“i don’t know,” i said slowly, closing my notebook. “do you even have your textbook with you?”

he froze. “textbook?”

i sighed, already regretting this. “yes, textbook. the big, heavy thing with equations in it? you’re going to need one if you want me to help you.”

“right, yeah. got it. i’ll bring it next time,” he said quickly, like he hadn’t thought that far ahead. “so, you’ll help me?”

i hesitated, weighing my options. if he failed, it wouldn’t just be his grade on the line—it’d be his position on the team, and judging by the way he was looking at me, i got the feeling basketball wasn’t just a sport to him.

“fine,” i said, crossing my arms. “but i’m not doing all the work for you. you show up on time, bring your materials, and actually put in the effort. if you don’t, i’m done.”

his grin returned, wider this time, and he nodded enthusiastically. “deal.”

“—and i charge $35 an hour.” he nods, muttering something about anything is fine and i hold back the urge to roll my eyes at him, “good. then i’ll see you tomorrow.”

“tomorrow?” his face fell slightly, like he hadn’t expected this to start so soon.

“yes, tomorrow,” i said firmly, “i have to fit you in between other students whenever i can, and if you want to pass, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover. be here at eight.”

“eight a.m. or p.m.?”

i narrowed my eyes.

“got it. eight a.m.,” he said quickly, holding up his hands in surrender. he begun to get up from his chair, slinging his bag over his shoulder before he paused, “actually…” he looked at me sheepishly, “i’ve got training from six-thirty until eight, can we meet here at eight-thirty?”

i scoffed and his face looked as if he regretted asking, “eight-fifteen, i can’t do any later. i’ve got training at nine-thirty.”

his eyes furrowed at my mention of ‘training’ but before he could ask any questions i continued, “goodnight, lando,” i said, and he nodded his head, beginning to walk out of the library.

“night, y/n.”

°:. *₊ ° . ☆ °:. *₊ ° .• *₊ ° . *☆. °:

the cool night air hit me as i stepped outside the library, the faint hum of campus life echoing in the distance. a group of students passed by, their drunken laughter bouncing off the pavement as they stumbled around, but i barely noticed them. my thoughts were still tangled up in the unexpected turn my evening had taken.

lando norris. calculus. tutoring. it felt surreal, like i’d just stepped into someone else’s story for a moment.

i adjusted my bag on my shoulder and headed toward the front of the school where the large forever-open gates would lead me home.

the walk home wasn’t far—just ten minutes away from campus—but it gave me enough time to collect my thoughts. as i turned onto the street where i lived, the familiar weight of responsibility settled on my chest.

as i made it to the apartment building, i prepared myself for the three flights of stairs ahead of me—thanks to the elevator doors that still held the ‘out of service’ sign. i unlocked the door and stepped inside, greeted by the sound of soft giggles and the faint hum of the tv.

“y/n!”

my five-year-old brother, lukas, came barreling down the hallway, his tiny socks sliding across the hardwood floor. he launched himself into my arms, and i dropped my bag just in time to catch him.

“hey, buddy,” i said, ruffling his messy curls. “did you have a good night?”

he nodded enthusiastically. “we had chicken nuggets, and i beat the boss level in my game! liam helped me.”

i glanced up as liam, our neighbor’s teenage son and occasional babysitter, appeared in the doorway with a sheepish smile. “he insisted on showing me his video game skills,” liam said, shrugging. “and he was pretty good.”

“thanks for staying late,” i said, shifting lukas onto my hip.

“no problem. he’s a great kid,” liam replied, grabbing his backpack. “anything else you need?”

“no, we’re good. i’ll text you about next week,” i said as he headed out the door.

once it was just me and lukas, i carried him to the couch and set him down. “it’s bedtime,” i said, giving him a stern look.

“five more minutes?” he asked, his wide eyes pleading.

i sighed, already feeling the exhaustion from the day creeping in. “five minutes. then brush your teeth.”

lukas grinned, turning his attention back to the cartoon on the tv, while i went into the kitchen. the sink was full of dishes i hadn’t gotten to this morning, and there was a pile of unopened mail on the counter. i leaned against the counter and rubbed my temples, trying to ignore the growing list of things i needed to handle.

between my classes, tutoring, and my part-time job at the diner across from campus, i barely had enough hours in the day. add taking care of lukas to the mix, and it felt like i was constantly teetering on the edge of burnout. but i didn’t have a choice.

after mum died two years ago, it was just the two of us. dad hadn’t been in the picture for years—not that it mattered. i wasn’t about to let anyone else decide what happened to lukas. he was mine to protect now.

“y/n?” lukas’ small voice pulled me from my thoughts. he stood in the doorway, clutching his stuffed dinosaur.

“yeah, lukey?” i asked, straightening up.

“are you okay?”

i forced a smile. “of course. why wouldn’t i be?”

he tilted his head like he didn’t quite believe me. “you look sad.”

my chest tightened, but i crossed the room and knelt in front of him. “i’m not sad,” i said softly, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “i’m just tired. but i’ll always have time for you, okay?”

“okay,” he said, wrapping his arms around my neck.

as i hugged him back, i thought about the crumpled bills in my wallet, the overdue rent notice i’d stuffed into my bag, and the tutoring session i’d somehow agreed to with lando norris.

i had no idea how i was going to balance everything, but for lukas, i had to, “let’s get you to bed, luke.”

°:. *₊ ° . ☆ °:. *₊ ° .• *₊ ° . *☆. °:

— longer note ; ignore me starting a new series when i’ve only posted 3 chapters of my other series lollll umm sorry. anyways im so much more excited and motivated to write for this story so ‘packing it up’ can wait til im interested in her again im sorry.

— taglist ; im open to making one if anyone’s interested ahhahah

[kayhi808]

I know u had an ask about Bucky adopting Abby (Bucky asks to adopt Abby). How about Abby asks Bucky to adopt her? Like its Buckys birthday and Abby writes him his letters asking for him to adopt her? However, instead of asking her Mom to help her write her letter to Bucky she asks her uncle Steve for help. So they write the letter and Abby draws her pictures and only puts her best stickers on thr letter and then they frame the letter. Bucky reads it. Mama is shocked and so happy. There isn't a dry eye in the house.

I know I'm rambling. It just that I see so many tik toks like this and it made me think of bucky and Abby.

Hi my patient Nonnie! 🥰 I know it took me forever to get to but I didn't know how to work it in to their story, but it kind of coincides with the Proposal Ask. I hope you like it! And I'm sorry it took me so long to answer.

Steve's on the couch watching a baseball game, "Uncle Steve?" Abby is with Steve while you and Bucky have date night.

"Yes?"

"Bucky love Mama, rights?" She rests her elbows on his lap with her chin in her palms.

"Of course he loves your Mama! That's why he asked her to marry him. He loves her very much."

"Um...do you...uh. You know what's?"

Steve smiles & lifts her onto his lap, "No, tell me."

"I saws this movies. Um, the little girl has no families. Only a puppy and she live in an o'panage."

"Orphanage?"

"It's what I says, o'panage." Steve nods.

"Did you watch Annie?"

Abby's eyes light up, "Yes! You sees it too?" Steve nods. "Do you tinks Bucky loves me big much or widdle much?"

"Definitely BIG much!" Abby sighs with relief. Her little hands are clenched in her lap. Steve takes her hands in his, rubbing them. Relaxing them out of little fists. "What's the matter Abs?"

She stands to whisper in Steve's ear, "I wants Bucky to 'dops me."

"Oh!" Abby's scared big eyes meets Steve's soft, kind blue ones.

"He loves Mama & he makes her family. Maybe...maybe if he loves me, he makes me, too?

Steve's throat tightens up, "C'mere." He hugs Abby tightly to him & Abby rests her head on his shoulder. He needed a second to gather is thoughts and composure. "I think that's an excellent idea."

"Yea?" Abby pulls away to look at him, "He's want a daughter likes me?"

Steve coughs to clear his throat, "I think he'd love it. You'd make him so happy." Abby covers her mouth and giggles.

"Cans you helps me draws him a letter?"

"Absolutely," he drops a kiss on the top of her head.

Steve and Abby work on her letter. She used all her best stickers. Steve convinced her to wait until Bucky's upcoming birthday. Steve said he'll get her letter framed so she can wrap it up and give it to him as a present.

******

Bucky didn't want a big birthday party or anything, but you insisted on celebrating, so gathered up the Avengers who were not on missions and went out for dinner. Steve, Sam, Natasha & Bruce. Bucky had to admit it was one of his best birthdays. Surrounded by friends, you & Abby. He really enjoyed his evening. They returned to The Tower for cake and ice cream & to open presents. You notice Abby and Steve whispering all evening & you know they are up to something.

"I'm scared-ed Uncle Steve."

"Why? You have nothing to be scared about."

"Um, what if he no wants me? And tells me no?" Abby's lip puffs out into a pout.

"How can he not want you, Abs?? You are smart, strong, so loving, so sweet, so kind."

"But I tricks him a lot. And maybe he don't wikes it."

You walk up to them, interrupting their deep discussion. "What's going on here?"

Abby stands up ram-rod straight, "Nuffing!" Not at all suspicious.

"Nothing huh?"

Steve picks Abby up, "We're going to get Buck's present, we'll be right back." He takes your baby and leaves the room.

******

Steve and Abby return with a wrapped gift, "We got one more present from Abs." Steve places her down and gives her the present. She walks towards Bucky but stops to look back at Steve. He can tell she's still afraid so he smiles and nods reassuringly.

"What's this?" Bucky opens his arms to Abby. She leans against him and hands him his present. In a soft voice, "I made it. Uncle Steve helps me."

"Oh, yea?" Bucky opens his gift and takes out the frame. It takes a second for him to realize what Abby is asking. CAN I BE YOUR DAUGHTER? Is printed on her drawing. He frowns trying to hold back his emotions. Bucky already embraced the role as Abby's father, excitedly so, and Abby wants to be his daughter. Abby drew a picture of them both with flowers and balloons. Steve wrote the words and drew a little scroll of paper that says adoption. And it's surrounded by Abby's stickers.

Abby sees his frown & her terrified gaze goes to Steve. "Oh nos! He no wants to 'dop me!"

Bucky quickly puts the frame aside and wraps Abby in a big hug. His voice is rough and gravelly as he whispers to her, "Nothing in the world would make me happier, baby. Yes, I want you for my daughter." Abby wraps her arms around Bucky's neck & he pulls her onto his lap.

You grab the frame to see what's in it & you gasp. Steve comes up and gives you a quick squeeze. You sit beside the 2 most important people in the world to you. Abby has tears running down her chubby cheeks, "Mama! Papa wants me to be his daughter! He 'dops me." Your close friends cheer & you'd swear that Bucky's eyes are glassy with tears. Abby claps for herself.

You wipe away her tears, "Of course he would. You're the best daughter ever!" You pepper her with kisses as Bucky grabs your hand in his and gives it a squeeze.

@waywardhunter95 @wintrsoldrluvr @rebeccapineapple @ordelixx @onceithough @thezombieprostitute @ilovetaquitosmmmm @julvrs @unaxv @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @winterslove1917 @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @mrsnikstan @hisredheadedgoddess28 @itsteambarnes @otterlycanadian @purplecolordeer @samsgirl93 @buckitostan @littleredwolf @mcucatlady @silas-aeiou @hzdhrtss @florie1 @thecubanator2 @enchantedbarnes @jvanilly @selella @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @cjand10 @pancake-05 @ozwriterchick @crazyunsexycool @baw1066 @nommingonfood

[fa1ry03]

an imagine where you see joes ex at a mutual friends wedding but you don’t realize it’s her. You tell her all about your engagement to Joe then he comes into the conversation and you realize who she is. For the rest of the wedding Joe does everything he can to show you off

Dancing In The Night

Thank you so much for the request! I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you enjoyed reading it. I love receiving requests, so please don’t hesitate to send more my way—I look forward to creating more stories for you! Just a quick note: I have no hate for Olivia H. I actually adore her and think she’s amazing. This story is purely fictional and meant for fun.

Also, I wanted to let you know that I won’t be active for the next week as I’ll be out of the country. But once I’m back, I can’t wait to get started on more writing! Thanks for your patience and understanding. 💖

Word Count: 1,403

The venue was stunning, with fairy lights cascading from the ceiling and floral arrangements lining the aisle. You adjusted your champagne-colored dress, feeling a little nervous but mostly excited. Joe had stayed back at the bar to grab drinks, leaving you to mingle. You didn’t know many people at this wedding, but you were determined to make the most of it.

As you admired the decor, a friendly-looking woman approached you, holding a glass of red wine. She had a striking presence, with dark hair swept into an elegant chignon and an air of confidence.

“Hi,” she said, smiling warmly. “I’m Olivia. Gorgeous wedding, isn’t it?”

“It really is,” you replied, returning her smile. “I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. Are you here for the bride or groom?”

“Oh, Joe and I are friends with the groom. Well, Joe is, mostly. I’m sort of a plus-one,” you laughed lightly, feeling at ease with her.

Her brows lifted slightly. “Joe?”

“Yeah, my fiancé. He’s over at the bar. We just got engaged a couple of months ago. Actually,” you added with a conspiratorial grin, “I’m still getting used to calling him my fiancé.”

Olivia’s smile faltered for the briefest moment before she recovered. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

You beamed. “Thank you! Honestly, it still feels surreal. Joe’s just... everything I could have ever wanted. He’s kind, thoughtful, and makes me laugh even on the worst days. And don’t get me started on how he proposed. It was perfect.”

As you spoke, Olivia’s expression became harder to read. You didn’t notice, too swept up in your own excitement to register the slight tension in her posture.

“Sounds like you’ve found a good one,” she said, her voice calm but measured.

“I really have,” you said sincerely. “He should be here any—”

“Y/N,” Joe’s familiar voice called, cutting you off. You turned to see him walking toward you, his smile widening as he approached.

When his gaze shifted to Olivia, his smile froze. “Olivia,” he said, his tone careful.

Your stomach dropped. “You two know each other?”

Joe rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Uh, yeah. Olivia and I... we used to date.”

The realization hit you like a freight train. You had just spent the last several minutes gushing to Joe’s ex about how perfect he was.

Olivia’s lips curved into a polite smile. “Small world, isn’t it?”

You felt heat creeping up your neck. “Oh. I, um, didn’t realize...”

Joe stepped closer to you, his hand finding the small of your back. “Y/N, can I talk to you for a second?”

Olivia waved a hand. “No need. It was lovely meeting you, Y/N. And congratulations again.” With that, she turned and walked away, leaving you and Joe standing there.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted as soon as she was out of earshot. “I had no idea she was your ex. I feel so stupid.”

Joe’s hand moved to your waist, his thumb brushing soothing circles against your dress. “Hey, it’s okay. You didn’t know. And honestly, hearing you talk about us like that... it made me love you even more.”

Your embarrassment melted a little under his affectionate gaze. “Still, it must have been awkward for her.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, “but that’s not your fault. Besides, you’re my future now. Nothing else matters.”

For the rest of the evening, Joe seemed determined to show everyone in the room, including Olivia, just how much he adored you. He held your hand during dinner, pulled you onto the dance floor for every slow song, and didn’t stop complimenting you all night. During the speeches, he kept his arm draped protectively over your shoulders, leaning in to whisper sweet nothings that made you giggle. When you got up to get dessert, he walked with you, his hand firmly around your waist, making sure everyone noticed just how smitten he was.

At one point, the DJ played your favorite song, and Joe didn’t hesitate to drag you onto the dance floor. He twirled you around, his eyes never leaving yours, as if the rest of the room didn’t exist. His laughter mixed with yours, drawing attention from onlookers who smiled at the obvious chemistry between you two.

When the bouquet toss came around, Joe playfully nudged you forward, whispering, “Better get ready to catch. Though, I think we’ve already won.”

You blushed but joined the group of women vying for the bouquet, laughing when someone else caught it. Joe met you halfway back to your seat, lifting your hand to kiss it dramatically before spinning you into his arms. His over-the-top gestures earned a round of applause from nearby tables, and he grinned as if he’d just won a prize.

When the party began winding down, you caught Olivia watching from across the room. Her expression was unreadable, but you didn’t dwell on it. Joe’s arms were around you, his lips brushing your temple as he whispered, “You’re the most beautiful person here. How did I get so lucky?”

You smiled, feeling a warmth that pushed away any lingering awkwardness. “I think we’re both pretty lucky.”

And as you danced in Joe’s arms, you realized that nothing else really mattered but the two of you.

Hope you guys enjoyed! Send in requests!

[captainlunaxmen]

Frustration

Finan x fem!reader

Hi! I got this idea last night and thought to write, to ease the wait for the next Finnick's chapter.

Hope you'll like it, let me know❤️

Summary: The Reader can't stand when Finan opposes himself to her involvement in the group's plans.

Warnings: mention of bleeding, mention of sexual assault.

I can feel a headache growing in my skull, Uhtred and Finan have been fighting for far too long now.

I take a big gulp of ale and stand to join them and put an end to it. I get in between them, separating them.

"Would you please stop, now?" I demand, i turn to Finan, "I am going. End of story."

"No you're not." He insists and I deeply sigh, more frustrated then before.

"They don't know her! She can blend in better than us." Uhtred almost shouts out of frustration.

"He's right, Finan, it's the only way we can find out about their plans." Sihtric chimes in, supporting our plan.

"She can't." Finan insists, "no way."

"I can't?" I ask, "what's that supposed to mean?"

"You've not trained enough. It's too dangerous." Finan insists, hard expression on his face.

"Excuse me?"

"She's more prepared than me." Osferth supports us too.

"That doesn't say a lot..." Sihtric mutters.

"She's more than prepared, Finan." Uhtred declares, "she's going."

"End. Of. Story." I add, walking away, ignoring Finan's furious eyes.

I don't understand him, Finan never talks to me, never cared before tonight, and now he acts all mad about me going into the enemy's camp.

I file off my sword, ignoring whoever came in with me.

"I didn't want to ask in front of them, but.." Uhtred's voice is close, "are you sure you want to do it?"

Want... not can, at least he believes in my skills.

"I'm sure, lord." I look him in the eyes, "I'm sure."

"That's what I wanted to hear." He smiles, "all set?"

"Yes, lord." I nod vigorously.

"Let's send you off then!" He cheerfully pats my shoulder, then hugs me.

I say goodbye to everyone as I walk towards the camp. I feel a particularly angry stare piercing my skull as I walk off, but I decide to ignore it.

--------------

Well, that didn't go as planned.

I hold my bleeding arm as I hide from the Danes chasing me. I need to take the longer route to get back to my camp, so I can lose them.

I take a deep breath once I see in the distance Uhtred's camp, one last effort and I'll be safe.

"She's back!" I hear Osferth voice calling the others.

Once I arrive at the camp everyone else is already gathered there to greet me.

"What the fuck happened to you?" Sihtric exclaims.

"They didn't find out I work with Uhtred, if that's what you're wondering." I groan as I sit, Osferth is already kneeling beside me to check on my arm.

"Then what happened?" Uhtred asks, alarmed.

"Nothing particular." I answer.

"What?" The familiar hard tone of Finan is present.

"Nothing."

"That doesn't look like nothing." He insists.

"Am I about to die, Osferth?" I innocently ask the monk.

"Uh... n-no... it just needs stitches..." Osferth hesitantly answer.

"See?" I tilt my head, pointing at Osferth, "it's nothing."

"Y/n..." Uhtred sighs, "what happened?"

"One of the men wanted to 'have fun' with me as he said it." I explain, "I dared to say no."

"What?!" Finan exclaims, but recollects himself immediately.

"But I got the information you needed." I turn to Uhtred.

"I don't care about that now." He says, "are you okay?"

"I'm saying I'm fine. It was nothing." I insist, "they keep the hostages in a chariot, sort of, not many and-"

"You need to rest." Finan interrupts me, earning a glare from me.

"I said I'm fucking fine." I snap at him.

"He's right." Osferth agrees with his friend, "you did lose a great amount of blood apparently. Stay warm and I'll get you something to eat."

"I..."

"Do as he says, you'll tell us later." Uhtred orders. I groans out, but accept the blanket Sihtric brings me.

"Told you." Finan mutters to me and walks off before I could tell him something.

I groan in frustration and just sit there warming myself as I wait for Osferth.

--------------

I ate and they finally let me share all the information I gathered. Now we just need a plan to rescue the hostages.

As we plan I keep sensing Finan's eyes on me, and everytime I look up he stares, furious at me.

"Can I ask what's your problem?" I interrupt Uhtred.

Everyone looks at me confused then move their attention to Finan as well.

"Finan, she's coming too, I don't want a repetition of what happened the other day." Uhtred states.

"You saw what happened." Finan insists.

"I got back with information." I state the obvious.

"You got injured!"

"It was merely a scratch!"

"You're staying here!"

"I am not!" I shouts, "I'm part of this just as you are. I am coming. I am capable, I'm not a fucking child!"

I stand and walk away.

"Y/n..!" Uhtred calls.

"No. Call me when he decides to treat me with respect." I turn around and walk off, away from them. Away from Finan.

--------------

I enjoy the solitude, looking up at the sky when I hear footsteps coming closer.

"I told you my condition, Uhtred." I say.

"Not Uhtred." Finan's voice catches me off guard, I turn to look at him, he looks tired.

"What do you want?" I ask, turning away.

"I... I guess I wanted to apologise." He says softly.

"You guess?" I scoff, "more like Uhtred forced you."

"No... he just sent me off to think, and I cane to the conclusion that I owe you an apology." He sit beside me.

"Okay..."

"So... I'm sorry." He says softly.

"For...?" I urge.

"For looking out for you too much." He says.

"What?" I ask, confused, I stand up looking down at him, "looking out for me? Are you serious?"

He stands up too, and now he's the one looking down at me, since he's taller.

"Yes.."

"You thought that treating me like a child, was looking out for me?" I ask, frustrated.

"I was..."

"Shut up." I say walking away again, but stop when he grabs my wrist and turns me back to him.

"Talk to me." He almost pleads.

"Talk to you?!" I widen my eyes, "you're the one that doesn't talk to me... you don't talk to me, you ignore me, you treat me like a child, you treat me like I'm useless and incapable of helping... like I'm not part of this group and you ask me to talk to you?"

"I've never... I didn't mean it." He tries to explain.

"Then why? What did you mean?" I ask him. He just stares at me, so I insist, "so? Are you going to say so-"

His lips on mine cuts me off.

I'm stunned for not even a second before I kiss him back. Once his hands are on my body I can't think of anything else, but him.

I move my hands to his face, caressing his beard to pull him even closer.

Eventually we both need air and we pull away just enough to breath, but not too far.

"I'm sorry for treating you like a child." He breaths heavily as he apologies.

"What?" I ask, the kiss got too into my head I completely forgot what was going on, he chuckles and caresses my hips, leaning his forehead against mine.

"I'm sorry, my love." He repeats.

"It's.. it's okay." I say, still catching my breath.

"It's not, I shouldn't have treated you like that." He looks at me in the eyes, "I think the world of you, you're the best with the knives and you're definitely part of this group." He leave a quick peck on my lips, "I was afraid. And when you got back bleeding... I couldn't see anything else."

"Thank you." I say, stroking his cheek with my thumb, "just don't treat me like that ever again."

"I won't." He kisses me again, "I promise you." Another kiss, "fuck, I promise you."

He keeps kissing me and I chuckle at his eagerness.

"Okay... mmh.. okay, Finan." I say between his kisses, "contain yourself."

"Oh you're asking the impossible here, my sweet." He keeps kissing me, moving slightly down my neck.

"We still need a plan to rescue those hostages." I say and he stops with a sigh.

"You're right... as always." He nods.

"But I mean..." I start and his face lightens up, "once they're safe..."

"Yes?" He urges.

"Well... we'll see." I wink.

"Don't play with me, woman." He jokingly warns me.

"Or what?" I tease.

He smirks and wraps his arms around my waist pulling me completely against his body, he put a hand on my cheeks and just kisses me more deeply than before.

"I'm glad tou made up, but we have hostages to safe, c'mon!" Uhtred's voice startles us making us pull away.

"Coming, lord!" Finan calls, then he turns to me with a stupid smile on his face.

He pulls away and takes my hand leading me back to the camp.

Before he lets me go he pulls me to him once more to whisper into my ear.

"Once they're all safe, I'll take care of you myself, love." He says and walks to stand with Uhred, not before giving my ass a small smack.

I look at him shaking my head and then I sit next to Sihtric, who looks at me with a knowing smirk, I slightly shove him before our attention is back on Uhtred explaining the plan to us.

And this time, Finan doesn't have anything to say about my involvement.

[wish-i-were-heather]

A FOOL FOR YOU PT 4⤵ GRAYSON HAWTHORNE X READER

ABOUT: 2642 words, no use of y/n (part 1, part 2, part 3, part 5)

STORY: well, y'know. you can't ignore a 911 text from a hawthorne

WARNINGS: none really, reader does struggle to swim tho and freaks out a little

TAGS: @littlemissmentallyunstable @gretag13 @lanterns-and-daydreams @whatsamongus @alwaysthefangirl @zuzanna-jadw1ga @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @low-caloriesmonsterultra @that-daughter-of-hephaestus @jimcarreyfann42 @ravishinglyliving @maybxlle - lmk if you wanna be added to the taglist!

A/N: EEK I LOVED WRITING THIS. i didn't describe the reader's swimsuit because i don't know what everyone is comfortable with so i let you kinda imagine it however u want! i'm not sure how many more parts i can get out of this idea, there'll definitely be at least one more lmk what u think tho

He said please. 

Grayson didn’t lack manners. It’s not that he didn’t know how to say please and thank you. But he also wasn’t the kind of person to throw around a plea lightly. Grayson Hawthorne was, well, a Hawthorne. The name itself was a demand, not requiring a please. But he’d felt the need to say please to you. 

Maybe you were overthinking it. 

Or maybe you were still in denial, like Avery said you were. 

The texts came in at eight at night, too, which only raised more questions in your mind. If he wanted to talk to you, why hadn’t he just found you? Or simply texted you to meet somewhere? You didn’t understand why he’d felt the need to use the 911; you would’ve come if he’d just told you to go to the pool. 

Hawthornes did tend to have a flare for dramatics, you supposed. 

You had no idea why Grayson wanted you to meet him at the pool. He was a swimmer, sure, but that was very much his personal time. Grayson didn’t often appreciate people watching or joining him in the pool. But, you figured there was a chance he expected you to.

So you found yourself at her door again. Despite the faint conversation you could hear from inside, you knocked. 

Avery took longer than last time to open the door. “What’s up?” She asked. 

“Hey. Uh, do you have a swimsuit I could borrow?”

She frowned slightly, confused. “I mean I do, yeah, but why-”

You didn’t even have to say anything. You just showed her your phone screen with the text messages. Her eyes widened as she read them and she immediately opened the door wider for you. “Get the hell in here.”

Avery was already digging through the grand dresser. As you entered the room behind her, you noticed Jameson sitting on the floor in front of a deck of cards, giving you a curious look. “What-”

“Not now, Jamie,” Avery quickly answered. “Girl problem.”

That shut him up. 

“Don’t mind him,” she told you, turning back around with a few items in hand. “We were just playing solitaire.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Together? Isn’t that a one player game?”

“His idea, not mine. Managed to turn it into a competition too, somehow,” Avery shrugged. Jameson gasped dramatically but she continued before he could speak, bringing your attention back to why you asked for help. “So, I’ve actually never worn this one before, you could keep it if you want. Or-”

“That one’s fine,” you interrupted, taking it from her. “Can I change in your bathroom?” “Oh, uh, yeah, sure I guess,” Avery answered, clearly confused as to why you were so quick to answer. “Sorry, I’m just trying to get there as soon as I can. Thanks.”

You didn’t change completely, just putting it on and putting your clothes back on over it. You didn’t plan on getting into the water, but it was worth being prepared.

As you were stepping out of the room and thanking Avery, Jameson called, “Say hi to Gray for me.”

Your head snapped back. “What?”

“Come on,” he smirked. “He’s practically the only person who uses the pool, especially at this time. So tell him I said hi.”

Shaking your head, you just ignored him. Jameson was the type of person who could read people well, so odds are he probably already knew he was right. But you didn’t want to give even more of a reaction to him than you already had. 

Avery grabbed your arm though, before you left. “Hey, hey, good luck.”

You thanked her and left, just hoping Jameson wouldn’t try to watch from the window. 

~~

The cool night air hit you sharply as you stepped outside. It hadn’t been too chilly during the day, but you now found yourself wishing you were in more than just shorts and a thin hoodie.

Shivering, you made your way over to the pool. Your mind was racing the whole way there, but there wasn’t really anything else for you to be wondering. Grayson had asked for you to come to the pool, presumably either to swim with him or just because he was most comfortable there. Either way, it was pretty clear that he wanted to discuss what happened when he was drunk. But you still didn’t understand why he sent the 911. 

Good thing you were on your way to finding out. 

The pool deck was empty, save for a few lounge chairs. The fancy cushioned kind, the ones you would only find at a hotel. And the Hawthorne mansion, of course. 

On one of the chairs were two neatly folded towels- two. So he did expect you to get in the water with him? Where was he anyway? If he’d already brought out towels, why wasn���t he-

Splash.

You’d been too caught up in your thoughts and the sound of your heart racing in your chest to realize that Grayson was, in fact, already in the pool. Swimming laps because he was Grayson Hawthorne, so of course he was swimming laps when the sun had already set and the only light in the sky was that of the stars. 

Swimming had never really been your thing, so you didn’t know the exact stroke, but you would’ve been a liar if you said you weren't somewhat mesmerized. The way his arms went up and out, the way his fingers glided along the surface before entering the water once again. His legs kicked together, the movement fast and almost indiscernible under the blue of surrounding him. 

Grayson came up for air so quickly you couldn’t even make out his face, but your eyes caught on the way his hair flicked up with his head. It was certainly a skill, and he managed it so gracefully. You struggled to look away.

Thankfully, you were pulled out of your stare when he suddenly reached the wall nearest to you. Grayson’s hands touched the edge of the pool in perfect sync. You could see the red in his face, the tire he was giving himself from swimming. You wondered how long he’d been there before you found him.

Grayson met your eyes with a tired smile as he caught his breath. “You came.”

“You said 911,” you explained, sitting on the edge of the chair where he’d set the towels. “I figured it was pretty important.” 

“Yes, I did.” He nodded. “We do only get one of those a year, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention that to any of my brothers.”

“Got it.”

He was avoiding the elephant in the room. 

“Would you like to join me?”

You stared at him. “Excuse me?” 

“You’re excused,” he said. “Would you like to join me?”

Was he really just going to ignore the fact that he’d sent you such an urgent message? A 911 could’ve meant he was dying, for all you knew when you’d first received it. And what, it was because he wanted to go for a swim with you? There was more he wasn’t saying and you just wanted to yell at him to spit it out. 

Instead, you responded calmly. 

“Join you in the pool?”

Grayson looked you up and down and shook his head. “I suppose you can’t really, not without proper swimwear.”

You got in the pool in a suit when you were drunk, you didn’t say. 

“I have a bathing suit on under this,” you explained. “I just… why do I need to get in the water? Can’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

He took a deep breath. 

“I’ve decided I owe you an apology. For what happened.” You knew immediately what he was referring to. “I was reckless and foolish and unintentionally put the burden of myself onto you. It would have been easier for you to just leave me be, but you dealt with my mess. I appreciate that.” 

The silence that followed was only interrupted by the gentle lapping of the pool.

“See why I figured you should get in?” He asked. “We’d be at an even level. Better suited for such a conversation.”

“Or you could just get out,” you offered. 

“Please?” 

That word again.

Grayson Hawthorne knew what he was doing. 

“Fine,” you groaned, but really only half annoyed. You turned around as you began to take off the layers above the swimsuit, watching him in the corner of your eye as he looked away respectfully.

The cold hit you even harder now that you had removed your hoodie, and you hoped that the pool was well heated. 

“Okay, okay.” You began walking over to the edge of the pool where Grayson was. When his eyes found you, he stared for a little longer than normal before answering.

“You’re nervous,” he observed. “Can you swim?”

You shrugged, taking another step closer. “I know how to stop myself from drowning.”

Grayson moved out of your way and you sat on the edge of the pool with your feet getting wet. It was heated, thankfully. Comfortably so. No wonder he loved to come here at night. 

He was watching you silently. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and it was killing you. Not that anyone could ever tell what Grayson Hawthorne hid behind those piercing eyes, but yet another question amidst everything that had happened that week was too much.

Of course he’s a mystery, he’s a Hawthorne. 

Before you could overthink it even further, you got in.

The warmth of the water enveloped you, contrasting greatly with the chill of the night air. You were holding onto the wall, not planning on letting go because your swimming skills were just barely above that of a child starting swim lessons. But Grayson’s intense gaze kept your heart racing. 

He swam towards you, grabbing onto the wall a little closer but still leaving a respectful distance between you. “Do you know why I sent the 911?”

“No,” you admitted. “It scared me.”

“I apologize for that. I panicked.”

You hadn’t expected that confession from him.

“You panicked?”

He nodded slowly. “I was afraid you’d think less of me after how I acted. You haven’t spoken to me in days, so I wasn’t sure you’d come otherwise.” The vulnerability in his voice was tangible.

“It’s not that I’ve been trying to avoid you, Grayson,” you explained. “I just… I mean, you haven’t spoken to me either.”

“I thanked you, I thought we were past what happened. I didn’t think we needed to talk about it.”

“You thanked me and then flirted and walked away.”

Grayson raised an eyebrow. “Did I?”

“You know very well what you did,” you said, trying to hide the blush on your face. 

He swam a little closer. His voice dropped to the same sincere tone it had adopted back when he was drunk. When you’d told him to be careful and he’d cupped your face. When he said he’d never hurt you, never. 

“Perhaps I do. But that doesn’t change the fact that I burdened you with my drunk self.”

“You’re not a burden, Grayson,” you told him, also pushing yourself closer to him along the wall. “It was no problem, really. Just a little entertaining.”

He chuckled, and you couldn’t tell if it was genuine or bitter. 

The way he was looking at you was making you feel something. Something you couldn’t name but… didn’t quite hate. You started to move yourself a little closer to him until-

Splash.

Your hand slipped off the edge of the pool, accidentally sending you back. Not exceptionally far or deep into the pool, but enough to make you panic. You could keep yourself afloat, sure, but not when you were suddenly pushed away from the only solid thing keeping your head above water.

But before you could fully let the panic set in, a strong arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you upwards.

The sensation of being lifted was disorienting. You were overwhelmed by the sudden rush of water and movement, then the lack of water as your head reached the surface again. Even if you’d barely been below the water for a few seconds, you found yourself gasping for air. 

Grayson’s arm around you was the only steady thing in the chaos.

“Hey, hey” Grayson spoke, and it took a moment for your startled mind to process the words. “You’re okay, I’ve got you.”

You blinked rapidly, trying to focus. It took a moment for your breathing to calm down, but you helped yourself by rationalizing it; you’d been under the water for maybe five seconds, there was no need to panic so much.

The shock had just gotten you.

His voice broke through again, focusing your vision and hearing on him. “Just breathe, in and out. Nice and slow, just like that.”

You followed his instructions, taking deep breaths. Your panic began to fade, and you became painfully aware of how close he now was to you, the proximity at which he held you.

Grayson didn’t let go as you calmed down, simply keeping you tucked protectively in his arm as if the water was threatening you. He used his free hand to reach up and brush a wet strand of hair from your face behind your ear. The gesture was so gentle, so careful, that you felt your heart flutter.

“Are you alright?” He asked. 

You nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I think so. Thank you.”

He only nodded in return, his usually sharp gray eyes beginning to soften as he stared down at you. He didn’t move his hand away after moving the hair out of your face. It stayed there, lingering around your ear, until he decided to move down, cupping your face.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t the first time that shirtless Grayson Hawthorne was holding your face in his large hands and looking at you in a way that was more than an annoyed glance. 

But it felt different this time. More intense, more real. 

He wasn’t drunk, not hungover; there was no doubt in your mind that he really meant everything. His eyes were still locked on yours with an emotion that you couldn’t quite place, yet somehow felt deep within your core. 

He leaned forward, so close to you that your foreheads were almost touching. His eyes fluttered shut and you realized what was happening only after you felt the words he whispered against your lips-

“I’m sorry.”

Grayson closed the small gap between you, gently pressing his lips to yours. The kiss was soft, almost hesitant at first, like he was giving you the chance to pull away or tell  him to stop. But when you didn’t, when you leaned into the kiss, the arm around you tightened.

Your hands moved on their own, both sliding their way up to rest on his chest. He responded to your touch with a low hum that made you shiver despite the heated pool. 

His arm moved up to the back of your head, pushing you impossibly closer to him. The kiss grew more urgent, more desperate, like he was trying to express every emotion he’d been hiding for the past week. It was overwhelming, and for a moment nothing existed outside of you and Grayson Davenport Hawthorne.

When he pulled back, you kept your eyes closed. Grayson placed a small kiss on your forehead before resting it against his own. You were so close now, much closer than before, but that didn’t matter anymore.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while now,” he admitted softly.

“Me too, Grayson,” you grinned. “Me too.”

When he kissed you again, he tasted like those stupid cherries he loved and felt like the end of the world.

the writing above belongs to me. please do not copy, modify, repost on other sites or claim as your own. © 2024 wish-i-were-heather

[o-sachi]

Record Store - Drabble for WinBre Week!

ᯓ you and kaji working together part-time at a local record store ᯓ character; kaji ren (wind breaker) ᯓ tags; fluff, college au, technically a budding workplace romance, has a 500 days of summer reference, afab reader, no y/n

[🐟]: for day 6 - part-time job prompt! @windbreakerweek

There was this guy you worked with at the local record store. He was pretty quiet and always wore headphones no matter what—which was fitting for a record store employee, you thought.

But that meant it was almost impossible to talk to him. So the register and the customer service were left in your care. He mostly handled the logistics like carrying the boxes containing new records and arranging them on the display shelves.

On his chest he wore the same employee nameplate that you did. It said "Hi I'm, Kaji," in black letters. You assumed he was the one who wrote his name with those asemic strokes. But all that mattered was that the nameplate served its purpose and everyone now knows his name is Kaji.

Unfortunately, that's about everything you know of this guy. Too bad he can't write his life's story or his favorite food on something he can plaster somewhere on his body.

Kaji was intriguing though. You found yourself stealing glances at him while you stood behind the counter and he'd be walking back-and-forth between the shelves and the storage room. The only time he'd talk to you was when he absolutely need to, but would you really consider conversations about work as ACTUAL conversations? No, not really.

It was a rather slow and peaceful day for the record store. To be fair, you've never experienced a busy day here. It was one of the many charms of this place. But you were bored out of your mind doing absolutely nothing at the register while Kaji was busy with rearranging the vinyls.

An idea popped into your head and you found yourself making way to the very same shelf he was at. Scanning his work, you realized he was arranging records by genre, so you started doing the same. He didn't protest—or maybe he really had no words for you—but he silently let you help him.

The music streaming through his headphones were loud enough that even as you stood a few inches away from him—you could hear it clearly.

"I love Deftones."

Kaji lifts one side of the headphones. "What?"

"I said I love Deftones."

He kept it lifted off his ear while he thought of something meaningful to say.

"You have good taste in music," you add, hoping that he could springboard from that.

"You like Deftones?"

"If like, you should stay down beneath~"

"Yeah, I love them."

Holy shit. Kaji was short-circuiting like an idiot. Normally, the news that someone listens to the same music as he does is nothing amazing. But finding out the pretty girl at his part-time job did? It had him feeling some type of way.

Safe to say, you caught his attention. Hook line and sinker. He removed the headphones from his ears completely, setting them slowly around his neck—telling you that he was ready to listen whatever else you had to say.

"That's cool," he stammered out.

For a long while, the only sound between the two of you were the sounds of the records being shuffled on the shelf. The tension was more palpable than ever.

"There's this music festival on Friday evening," you said. In all honesty, you wanted to continue the topic of music and that seemed relevant at the moment, but it was too late once you realized the implication of it.

He cranes his head to look at you, wanting to make sure he wasn't reading into it too much. But it was accidental and he did read into it too much. "Rock music?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Who's playing?"

You decided to double down on it. "Let's go together and see."

The slight shift in his expression was a dead giveaway that your words had an effect on him. "Eh... uh... like as co-workers?"

"Ouch, not even friends? Besides, who goes to events like that as co-workers?"

"So... what? Friends?"

Jeez. You sigh. "If I called it a date, would you mind? And no, not a friendly date."

What date isn't friendly—he thought. Hearing the word d-a-t-e, there was no way he'd misinterpret that. He was hoping your invitation was for something more than friends anyway.

"Sure, it's a date then."

o-sachi © 2024 pls do not translate/copy/reupload my work on other platforms.

[kotaka-kun]

a (relatively short) Matt/Foggy fic rec list

@goneatlas this one's for u :-)

I have over 90 daredevil fics bookmarked at the moment, so this is by no means an exhaustive list of my favorite fics -- these are just a handful of the ones that just live rent free in my head, five plus years out from my dd/mattfoggy hyperfixation.

The Constellation of Touch by what_alchemy

19,272 words | rated E

Months after Fisk is put away, nothing's right between the partners at Nelson and Murdock. But Christmas is here, and Matt is still expected at the Nelson house.

I don't know how many times I've reread this fic over the years. It's practically canon to me at this point. The way Matt explains his senses to Foggy, and how deeply Foggy comes to understand why Matt does what he does... I love the writing and the characterization and literally everything about it. This fic truly changed my brain chemistry.

Rumble My Bones by what_alchemy

9,342 words | rated E

“Guess we’re still learning stuff about each other, huh?”

From queer gender-swapped Foggy, to the misunderstandings trope, I love everything about this fic. This fic is another one that I love the language of (I think I need to go back and read more of what_alchemy's fics bc hot damn), to the point where I think of this fic every time I see the moon in the daytime.

Pardon Me While I Burst Into Flames by poisonivory

9,627 words | rated E

He moves his mouth a few times, soundlessly - a sure sign that he's working out what to say and doesn't think Foggy will like it. "I, uh, I...remember how I told you I was a demon?" "That's pretty memorable," Foggy says, because, well. "I…may have neglected to tell you what kind of demon I am," Matt says. There are different kinds of demons? Matt's expression is nothing shy of abject terror, so Foggy makes a heroic effort and keeps his voice very calm. "What kind of demon are you, Matt?" Matt gulps audibly. "An incubus."

I really liked how this fic directly incorporated Matt being an incubus to his being Daredevil. Also the fact that this is in fact the kind of healing factor that Matthew Michael Murdock needs if he's going to be getting into fights with ninjas and shit.

Under the Hide of Me by poisonivory

25,213 words | rated E

When a case turns dangerous, Matt appoints himself Foggy's personal bodyguard. Foggy's not complaining - but he would like to know why Daredevil won't stop flirting with him. Not that he's complaining about that, either.

The idea of Matt compartmentalizing his interactions with Foggy when he's in the mask vs out of it is such a fun concept, and this fic is probably my favorite iteration of that. Because Matt having to be so careful about everything he does when he's "just Matt" would make him that much bolder as Daredevil, doing things he normally wouldn't do, couldn't do.

We Just Lost the Beat by knight_tracer, lady_ragnell

19,334 words | rated T

Matt hears a lot in the city at night, sirens and crime--and the late-night radio show Foggy With a Chance, which sometimes runs a Daredevil Watch if he's been particularly active, but which mostly plays music. He probably shouldn't call in and request a song, but he does it anyway.

I love AUs where Matt and Foggy didn't meet in school, but find their way to each other anyway, and the thought of Foggy still being a source of comfort and safety for Matt makes me so so soft... Not to mention the secret identities, the being neighbors, the m u s i c god I love this fic

and alas,,, I have too many favorites written by returnsandreturns so I picked my top 3 for now

The Very Special Adventures of Mikey Murcock

30,924 words | rated E (mostly)

Once upon a time, in that fuzzy space between undergrad and interning and Landman and Zack - Matt Murdock became a porn star. These are his stories.

Okay, so this one is technically not just a fic, and is in fact a series, but it's such a fun premise and I think about it often.

i'll treat you right (be mine tonight)

2,916 words | rated E

This guy’s too pretty to be picking Foggy up. If he didn’t need the money, Foggy wouldn’t take the risk that he’s a Ted Bundy type and he might end up chopped into pieces before the night’s over. Making rent this month might be worth the chance of his legacy being unnamed brutally murdered prostitute.

I know there are a good number of prostitute!Foggy fics, I just like this one a lot. It's cute and fun and Matt's a little older too, which is always fun.

waited my whole life for just one thing

4,912 words | rated E

“Oh my god,” Foggy says, faintly. “Matt, how old are you?” “Eighteen,” Matt says. “How old are you?” Eighteen. The third thought that Foggy had after an apparently teenage Matt was sitting in normal Matt’s apartment, after two emphatic what the fucks, was how he didn’t realize that Matt looked like a ridiculously hot twink at that age when he didn’t have all the scars and scruffy facial hair and jacked muscles to compare it to. There’s something about that mouth when Matt’s clean-shaven that’s just—obscene. He’s going straight to hell.

What can I say, I'm a sucker for time travel fics and age difference ships and crackfic and this is all three.

k bye