yohanseyebrowmole

[yohanseyebrowmole]

"not all men" you're right, clark kent would never do this

[yohanseyebrowmole]

THOSE WERE SUPPOSED TO BE INSIDE WORDS PLEASE I GIGGLED THATS SO REAL💀😭

𖤓 ｡⋆˙⟡ SWEET AS YOU ARE

── . ✦ ♯ 𓊆 SUMMARY 𓊇 in which clark returns your dish. and sees you flustered, flour-covered, and barefoot. 1.1k

possible trigger warnings .ᐟ lowercase intended!!!! ◞ fem!reader ◞ small injury ( burn )

the peach stand 𖤓 dividers @bbyg4rlhelps + @honeyluvsw

the jam boils over right as someone knocks.

“jiminy crickets!” you yell, jumping backwards like the pot bit you—which it kind of did. your elbow knocks the spoon off the stove, which clatters just out of reach. hot, syrupy peach goo leaps up and lands on the tender inside of your palm, and you hiss, jerking it back, flapping your hand like it might help.

the cat—whose name is goose and who is covered in sticky jam and leaving paw prints all over your counter—hisses and bolts under the table. you’re already sweating, hair stuck to your neck, sundress glued to the small of your back with homemade peach-flavored misery.

the knock knock comes again. a little sharper.

“just a second!” you call, slipping a little as you whirl toward the screen door. “gosh bless—okay—sorry, goose—”

you wrench it open with your good hand, and the words die in your throat.

clark kent stands on your porch, framed by sun and cicada buzz, holding your empty casserole dish like he’s afraid he might break it. his shirt is the color of faded denim, sleeves rolled past his elbows, and his hair curls just a little behind his ears.

his glasses are fogged slightly from the humidity, and his boots are muddy like he’s walked across half the damn county to bring this thing back.

he blinks.

you blink.

you are covered in jam. your cheek has a smear of peach across it. your hand is throbbing. your apron is doing nothing to protect your dress, and your bra strap has completely given up, sliding halfway down your arm like a limp noodle.

“hi?” you say, your voice hitting a note that could charitably be called strained soprano.

“hey,” he says softly. “bad time?”

you do a quick scan of your kitchen through the open door. steam. chaos. jam dripping on to the hardwood of your kitchen floor. a jar cracked in the sink. goose yowling from under the pantry like he’s being exorcised.

“nope!” you lie, too quickly. “not at all. i was just . . . testing the structural integrity of my stovetop. with boiling fruit.”

clark’s mouth twitches. his eyes—so intensely gentle, you feel them in your knees—flick down to the casserole dish.

“i wanted to bring this back before i forgot. my mom said thank you again for the casserole. she really liked it.”

“well, you tell her she’s welcome. anytime. she can keep the dish if she wants—hell, you can keep the dish—”

“figured i’d bring it back while it still had a bottom,” he teases, holding it up. “it smells good in there.”

“it smells like disaster,” you mutter.

he tilts his head, squinting past your shoulder.

“peach jam?”

“attempted peach jam,” you say. “it’s mostly peach tar now. i might’ve summoned something. jury’s still out.” clark smiles again, but it’s soft. not just amused—genuinely soft, like something fragile in him is slowly turning toward the sun.

“want me to set this down in the kitchen?”

you hesitate. he’s tall. and handsome. and dressed like a norman rockwell painting of your very specific type. and your kitchen looks like someone deep-fried a beehive.

“i don’t want you to, uh, slip. there is jam . . . everywhere courtesy of goose.”

“i am sure, i’ve survived worse,” he says.

you don’t know why that sends a pang through your chest. but it does. “sure,” you murmur. “yeah. come on in. just ignore the carnage. and the cat. and—if you can manage it—me.”

he ducks slightly to step through the doorway. the room shrinks. he smells like cedar and summer laundry. he’s careful where he steps, eyeing the splattered floor, then sets the dish carefully on the only clean spot on the counter.

he turns—and sees your hand. your very red, slightly-blistering palm. “what happened?”

“what? oh. that’s nothing. it’s just—” you hold it up. “a casual kiss from the ninth circle of jam hell.”

he frowns. “do you have a first aid kit?”

“i think so? somewhere? possibly under the cat. maybe in the same plane of existence as my dignity.” he’s already moving. and when he finds the kit—of course he finds the kit—he gestures to the sink.

“rinse it. cold water.”

you obey. not because you’re not capable of handling a burn on your own, but because when clark kent tells you gently to do something in that soft midwestern voice, it’s almost impossible to disobey.

you stand side by side at the sink. his shoulder barely brushes yours. you can feel the heat radiating from him—not just body heat. something else. something under the skin.

“you should be more careful,” he murmurs.

“that stuff’s hotter than it looks.”

“so are you,” you say, too quickly.

you freeze. he does too. “oh my god,” you breathe. “that was meant to be inside words.”

he doesn’t speak. then—he laughs. not just a chuckle. not just a polite smile. he laughs, head tilted back, hand braced on the counter like the force of it surprises even him. his whole face crinkles with it, his voice warm and rich and utterly real.

you stare, stunned.

“that is . . . the first time i’ve heard you laugh,” you whisper.

clark sobers a little. meets your eyes. there’s something in his face—some worn, weathered tenderness. like he wants to say more. like he’s holding something fragile and aching behind his ribs and doesn’t know how to let it go.

“it’s been a while,” he says simply.

and that’s enough.

you reach for the paper towels. he takes them from you, drying your palm gently. his touch is feather-light, but his hands are large and firm, and your heart won’t stop pounding. he wraps the bandage with careful fingers, his brows drawn in focus.

“all patched up,” he says softly.

you stare up at him. his eyes are the color of storm-washed sky. and he’s looking at you like you matter. like this kitchen—with its chaos and cat and jam stains—is the most peaceful place in the world.

“you want a jar?” you ask, breathless.

“of jam?”

“of my dignity at this point, probably.”

he laughs again. quieter this time. but still just as real. “jam’s good,” he says. you hand him the warmest jar on the counter, still steaming slightly. your fingers brush.

the silence crackles.

he looks at you again before leaving. you think he might say something else—but he just nods, gentle, and backs out through the screen door.

and when it clicks shut behind him, you sag against the stove, holding your wrapped wrist to your chest, eyes wide, heart racing.

© jacksabbotts

[yohanseyebrowmole]

Couldn't make it any harder - j.todd x fem!reader

posted august 27th, 6:40 pm

my sweet jason <3

sns masterlist

wc: 1.0k

Oh, what I'd give to be Meeting you as the glass-half-full version of me

I was easier than I am now. Would've folded, but I can't now

Jason knew there were parts of him that couldn’t come back, lazarus pit or not. Parts that were easier to look at, easier to love. He would’ve given anything to let you have that version of him, the version that liked being touched when it was someone he loved instead of flinching away like a battered animal. The version who would be able to sit and talk for more than 15 minutes at a time about mundane topics.

The version who did those things because he had to, not because he always wanted to. The version that had hope.

Heard they say this emotion should be kind

But I (I) couldn't make it

Any harder to love me

These things were no longer there, though, and to be quite frank you didn’t really know them to begin with. You hadn’t cared, you wanted him this way. Jason Todd as he lived and breathed. 

This time around, not the last. 

But Jason still couldn’t help but get the feeling in the pit of his stomach, anxiety from making things too difficult. You could be so good to him, even on his bad days where he wouldn’t say more than two words and stared at the wall. You still sat and stared with him, having a one way conversation about what color you should paint it. 

Your arms are reachin'

And your eager heart is throbbin'

I know (know) you're frustrated

'Cause I will not let you touch me

Those days were the hardest, you wouldn’t catch on until Jason had physically distanced himself almost completely from you. Whether it be across the room or across the city. You respected these days. What else could you do but try to understand and make him comfortable? Jason needed a safe space and you provided it. It made him sick.

You say you can take it

But you don't know how hard I can make it

“Here, honey, I made you somethin’ you don’t have to eat it.” You set the plate on the coffee table in front of your boyfriend, his eyes trailing slow up your figure from his slumped position. A small smile, if you could call it that, was all he could offer in return.

You had the patience of a saint, and Jason couldn’t even muster up a thank you?

You smiled back, bringing your shoulders up to your ears in gratitude for the interaction before walking back to the kitchen to clean up the small mess you had made. 

“Doll?” You stopped, tossing the sponge into the sink before turning to look at him, surprised he was up so quick, or talking so soon. “Yeah? You need me?”

Jason swore he could feel his heart aching 

You tilted your head as he silently walked toward you and pulled you into a soft hug, just hoping you could feel even a portion of his love from it. 

You hummed, rubbing his back and shoulders, taking full advantage of the moment to really take in the way he felt and smelled and he let you, sighing into your shoulder.

Fuckboys you'll never meet

Well, you can thank them for why I'm

So goddamn reactionary

Jason hadn’t always had a lot of physical affection growing up, Bruce wasn’t much of a hugger, not that Jason could blame him. He never tried to psychoanalyse how that could’ve affected him either. 

But he knew that right now, when he held you on his own accord, he felt comforted. 

Jason felt comforted when you crawled into his arms at night or when you asked before clinging to him for several hours of the day because sometimes the answer is no, or how you always make sure he knows when you’re about to reach out so his body doesn’t react before his brain could, and he felt comforted when you accepted him at his worst moments. 

Holding him whether he’s freshly showered or covered in another man’s blood. You have never declined him the privilege. So now, when you had been doting on him and taking care of him all day, despite not saying a word in response or taking out the trash like he swore he would, because part of him craves the normalcy of promising chores, the least he could was kiss your forehead and give you a damn good hug.

And for the graveyard in my stomach

Filled with pivotal formative comments

Meanwhile, you're just tryin' to tell me I look nice (ooh)

“Hey, don’t you look handsome.” You hummed, watching as Jason walked through the front door before looking back at your kindle. “Is that a new jacket?” 

Jason took a second to respond, sitting next to your curled up figure on the couch and using the coffee table as a foot rest to untie his boots. He was done before you could reprimand him for the action, already leaning back into the couch and resting a big hand on your knee when you opened your mouth to speak. 

Jason beat you to it, “Yeah, it was a gift.” Taken straight out of Black Mask’s closet.

Jason sighed, tilting his head to the side to look at you before nudging your knees and slotting himself between them and the couch cushion. You laughed at the soft action, running your fingers through his hair before asking,

”Can I tell you about my book, handsome?”

But I couldn't make it

Any harder to love me

Your arms are reachin'

Jason scoffed, laughing softly. “Yeah, doll, tell me about it.” 

You held back the giddy squeal from his answer, positioning yourself better. 

Jason noticed how you switched between using his hair and the pop socket on your kindle to keep your hands busy, the glint in your eyes when talking about a certain character and the upward curve in your lips whenever his fingers would run up and down your thigh before finding your knee again.

How excited you were to share the book you loved with the man you loved.

”What?” You giggled, almost bashful as Jason smiled at you, 

how excited he was to be that man.

Oh, one day, believe me

You'll want someone that makes it easy

[yohanseyebrowmole]

my heart races for you, doc. ( johnny storm )

reed richards brings in an old family friend to help make sense of their new powers. johnny storm can deny that he's been trying extra hard for you to look his way all he likes. brushing his hand against yours at dinner, bumping into you outside your opposite rooms- purely accidental. but when you've got him hooked to a monitor and his heart beats double the usual, he can't hide what he feels anymore.

human torch! johnny storm x scientist fem! reader (no use of yn, johnny calls you doc)

themes: fluff, strangers to lovers, swearing, johnny being a golden retriever, flirting, YEARNING, pining (no spoilers!)

masterlist.

susan storm has never really been nervous.

she commands a different kind of respect, the air sort of shifts its way around her and she doesn't need a force field to take control. she just does- and its that unintentional aura that attracted her husband to her at the very beginning. so why was she staring at your door so damn intently.

"who's the new neighbour," johnny sneaks up behind her and she lets out a startled gasp, shooting her brother a death glare of annoyance as her hand comes to rest on her chest patting it gently, counting her heartbeats to calm her down.

"how many times have i told you not to do that," she daggers towards him and he kisses her cheek loudly, grinning as she wipes it straight off of her cheek.

"who's the new neighbour," ben joins them in an instant and johnny scoffs at the repetition, an obvious retort ready to rile him up before sue places a hand in the air in warning. he bites back his laughter instead, planning on using his ragebait later with the stony look ben sends him and swings on his feet.

"but seriously," johnny asks, "new neighbour?" and sue nods slowly.

"a family friend of reed's, she's here to help us," she explains slowly.

"help us?" he furrows his brows, "so why are you looking at the door like it's going to eat you up sis," and she elbows him, causing him to stumble back a few feet wincing in pain.

"because," she sternly reprimands, "she is important to reed, so she is important to us." and johnny lights up at the pronoun use; its simple really, johnny loves space, johnny loves women. and a slow grin spreads all over his face.

"so how come we've never heard of this hottie before," he leans his arm against your door frame as he faces his sister and friend, "reeds never mentioned a family friend?" he quizzes, suddenly curious.

"you've not even seen her-" johnny cuts ben off with a raise of his brows immediately, "um, all women are hot, next question," and when sue shoots his a warning glance

"she's reed's family! no one is to mess with her," the warning is deathly and johnny nods in submission but he can't help but feel the buzz of excitement sift through his veins, roar amongst his blood and send him stumbling backwards as your door opens.

he recovers quickly, dusting his hands off in nonchalance and leans back into the frame effortlessly. he opens his mouth to speak, but for the first time in his entire life johnny storm is stumped, stunned to the core where the words are there but they never come.

not when you're standing milimetres infront of him, sleep wrinkled across your features and the soft curves of your eyes as you slowly blink at the three gathered at your door. you stretch, and johnny observes how feline your movements seem, tensing as you try and release a knot in your shoulder blades before straightening slightly.

"hi," sue gathers herself quickly, shooting you an apologetic look as she steps forward, she wraps you into a hug and its stiff- like she isn't sure this is appropriate but any family of reed's is a family of hers and she's desperate to make a good impression on you.

"hello?" it comes out as a question, lower pitched rumbled from the sheets and its the first time johnny hears your voice. he's sure in that moment he's flown through different universes and has landed in the next life, at the gates of heaven where nothing but blinding light and you engulf him. his sister pulls back after you awkwardly pat her back and johnny clicks his knuckles, a grin painted on his face as he steps forward,

"my turn-" and he's instantly dragged back by his sister.

"sorry about him," she apologises, "he isn't usually this-"

"handsome? charming? incredibly sexy?" he supplies and sue shoves him out of your peripheral.

"i was going to say annoying," she rolls her eyes, "but i don't think that's true that's johnny and he's always annoying, and i'm-"

"sue," you finish politely, "reed has mentioned much about you," and you send her a soft tired smile, she returns it bigger and larger and you're immediately hit with all the reasons why reed fell in love with her; she's unreal.

she looks like she wants to say more, apologise for disturbing you; she just wanted to make a good first impression before they all met you properly at sunday dinner but as usual, her brother and best friend had found a way to ambush her plans. she looks over at you but you're looking intently at ben, a sense of hesitation mixed with fondness laced in those kind eyes and she sees your hand is outstretched to him.

"hi," your voice is quieter and you offer it to him, ben hides his hand behind his back. the heavy weight a stark comparison to the soft skin you're holding out and he's worried he'll hurt you. yet, you stand, unwavering and patient with the same hand extended. its moments before he lifts his own to meet yours and its hard, rough and he has half a mind to pull back but you're gripping it firmly in reassurance. "hi," he returns back with a smile and you nod.

"it's just like you're saving best for last huh," and the flash of blonde hair makes an intimate appearance in your space again. you shoot him a look of inquisition, concocted with curiosity and then hold out your hand to him as well.

johnny storm is smug as he takes in your welcome, his hand unbelievably warm against yours, he hopes you can feel the heat he purposefully sends across the sensation as it tickles your skin. and when he wraps his in yours, a perfect fit, he brings the interlock to his lips, pressing a feather like touch to your knuckles. the kiss is barely there, but it is and it sends a pool of warmth straight to your head. you feel the heat crumble down to your neck and burn a pink into your ears as you flush under his attention.

"oh boy," ben mumbles and johnny shoots you a lazy flirtatious wink and in your sleep induced haze you just stand there, unsure of what to do. the flash of ocean blue twinkles with mischief and a promise of light-hearted fun, and it wakens you a fraction more.

"and on that note," sue interrupts the stumbling of your heartbeat as it knocks against your spine, "we shall leave you, dinner in a few hours! please join us!" and she drags her brother away in an instant, but his eyes never leave yours and you know now why reed referred to him as the human torch:

johnny storm has stolen your heart and set it alight.

. . .

johnny storm has it all set up meticulously, his seat is positioned right next to yours for dinner after tirelessly arguing and ignoring the warning looks his sister sends his way. he sets them closer than the chairs on the opposite side so when you are to sit, all he has to do is lean a little and you're at his side. its a perfect plan, one he takes with great pride as he indulges with reed into a very light interrogation on you to give him some talking points for the evening.

he learns many things, for one you have a phd in bio engineering, reed was flush with praise for your intellect, groundbreaking research and the years you spent on the opposite side of the world, taking part in research studied in london. he also learns that you're a family friend of reed's by some distant cousin relationship- though the love for science and funerals of the richards bloodline have brought you together closer than ever.

he also learns that you can play the piano, you're introverted, you love the ocean and reed had promised to take you to a beach sometime soon. you don't have much family other than reed and you're favourite food is anything roasted. which is perfect given sunday's dinner is a roasted chicken with stuffed potatoes and vegetables with a side of lightly spiced rice and ben's killer cheese and potato pie.

johnny learns a few things about himself that night too. how something in him dangerously melts as he watches you murmur a thanks of appreciation to ben, at the soft look of adoration in your eyes when you watch sue and reed. how he gets weirdly protective when you don't speak unless spoken to but each and every breath that leaves your pretty lips snags his attention, causing him to silence the little conversations between his family so they can all hear what you have to say.

he finds himself wanting to talk more around- more than usual. he asks about your time in london, which you smile like it's a distant memory, he asks about your current research and how you're going to be monitoring them for your study- and johnny learns that its sly what he's doing, but when waits for you to reach over for the serving spoon, he does it too at a lightning speed.

in a milisecond, your hands touch again and johnny doesn't need to flame on to feel the heat. he does it on purpose to watch that cute blush paint your cheeks as you shrink a little inwards to yourself. he shoots you a wide grin as he pours your plate for you, murmuring a gentle "eat up" into your hair when he leans back- the breath tickling your skin in ways you cannot focus on completely.

and when he watches you and reed laugh and joke, he has no problem settling into the back, blurring into the furniture- not when he gets to watch you all night long.

. . .

he makes his first official attack when he plans to leave his room at the same time as you for breakfast, bumping into you slightly and definitely not by accident.

an apology slips from your lips and he's also blessed with a giggle as you try and dodge him, work around him to get out of his way but his movements mimic yours in a lighthearted dance of some sorts. he takes advantage, slipping his hands on your waist and positioning you in tje right direction. johnny's careful to make his movements fleeting, not lingering as long as he'd like in case you'd catch onto his ruse and sends you a soft smile before gesturing for you to leave first.

he follows you to the kitchen where he tries to make small conversation, "how'd you sleep?" he asks, hopeful.

"really well, thank you," your eyes fold into a gorgeous smile and he feels his heart race, "probably the best i have in years,"

"oh wow," he grins, "such a stellar rating, you got enough energy to get started for today then?" and you nod in excitement and he feels ten years just lift off his body, "what's the agenda for today?"

"first, i've got to just run some tests, try and get an idea of what's your new normal so it'll just be stuff like heart rate, resting energy, sleep patterns, try and focus a little more on your cellular reactions and for each of you it'll be different but we have to do start small with comparisons first so a lot of testing i guess?" you raise your eyebrows and it's the most he's heard you speak at once. he doesn't understand anything you've said, not because he doesn't understand science- its because you're just so close to him. its a sliver of milimetres if he brushes by your skin one more time, he could reach out for your hands. but he doesn't, instead he nods eagerly as he tries not to focus on how it would feel if he could just press his lips to yours.

johnny storm has never been one to wait; he's bounced from woman to woman, he's never so much as had a relationship but there's something so magnetic about you that has johnny reducing his speed, sticking to a singular lane and waiting his whole life you if he'll have to. just your smile can instill that much patience in him.

"sleep patterns," he murmurs to himself but you catch it nonetheless and send a blinding smile of pure sunshine his way, "cool," he almost stutters, his heart most definitely skipping a few beats, he wonders if you'll ever know how he sleeps fine at night, dreams of you swirling in his mind lulling him to peaceful rest.

he sits again close next to you at breakfast, trying to remember to take his eyes off of you every now and then and eat his own food. he ignores the laughter ben sends him and the hidden smiles sue keeps locked away and just chews. you must've not realised it, but you've reached for his cup instead of your own, sipping the orange juice inches away from where his mouth had been before. it's an honest mistake but johnny leans back in his chair with a smirk, that could've been a kiss. his brain sends a jolt of realisation through his body and the smirk slows into a smile.

oh god, he thinks. he's in fucking deep.

. . .

he finally gets caught.

and he didn't ever think, he'd be so literally caught too.

you have him hooked up to a monitor, just recording usual observations when you look up from your notes for a single second, send him a reassuring smile before his heart combusts and your jaw drops slack.

"oh my god," you whisper, eyebrows narrowing in confusion as you stare up at the monitor in awe.

"gotta say," he laughs awkwardly, "you're scaring me a little doc, what's going on?"

"johnny you are four times the average pulse rate, jesus," you gasp. you look at the machine in disbelief, then back st him, then at the machine and he bites back a laugh.

"doc, i am an overachiever," he excuses and leans a little bit more into the chair, relaxing as he relishes in the attention as you fuss over him. this is easy, he thinks, he doesn't even have to try to get your attention today.

and when the back of your hand comes to press against his forehead, the monitor beeps even more obnoxiously and at the contact johnny panicks- he can't have you know already how he feels for you, he's moving a little too quick and the last thing he wants to do is come on strong and scare you off. he tries breath work, one in and two out, he thinks of happy thoughts- calm thoughts- thoughts of you when he catches you half asleep and head to the kitchen for some water; a lazy cute slumbering mess. but with your palm touching him, fuck, he can't control it.

"johnny," you breathe, and he closes his eyes at the sound of his name; oh it feels like heaven and he imagines how it would sound under him in the middle of the night, how it would sound when he finally gets the chance to kiss you, how it'll sound fifty years from now when he lives forever at your side, "johnny you're on fire!" you panic but his eyes are closed into a dream of bliss- dreams of you.

"thanks, doll," he lazily smirks and you bite your lip in panic.

"that wasn't a compliment!" you rush, "you're actually on fire!" and he opens his eyes, sees the concern swim in yours and focuses real hard and deep. you've removed your hands from him at the first signs of scorching and without the closeness, it doesn't take johnny long to return to his resting state.

"fuck," he mumbles at the loss of control and you murmur in agreement, breathless at the sudden escalation. you scribble down a few notes before removing the equipment from him. it's a second where your fingers overlap and the obnoxious beeping starts all over.

he watches you pause in thought, remove your hand and record the slower rate, then watches you place your hand back ontop of his- covering a little more than the accidental touch, a lot more purposeful and the instant racing starts again.

"oh," you whisper softly and johnny tries to be light-hearted about this and laugh offhandedly, but when the embarrassment creeps in at having his crush bared open for you to see and his ears tinge a rosy pink, there's nothing casual in the way he feels about you.

"what can i say doc?" he smiles nervously, "i guess the heart races just for you," and you don't respond immediately, sort of soaking up the intensity of the atmosphere but johnny can spot the small grin sporting your lips and returns it a million times more.

"i think," he tries to get up slowly and you help him steady on your feet, "it's time to get something to eat, you gonna join me doc?" and you do.

you follow him into lazy mornings wrapped up in each other, dinner for two and days of where johnny storm makes you feel like the most important person in his life. one things for sure, those cosmic rays may have altered his dna, but he's sure that they've only just made more room in his heart, stretched out in the shape of you.

riya saying hi: hi !!! (very much longer today i apologise omg) but god i love a little flirty but patient johnny x introverted reader theres something so cute about yearning and opposites attracting, hope you guys enjoy this one- i really had fun with this! thanks a bunch love u 🥺💘

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated! 💘

[yohanseyebrowmole]

No cause I know wally would be HEARTBROKEN (even as a kid) to know that batmom is pregnant

WHY DID YOUR DAD DO THAT? — ( Bruce Wayne! )

summary | League members already know the Wayne family is getting bigger soon, but your oldest son's friends are about to find out.

pairing | Bruce wayne x Wife! reader ; (platonic) Dick grayson x batmom ; (platonic) Wally West x batmom

notes | forgetting that this is very short, I was wondering if you would be interested in knowing a little about Batmom's past and her relationship with Oliver or something like that, what would you like to know?

hot wife serie / thought

The Batcave was silent despite the visitors, the only thing that could be heard was Dick typing on the mainframe and the sound of candy wrappers coming from somewhere behind him.

"Are you eating in the Batcave again?" Dick asked, without taking his eyes off the screen.

"Uh... technically," Wally replied, appearing at her side with a half-eaten chocolate bar, "Alfred gave it to me."

He paused dramatically and added, “Well… he saw me grab it and didn’t say anything, which is pretty much the same thing.”

Roy, sitting on a supply crate, twirled an arrow in his hand. "What's up with Bruce? He's been less bat-like and more human like lately."

"Absolutely," Wally agreed. "I saw him smiling. He absolutely hated me."

Dick shrugged. "I don't know, he's in a good mood."

"And your mom looks different too," Wally continued. "More... radiant. I don't know how to explain that."

"That's true, she's different," Roy commented, following Wally. "I mean, she's pretty as usual, but I don't know."

"Yeah yeah, that's not what I mean, Dick's mom is still hot" Wally commented lightly while eating another candy

Dick slowly turned his chair around to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “Really, Wally?”

"What? That's a compliment!" the speedster shrugged. "Besides, you know I mean it with respect."

"It's always with respect," Roy clarified, smiling slightly.

Wally was about to defend himself, but he suddenly froze, frowning as if something had clicked in his head. “Wait a second… did your mom dye her hair?”

"What? Of course not, Wally," Dick replied, turning slightly in his chair to look at him.

"So... why does she look different?" the red-haired speedster insisted, snapping his fingers. "I don't know, there's something..."

"I told you he looked different," Roy added, leaning his elbow on the supply crate. "But it's not the hair, it's something else."

“Exactly!” Wally said, pointing at it. “It's like… stunning”

Dick blinked. “stunning?”

"Yeah, like he's happy about something really big… "Wally thought for a second "! I know! Bruce planned a couple's vacation away from you."

Dick looked at him with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. "Of course, because all Bruce and my mom ever dream of is running away from me."

"Hey, don't rule it out," Wally replied with a mischievous grin. "Imagine them on a tropical beach, sipping cocktails under umbrellas..."

"And your mom in a thight swimsuit," Roy added with a laugh. "What a good life... Oliver missed a big catch."

Dick gave a dry laugh. "Stop creating situations with my mom in your minds, it's disgusting..."

"Okay, okay," Wally said, raising his hands. "No swimsuits, I promise."

"But something's up," Roy insisted, leaning against the box. "It doesn't matter what, but let him continue, it feels good."

Dick raised an eyebrow. “Different” doesn’t automatically mean something suspicious.”

"Of course!" Wally replied, turning on his heel. "Bruce's more relaxed, your mom's more... stunning, happy... And Alfred's walking around with that smile."

And as if they were calling him, Alfred entered the cave followed by Bruce.

"What did you do? Seriously, tell us," Wally asked immediately, narrowing his eyes as if he were about to uncover a plot.

Alfred raised an eyebrow, impeccable as ever. “The truth about what, Mr. West?”

"No, seriously," Roy chimed in. "Why do they seem…?" He gestured with his hands, searching for the word. "Happy?"

Bruce walked past, completely ignoring the interrogation, and turned to the Batcomputer. "We don't have time for nonsense. There's work to be done."

"Aha," Wally muttered, crossing his arms. "Just what someone hiding a vacation in the Maldives would say."

Dick covered his face with his hand. “Maybe everyone just slept well for once,” Dick muttered, exasperated.

The cave door opened with a soft metallic creak. The echo of firm footsteps spread throughout the room, gradually fading away the voices.

"What are my boys up to today?" you asked casually as you walked down the last staircase, ignoring the immediate tension that filled the air.

"Nothing..." Roy answered, too quickly.

Wally, on the other hand, smiled and ran over to you, like he always did since he was a kid. “Look who’s coming!” He greeted you with a quick hug before stepping back and looking you up and down. “Wait…”

His brow furrowed. Everyone stood still. “Why your…” He narrowed his eyes, then took a step forward as if he was seeing something the others weren’t. “Did you…?”

It went without saying. Her eyes widened as if she'd just witnessed the most tragic ending to a movie. "It can't be!" she finally blurted out, clutching her head. "Are you... pregnant?"

The silence that followed was broken only by Roy, who smiled calmly. "Congrats, Mrs. Wayne!"

Wally, on the other hand, took a step back, clutching his chest as if he'd been stabbed. "No... no way. I thought... I thought I was your favorite boy."

Dick looked at him in disbelief at his words, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. "Wally, really?"

—Wally… —you tried to say, but he was already looking at Bruce as if the bat had destroyed his world.

"You? YOU!?" he pointed at him dramatically. "I can't believe this, absolute betrayal." She turned to look at Dick. "Why did your dad do that?!"

Roy was holding back his laughter, and Dick was already covering his face to hide the fact that he was laughing too.

Bruce just put his arm around your waist and said calmly, "He'll get over it."

"I won't!" Wally replied from the back, arms crossed and looking like a child throwing a tantrum.

[yohanseyebrowmole]

The Tumblr Experience

[yohanseyebrowmole]

[yohanseyebrowmole]

they should invent a 2025 where good things happen

[yohanseyebrowmole]

𐔌 ⋮ “Mr. Fix-it-all”

''Like what you see angel?'' ''You know what else i would like to see? The shower not leaking'' ''Damn,bossy are we?''

“Jasooonnn!”

You sang his name as you stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around your hair, still warm from the shower.

Jason was sprawled across the couch like a cat, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other dangling off the side, remote still in hand. He cracked an eye open at the sound of your voice.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he mumbled, words thick with sleep.

“The shower’s leaking. Again.”

That got him to groan. He rubbed his face with both hands before sitting up, grumbling something low and incoherent.

“Again? I told you this place was wacked. We should’ve bought—”

“I know, I know.” You cut him off before he could go into another rant about Gotham landlords and the value of property investment. “But can you fix it? Pretty please?”

Jason gave you a suspicious look, head tilted. “I’m starting to think you just want me to get all sweaty and flex my abs while I do manual labor.”

You smirked. “You always do that.”

His lips twitched. “…Touché.”

Twenty minutes later, Jason was crouched in front of the shower, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, tool bag splayed open like a war zone. He’d already disconnected the shower head from the arm, muttering to himself like a grumpy old man as water dripped down onto the towel you’d laid out for him.

“Piece of crap…” he grumbled, fiddling with the washer. “Landlord probably hasn’t changed this since Nixon was president…”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching him with barely disguised amusement.

“You know,” you teased, “you look very attractive when you’re annoyed.”

“Good,” he muttered, twisting the wrench. “Because this thing’s pissing me off.”

You bit your lip to hide your grin. He was in full Jason mode — jaw set, hair falling into his face, muscles flexing as he worked. He’d never admit it, but you could tell he secretly enjoyed this kind of thing. Fixing. Repairing. Making something functional again with his hands. It was quiet, methodical. Nothing like the chaos of the nights he spent out there in the Red Hood helmet.

“Don’t think I don’t see you staring,” he said suddenly, not looking up.

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re ogling me.” He smirked faintly, tightening the connection. “Can’t blame you. I’d ogle me too.”

You tossed a hand towel at his head. “Shut up.”

Jason caught it one-handed, smug grin spreading across his face. “What? I’m just saying—”

“Uh huh. Mr. Fix-It-All, full of himself as always.”

He finally glanced up, eyes glinting. “Full of you, sweetheart. Big difference.”

Your face heated instantly. “Jason!”

“What?” He chuckled, leaning back on his heels. “You walked into that one.”

You sighed dramatically, but your lips tugged upward anyway.

“Is it fixed?” you asked, crossing the small bathroom to peek at his work.

Jason twisted the shower head back into place, gave it a tug, then stood. He turned the water on — no leaks.

“Fixed,” he said simply, wiping his hands on the towel.

“See?” You nudged him with your hip. “You are useful to have around.”

Jason gave a mock gasp. “Excuse me? I’m more than useful. I’m indispensable.” He leaned down until his mouth brushed your ear, voice low. “You’d fall apart without me, princess.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, shoving lightly at his chest. “Go put the tools away before you start bragging more.”

He kissed your temple as he passed you, muttering under his breath as he picked up the bag.

“Ungrateful. I fix her shower, save her from scalding water or hypothermia, and she calls me useful like I’m a Swiss army knife…”

You laughed, following him out of the bathroom. “You like it.”

Jason glanced over his shoulder, smirk tugging at his lips. “…Yeah. I do.”

🔖 𓂃⋆.˚:: @simpingmyassoff @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing , @amiratheangel , @virtaideen , @asterwriter221 , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore , @supahnohvaa , @vivian-555 , @piatosniathenie , @sonyboos, @tikitsune , @@honeydrzzldpeaches , (if you want to be added comment down below!!) A/N: hehe thank @gothamwing for the idea becasue for my comeback i was going to post angst KAJAJAJ

[yohanseyebrowmole]

what a cute smile hehehe

[yohanseyebrowmole]

how long do i have left with my brother ?

[yohanseyebrowmole]

Kidnaped and…kind of thriving

Word Count: 1.7k

Pairing: Damian Wayne x reader

Summary: When Talia al Ghul discovers that her son has a partner, she does what any loving, overbearing assassin mother would do—she kidnaps you.

You knew dating Damian Wayne would come with a few… complications. The Batfamily. The League of Assassins. The fact that he carried more knives than is physically possible for one person.

You wake up with cold stone under your cheek and an unmistakable headache pounding behind your eyes.

Which is… concerning.

Mostly because you went to bed in Gotham. In your own bed. In Damian’s hoodie. And this?

This isn’t your bed.

This is a marble floor.

You sit up too fast and instantly regret it. But even through the nausea, you take in your surroundings: ornate, ancient walls, tapestries older than most cities, a faint whiff of incense and iron.

This is some kind of League of Assassins stronghold. And if that wasn’t enough of a tip-off—

“She wakes,” comes a voice, cool and sharp as a blade.

Your stomach drops.

The shadows moved, and then she stepped into the glow. Elegant, poised, terrifying.

Talia al Ghul. Immaculate. Deadly. Green eyes like twin laser sights boring into your soul.

Damian’s mother, the resemblance was clear.

“You’ve been dating my son.”

Right. Straight to business.

You blink. “This seems like an extreme way to ask for my intentions.”

Talia raises a brow. “And yet you’re not crying.”

“Not yet, I still have time to pencil that in though, if you’d like.”

“Hm.” She circles you like a panther, examining you like a potential weapon or a bug under a microscope. “He didn’t mention you were brave.”

You stand up slowly, brushing off the dust. “Did he mention I don’t like being drugged and dragged halfway across the world?”

“No.” A thin smile, then a sadder one. “We don’t talk often.”

“…Cool. Cool cool cool. So this just another Tuesday for you?” You say, rather calmly.

She watched you with the faintest hint of amusement. “You’re not panicking.”

“I mean. I feel like panicking gives you the upper hand.” You shrugged, “Plus, totally not my first kidnapping.”

“You’re smart,” she said, leaning back. “Mouthy.”

You raised a brow. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You shouldn’t.” But the corners of her mouth twitched. “Let’s begin.”

“Begin what?”

She tilted her head. “The evaluation.”

“…Sorry?”

“The assessment,” she clarified, looking at you like you were slow.

“You’re evaluating me?”

Talia nodded once. “That is what I said.”

You gaped at her.

“I will not tolerate mediocrity.”

“Lady, I survived Thanksgiving with the Waynes. I’m already battle-hardened.”

“…You might actually be interesting,” she murmured.

You gave her a bland smile. “So glad I’m exceeding expectations.”

Damian Wayne is having the worst morning of his life.

You’re not answering your phone. Your location tracker is offline. Your building’s security footage shows a figure in black entering your apartment and disabling every camera in seconds.

“Where is she?!” Damian’s voice cracked like a whip across the Batcave, sharp with panic.

“Relax,” said Dick, holding up his hands. “She’s probably just—”

Damian pulls the last seconds of footage he has again.

Jason straightened. “Okay. Not great.”

“Who’d be stupid enough to kidnap your girlfriend?” Tim muttered. “Seriously. You’d think people would learn.”

Damian’s lips curled into a snarls he reviews the footage again.

He recognizes the silhouette.

Of course he does.

“Mother,” he growls under his breath, slamming his fist into the desk.

“You have guts,” Talia said, circling you like a lioness. “Most people don’t look me in the eye.”

You gave her a tight smile. “Most people haven’t dated your son.”

Talia paused. “And yet you still do.”

“Yeah. Crazy, right?”

“You know what he is,” she said quietly. “What he was trained to be. What he will become if he’s not careful.”

You nodded. “I do.”

“And still?”

“And still.”

She nods once, impressed. “I thought my spy was joking when he said you weren’t entirely useless.”

You raise a brow. “High praise.”

“Damian’s always been too sentimental. His heart is a weakness. He cannot afford attachments.”

You fold your arms. “And yet here we are.”

She watches you in silence for a long time. Then she stops in front of you, arms folded.

“What do you see in him?”

You blinked.

“What do I—what?”

“What. Do. You. See. In. Him.”

“…That’s your question?”

She arched a brow. “Answer it.”

You shrug. “He’s a lot. Arrogant, stubborn, overprotective.” You smile faintly. “And he’s loyal. Honest in a way no one expects. He tries so hard to be good, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

You took a breath. “I see someone who’s trying harder than anyone I’ve ever met. Who’s furious at the world but still gets up every day to protect it. Someone who’s never been shown how to love, but does it anyway—awkwardly, stubbornly, and fiercely.”

Talia stared.

“And he’s funny.” You smile, you could talk about him for hours. “When he wants to be. He pretends not to be, but he makes me laugh. And he listens. And I trust him. More than I’ve ever trusted anyone.”

You met her gaze. Didn’t flinch. “He’s still figuring things out. But he wants to do good, be good.”

“And you love him.”

“Yeah. I do.”

Silence. Long. Measured.

She studies you for a moment longer, then stands. “Walk with me.”

You follow her through the fortress. You expect dungeons. Traps. Hidden daggers.

You get all of that, but also… a garden.

It’s quiet, fragrant with night-blooming flowers. There’s a koi pond. It’s beautiful.

You sit on the edge of the stone bench. Talia watches you from the corner of her eye.

“Most people are terrified of me.”

“I am. Just not enough to let you see it. And for entirely different reasons then everyone else.”

That makes her laugh—an actual laugh, sharp and surprised.

“I see why he likes you.”

“You don’t hate me?”

That makes her laugh—an actual laugh, sharp and surprised.

“I see why he likes you.”

“You don’t hate me?” you ask again, not quite joking.

Talia tilts her head, eyes narrowing in thought. “I don’t know you well enough to hate you.”

“That’s… comforting.”

“But I don’t not like you.” She pauses. “Which, for me, is practically affection.”

You relax slightly. “Well. Thanks for that.”

“I doubted you,” she admits, brushing an invisible thread from her sleeve. “Still do, a little. But that’s habit, not certainty.”

You meet her gaze, steady. “I’d be more worried if you trusted me right away.”

She turns to you.

“If you ever hurt him—”

“I won’t.”

“—I will burn your city to the ground.”

“That seems fair.”

Talia tilts her head, considering you like you’re a rare artifact she’s not sure belongs in her collection.

After a long time of staring, she turns back to the pond and stares some more. Finally she speaks. “I trained him to be invincible,” she says, almost to herself. “He chose to be human.”

You glance at her. “You sound proud.”

She doesn’t respond for a moment.

“I am.”

Damian runs through the halls of the LOA’s homebase, fear in his veins. The League doesn’t take prisoners unless they’re valuable. And to Damian, you are irreplaceable.

By the time Damian found you — thirty-six hours since you’ve been taken, hair askew, cape torn, blood on his sleeve and hell in his eyes — you were sitting on a velvet couch, sipping tea and laughing at something Talia said about Ra’s al Ghul’s disastrous attempt at karaoke in 1987.

Damian froze in the doorway.

“You’re alive,” he said flatly.

You waved. “Hey, babe. I made a friend.”

He crossed the room in quick strides and cups your face, looking you over for anything even as small as a scrape.

“Beloved,” Damian breathes, face etched in panic.

“I’m fine!” you laugh. “Tea was nice.”

He ignores the comment. You barely have time to move before his arms are around you, pulling you in tight. Too tight. You feel his breath shudder.

“I thought—” he starts, then bites it back. “Did she hurt you?”

You shake your head. “Surprisingly? No. Just intense staring and very pointed questions.”

Damian takes a breath and stares at you a moment before he whirls to face his mother. “How dare you—”

“Relax,” Talia says mildly. “She passed.”

“She’s not a test—”

“She’s yours,” Talia interrupts. “Which means she matters to me.”

He falters. You touch his shoulder gently.

“I like her,” Talia says, and Damian freezes like someone hit pause on his brain.

“…You what.”

“Damian,” you cut in, watching him go through the five stages of grief. Skipping Acceptance and going straight to contemplating mind control. “it’s fine. Really. We bonded.”

“…You…bonded.”

“She’s funny when she’s not threatening.”

“She has spine. Wit. Taste.” Talia’s smile is a slow curve. “She reminds me of myself.”

Damian blinked like someone had replaced his entire universe with a sitcom.

“I am… leaving,” he announced.

Talia watches as your pulled away by your boyfriend. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”

——-

And that’s how your Tuesdays started changing.

Every other week, you meet Talia for lunch. Sometimes sushi. Sometimes rooftop garden tea. Once, she took you hawking in the mountains.

She teaches you knife techniques. You teach her how to use emojis properly.

She taught you pressure points. You taught her how to use TikTok.

She critiques your posture. You critique her people skills.

She’d ask about Damian. You’d tell her how he once got stuck in a vending machine trying to retrieve a rogue Batarang.

She laughed. Real laughter. The kind that made waiters pause.

It was nice. Weird. But nice.

You’ve found a rhythm. It’s strange. It’s unexpected.

But every other Tuesday, you and your boyfriend’s assassin mother get lunch.

And somehow, that’s not even the weirdest part of your life.

[yohanseyebrowmole]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦

Your washing machine breaks, and Clark Kent—perfect, helpful, devastatingly kind Clark Kent—immediately offers his. The same Clark you've been pathetically avoiding because being around him hurts too much when you're this gone for him. But it's late, it's raining, and he's being so characteristically sweet about it that you can't say no. What could go wrong?

Your washing machine is dead. Not 'making a funny noise' dead, but utterly, stone-cold silent. You’d pressed the power button three times, a desperate little prayer on your lips, before accepting your fate. A mountain of laundry sat mockingly in its basket.

You’re staring into the abyss of your empty detergent bottle (another problem) when your phone buzzes on the counter.

Clark: Heard a suspicious amount of cursing coming from your apartment. Everything good?

Your fingers hover over the screen. It’s mortifying. You should just not answer. All your efforts to distance yourself from him, to slowly ease his warmth out of your life, will be for naught if he gets even the slightest sense of you needing help. Clark Kent doesn’t ignore cries for help. Clark Kent swoops in, with his gentle smile and strong, broad shoulders.

Clark Kent makes it hard for girls like you to get over him.

But if you don't answer, he’ll probably show up at your door to investigate, which would be much, much worse.

You: My washing machine has passed on to the great appliance store in the sky.

His reply is almost instantaneous. A small bubble with three dots appears and disappears before the message lands, and you hold your breath.

Clark: Oh no! Problem solved. My machine is your machine. Come on over whenever.

Shit.

You: Thanks, but it’s OK! I’ll just hit the laundromat. It’s late and I don’t want to bother you.

You’ve already put on your jacket and are hunting for your keys, a grim determination setting in. The walk will be cold. It will be annoying. But it will be blessedly, wonderfully Clark-free, so it’s a small sacrifice in the long run. Your thumb hesitates over the power switch on the machine. Might as well give it another shot. You jab the button with your index finger.

The phone screen in your hand lights up with his name.

He's speaking before you've finished getting the phone to your ear. "You don't honestly think I'm letting you go out at 11pm in the freezing rain to sit at some laundromat by yourself, do you?"

"I..." What were you going to say again? He's turning the concerned voice on and your stomach is flipping. "It’s not raining that much." It is. You can hear the distinct tink-tink-tink of water hitting your windowpane.

"Okay. It’s not freezing rain. But it’s still late. And that laundromat is… not the best. Lois was just telling me about an article she’s editing about how many streetlights are out on that block."

Lois.

The name lands like a small, smooth stone dropped into your stomach. Of course. Lois. Beautiful, brilliant Lois who makes Clark laugh in ways that light up his entire face, who writes the front-page articles and has the world at her fingertips. Who Clark is undoubtedly, irrefutably in love with, if you had to guess. Maybe they’re even together now. You've been so busy avoiding him that you wouldn't even know.

"I’m not gonna be able to focus on my work if I’m worried about you," he continues, blissfully unaware of the small, quiet devastation he just caused. He’s weaponized his own kindness, and it’s ruthlessly effective. "Please?"

You lean your forehead against the cool surface of your dead washing machine. He could convince the moon to come crashing down into Earth with just one well-placed "please", you think.

"You working on something?" you've moved on to stalling for time.

"Don't change the subject. Grab your laundry and get over here before I come drag you myself."

You're a goner. "Clark."

His laugh is bright and warm and reminds you of a lot of what you miss about him. "Come on," he coaxes, and the gentle, cajoling tone is going to make your heart leap straight out of your throat and into his hands. "I’ll order us some pizza. Or have you eaten already?"

"Don't get me pizza," you protest. "You need to work."

"I need to take a break anyway. I’ve been staring at this screen too long. I’ll be braindead if I don’t take a break soon."

"Then have a break. You don’t have to share it with me. I don't want to impose."

"Alright," he says, and you hear the telltale squeak of his desk chair as he gets to his feet. "Then I'm coming over and dragging you and your laundry across the hall."

"Clark!"

"Y/N!"

You laugh despite yourself, despite the way your stomach hurts. He's too good, too much, too kind. You can't keep up. "Okay, okay," you say, your shoulders slumping in defeat. "I'm on my way."

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

"Come in," he calls before you can knock. Of course he heard you coming.

You push the door open to find him tidying up the living room, shoving papers into neat stacks and fluffing couch cushions. He looks up when you enter, hair falling across his forehead in that way that makes your fingers itch to brush it back.

"Sorry about the mess," he says, though his apartment is immaculate as always. "I wasn't expecting company."

He's wearing his flannel pajama pants and a soft t-shirt, glasses on. You'd have a hard time figuring out whether this or the suit is worse on your heart. 

"You don't have to clean for me, Clark. It's just laundry."

"I know, but..." He trails off, running a hand through his hair. "I guess I wanted things to be nice. It's been a while since you've been over."

You feel a stab of guilt at that. You can't explain why you haven't been over in so long. You can't say, I have a ridiculous crush on you and need to save whatever is left of my dignity by keeping some distance between us.

So, you say, "Oh... yeah." Like an idiot.

"I missed seeing your face around."

"Did you?"

It's out before you can take it back. Clark freezes, then turns to look at you.

"Of course I did." There’s something like hurt behind his glasses. "Why would you say that?"

"No... I didn't mean..." you stammer. You want to go hide in a closet somewhere. "That sounded weird. I'm sorry. Just forget it."

Clark is still studying you with that puzzled, concerned look, but he eventually lets out a little huff of a laugh. "I’ll never understand how you don’t realize how much people like you around."

"Maybe I'm just fishing for compliments," you say in an attempt to play it off.

"Mm," he hums, taking your laundry basket with such ease one would think it was full of cotton balls instead of two weeks’ worth of dirty clothes. "Well, you're welcome to fish here anytime."

You follow him to the tiny (immaculately clean) laundry nook. It's not a room so much as a closet off the kitchen, with much less space than you need for a successful Clark Kent avoidance technique. If he stays to chat, you'll be standing no more than an arms' length apart at best, and you're not sure how that’s going to work for the duration of a full cycle.

"Have you eaten?" Clark asks again. He's leaning against the doorframe of the laundry nook, watching you with an easy sort of patience as you start to load the machine. The space feels impossibly small; you have to keep reminding your lungs how to do their job.

"Yeah," you lie, your voice tight as you untangle one of your t-shirts from a pair of jeans and pray that you didn't throw anything too embarrassing into this basket. "I ate."

"Liar. I can hear your stomach from here."

You freeze, utterly mortified. He’s just joking. Probably. "You cannot."

"I can," he insists, a grin spreading across his face that makes your stomach do a nervous little flip. "It’s telling me very sad stories about an empty fridge." He pushes off the doorframe, taking a single, deliberate step into the nook. The fluorescent bulb above flickers once, as if startled. He fills the space completely, blocking the light from the kitchen.

Your hands are suddenly clumsy. You become hyper-aware of the contents of your basket—the worn-out state of your favorite pajamas and, god forbid, your underwear. You try to discreetly bury a pair of frankly embarrassing floral underwear beneath a towel while he leans over your shoulder.

He’s reaching up, his body twisting around you to open a small cupboard above your head. The soft cotton of his t-shirt presses against your shoulder blade as he stretches, and a warm cloud of something clean—laundry soap and fresh air and just him—envelops you. You hold your breath, your universe shrinking to the inches between you, the faint scent of his shampoo, and the solid wall of his chest at your back.

He pulls back just as you think you might pass out, holding out a bottle of detergent. He’s completely, devastatingly oblivious to the five-alarm fire he just started in your nervous system, it seems. His expression is open, friendly, his gaze searching your face. You'd like to curl up inside the washing machine with your laundry and go on a spin cycle right now.

"Laundry detergent for your thoughts?" he asks, offering you the bottle like he hasn’t just driven every rational thought from your head.

You look down at the bottle, trying to remember how words work. "My thoughts are boring."

"That’s impossible." He unscrews the cap for you before passing it into your hands.

You take it, but he doesn't move back. You can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes behind his glasses.

You turn back to the washer, desperate for something to do with your hands and a way to escape his gaze, but your mind has gone completely, utterly blank. What comes after adding detergent? Cold wash? Warm wash? What exactly are you supposed to do with your arms, your legs, your shoulders? How do people even stand normally?

"Let me get that," he says, gently, quietly. His hand brushes yours as he takes the bottle, and he’s pouring the soap in, setting the bottle aside, twisting a dial. The washer rumbles to life, filling with water, and it feels like the air in the tiny nook is being sucked out through the pipes. He closes the lid and turns to look at you. He's so tall you have to tilt your head up to see his face properly.

"There," he says softly, like he's accomplished something monumental instead of just starting a load of laundry. "All set."

You nod, acutely aware that you should probably leave the nook now, give him space to escape back to his work. But your feet seem rooted to the spot, and Clark doesn't seem to be in any hurry to move either.

"So," he says, leaning back against the dryer, arms crossed. The position makes his t-shirt pull slightly across his chest, but at least now he's a full arms' length away from you. "What's really going on with you lately?"

Your heart stutters. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. The avoiding me thing. The way you practically sprint in the opposite direction when you see me in the hallway."

"I don't sprint."

"You do a very fast walk," he says with a small smile. "It's actually pretty impressive. I didn't know you could move that quickly."

Despite everything, you find yourself fighting back a laugh. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe. But I'm also right." He tilts his head and looks at you for a long moment, like if he focuses hard enough, he can figure out what's going on inside your head without you having to say it out loud. It's an unsettling feeling, as if he might somehow peel back all the layers of your walls and see your pathetic little crush sitting at the core.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asks.

Your heart sinks. "No, Clark, you haven't done anything wrong. Jesus." You run a hand over your face, letting out a sigh. "That's not—you're just—"

He's just perfect. He's kind and patient, he helps an elderly woman carry groceries back to her apartment every Thursday night. How do you tell someone like that that it feels like dying every time he mentions the coworker he's clearly in love with?

"We're good," you finish weakly. "You don't have anything to worry about."

He gives you a look that says he doesn't believe you for a second. "You just hate being around me?"

"Oh, yes. I hate you. Absolutely despise you," you joke.

"Hmm."

"Repulsed," you're holding back a laugh now. "Completely repulsed by your very—"

Clark takes another step forward, and whatever words were in your mouth evaporate. The laughter fizzles, turns less playful and more nervous as he invades your personal space like he's been doing your thoughts, 24/7, for maybe a solid year.

Playful Clark is almost worse than kind Clark. Kind Clark can fill your stomach with butterflies, sure. Kind Clark will stay on your mind, will fuel daydreams of late mornings and gentle hands, but you've built up a tolerance. Playful Clark—bold Clark—might actually shatter the very carefully maintained equilibrium you've worked so hard to create around your relationship with him.

"...face," you manage to squeak. He's much too close and much too comfortable, taller than you've ever really allowed yourself to consider.

What a terrifyingly wonderful feeling. If he leaned down, if you got on tiptoes...

"Clark," you say. The word is a weak warning.

He doesn't move, but his eyes flicker down to your lips and back up. You can feel the blush creeping over your cheeks. "What?"

"Clark."

He's smiling. "Y/N."

You can barely hear your own voice over the roar of your blood in your ears. "Are you just... gonna stand here?"

A small, breathy laugh escapes him. "I don't know. I'm enjoying the view."

"Clark."

His smile widens. "It's not my fault. You're cute when you're flustered."

"Stop. I'm not flustered."

He leans in a fraction closer. "So, I could get closer?"

He knows. He absolutely knows. And you know that he knows, and he's playing chicken. "Clark," you whisper, a final warning. If he gets any closer...

"Y/N." He mimics the tone of your voice. He's trying to tease, but he can't keep the soft, warm edges from creeping into it, the gentle affection he can never hide.

Clark Kent wants to kiss you, you think, distantly, as his nose brushes yours. As a big hand reaches up and cradles the back of your head.

"Is this okay?" he asks, breath fanning over your lips. And god, if that isn't just about the death of you.

The air has solidified, turned to glass, and it's lodged in your chest. "Clark."

"Can I?" His fingertips are warm against the base of your neck. The contact sends electricity racing up and down your spine. "I'm tired of waiting for you to catch on."

"Me catch on?! My biggest problem is that you, Clark Kent, you are the most—"

He's kissing you. He's laughing against your lips as he's kissing you, and your mind has been reduced to a collection of sparks going off in a vast expanse of darkness.

"You're so oblivious," he's saying, his lips moving against yours. "You're the most oblivious person on the planet. I swear."

"I'm oblivious? You're—"

But he's kissing you again—this time more insistent, less patient, a little bit needy and a whole lot of something you can't name, but you want to drown in. Any argument you might have made melts under his touch, vanishes like dew on a sunny morning and leaves nothing but this in its wake.

"I hope your machine is dead for good," he murmurs against your lips.

Your answer gets lost somewhere in the shape of his mouth and the warmth of his hands.

At least, the Clark Kent problem is solved.

[yohanseyebrowmole]

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you wandered the aisles of the 24-hour corner store, JASON trailing behind you like a shadow. You’d dragged him out for late-night munchies after he’d shown up at your window, restless energy radiating off him from whatever patrol had gone sideways.

“Okay, but hear me out,” you said, holding up two bags of chips. “Spicy nacho or cool ranch?”

“Get both,” Jason said immediately, already reaching for his wallet.

“Jay, I don’t need—”

“Both.” His tone brooked no argument, green eyes scanning the store with that hypervigilant look he got in public spaces. “What else?”

The clerk behind the counter watched with barely concealed amusement as Jason hovered while you picked out a drink, vetoing your first choice because that brand uses too much caffeine, you’ll never sleep and your second because the sugar crash isn’t worth it.

When you finally approached the counter, the young clerk—probably around your age with an easy smile—immediately perked up.

“Find everything okay?” he asked, but his eyes lingered on you a beat too long. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”

“Yeah, just moved to the neighborhood,” you replied casually, missing how Jason’s jaw tightened behind you.

“Cool, cool. I’m Marcus, I work most nights if you ever need anything.” The clerk’s smile widened as he started scanning items. “This place can be sketchy after midnight, but I could always walk you home sometime. You know, for safety.”

Jason stepped closer, his presence suddenly looming. “They’ve got someone for that.”

Marcus glanced up, finally seeming to register the six-foot wall behind you. His easy confidence faltered. “Oh, uh, sorry man. Didn’t realize you were—are you two a thing?”

“Yes,” Jason said at the exact same time you said, “We’re just friends.”

The silence stretched uncomfortably. You could feel the tension radiating off Jason like heat from asphalt. Marcus cleared his throat, suddenly very focused on bagging your items.

“That’ll be $18.47,” he mumbled.

Jason slapped a twenty on the counter, grabbed the bag, and steered you toward the door with a hand on your elbow. The bell chimed your exit into the cool night air.

“Jason, what the hell was that?” you asked once you were on the sidewalk.

He kept walking, jaw set. “Guy was hitting on you.”

“So?”

Jason stopped abruptly, turning to face you. In the orange glow of the streetlight, his green eyes looked almost wild. “So I didn’t like it. I said yes because I wanted it to be yes. I wanted him to back off because you’re—” He trailed off.

“Because I’m what?”

“Because you’re mine,” he said quietly, like the admission was being pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. “Or I want you to be. If you—if that’s something you’d want too.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs as you stepped closer. “Jason Todd, are you asking me out in front of a sketchy convenience store at like three in the morning?”

A small, uncertain smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe. Is it working?”

[yohanseyebrowmole]

[yohanseyebrowmole]

𖤓 ｡⋆˙⟡ BRIGHT AND EARLY

── . ✦ ♯ 𓊆 SUMMARY 𓊇 in which you brings over a casserole and meets clark for the first time.

possible trigger warnings .ᐟ lowercase intended!!!!

the peach stand 𖤓 dividers @bbyg4rlhelps + @honeyluvsw

the dish is still warm, wrapped in a soft gingham towel you’ve had since college—frayed at the corners, stained with jam—but it’s clean and folded just right. you scribbled a little note in pink gel pen for miss martha ( “because you’re sweeter than the peaches i grow” ) and you even threw on your second-nicest sundress, the one that’s cute but not trying too hard.

your palms press around the base, cradling the weight as you step onto the porch of the kent farmhouse.

it’s quiet up here. a kind of still. the kind of summer morning where the air already smells like grass and sun and old wood, and the clouds hang high and light like cotton pulled loose across a blue sky. somewhere behind the house, you can hear a screen door creak open, then thud shut. probably martha, you think, putting out feed or shooing away the birds.

you shift the dish in your arms and walk up the steps—wood soft from age, warm under your feet even through your sandals. you brush a hand over your skirt, check the dish towel one more time, and reach to knock but the door opens before you touch it.

and there, framed in the doorway like he was summoned, stands a man you’ve never seen before in your life.

and lord help you, he is beautiful.

messy dark hair. bare chest. sleepy eyes. jaw like a comic book hero. he’s rubbing the back of his neck like he just woke up and isn’t quite sure whether this is real.

he’s barefoot.

gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, loose and soft like he’s still half-asleep. an old flannel—sun-washed red, sleeves rolled, buttons undone—is shrugged over his broad shoulders, leaving his chest bare, golden in the light.

he blinks once. then twice.

you blink back.

the silence stretches long enough for your brain to offer a helpful suggestion : look away from his chest, girl, for the love of god—

“uh—hi.” his voice is soft, rough with sleep.

you straighten your spine just a little. smile like your cheeks aren’t already on fire. “you’re definitely not miss martha.”

he lets out a quiet huff of a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, which only flexes his bicep and makes this worse.

“no, ma’am. i’m clark.”

your eyes widen. “you’re clark?”

“last i checked,” he says, smiling. “yeah.”

“well shoot,” you say, breathless, adjusting your grip on the casserole. “i thought you were off in the big city bein’ busy and important.”

he shrugs, slow. “took a break. home for a while.”

you nod, trying not to let your brain short-circuit. okay. that’s fine. so he’s real. and beautiful. and shirtless. and now you’re sweating.

you hold out the dish like it’s a peace offering. “i brought breakfast for your ma and pop. sunday strata. spinach, mushroom, little gruyère—don’t worry, it’s the good kind.”

he takes it with careful hands—big hands, you notice, rough at the knuckles but gentle when he lifts the warm dish from your arms. his fingers brush yours, and you swear your pulse jumps.

“this smells incredible.”

you smile. “she mentioned you were visitin’ home, but i didn’t know i’d be meetin’ you this morning. otherwise i’d have worn somethin’ a little more impressive than this old thing.”

his eyes trail down for just a second—past your sundress, the faded print hugging your waist, your bare shoulders—and when they come back up, there’s something softer there.

“don’t think you could look bad if you tried.”

your brain : static noise, dial-up internet screeching

“flattery will get you everywhere mister kent.” you laugh—too loud, too flustered—and take a step back off the porch, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear.

“please, clark. mr. kent is my father. as you know.”

“well, clark, you get first dibs on the good corner piece. but don’t tell miss martha i said that.”

he cradles the casserole like it’s precious. “my lips are sealed.”

“nice meetin’ you, clark.”

“you too.”

you freeze. blink. “what’d you call me?”

his brows lift, like maybe he didn’t realize it either. you just grin, wide and sweet. “i like that.”

then you’re backing toward your truck, the gravel crunching under your heels, trying so hard not to trip or blush or die on the spot.

he watches you go.

he’s still holding the casserole as he walks back into the farmhouse. still thinking about the way your dress caught the sunlight. the way you smiled like you didn’t even know you were beautiful. the way your fingers brushed his when you handed him the dish—and how he hasn’t stopped replaying that in his head even though it was less than a minute ago.

he sets the dish down carefully on the counter. like it might break if he breathes wrong.

from behind him, he hears the familiar scrape of a chair and the soft creak of weight settling into it.

“so,” jonathan says mildly, sipping from his mug. “who was at the door?”

clark glances back. “uh, no clue. didn’t get a name.” he scratches the back of his neck. “brought you and ma a . . . casserole though.”

jonathan nods once, slow, a look of recognition lights across his face. clark turns, leaning a hip against the counter, arms crossed loosely.

“who is she?”

jonathan raises a brow. “she who?” clark huffs because now jonathan kent, his father, was messing with him. and he was gonna make clark say it. “the girl. the one with the casserole. barefoot. sundress. smelled like vanilla and sugar.”

jonathan’s mouth tugs up—just barely. “that’d be sunny.”

clark frowns. “that her real name?”

“nickname,” Jonathan says. “your ma gave it to her. fits, don’t it?”

clark’s quiet a second. “she always like that?”

“like what?”

“warm. loud. sweet.”

jonathan considers that, then nods. “pretty much. even on her worst days, she’d rather hand you a slice of pie than say what’s wrong.”

clark shifts. “she live nearby?”

jonathan grins into his coffee like he’s been waiting for that question. “next property over. peach orchard.”

clark looks up. blinks. “that’s hers?”

“every acre. runs it herself. fixes the tractors. picks her own harvest. sets up at the farmers market every saturday with more jam flavors than you can count.”

clark’s eyebrows lift, just slightly. “she’s somethin’ else.”

jonathan hums. “that she is.”

clark glances back out the window, toward the gravel drive, where the dust from your truck still hangs in the air like a memory.

@jacksabbotts ©

[yohanseyebrowmole]

— STUDY PARTNERS

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝑗ason peter todd

contains: modern au, university au, 3k wc, gn!reader, student!jason, jason is a literature major and reader is a stem major, fluff, meet-cute, pet-names, nervous flirting, jason is a loveable bastard in this, academic jargon i scraped up from my own studies.

𓏲 𓌔𓌔 ➴ㅤㅤWhat began as desperate essay proof reading has evolved into something electric. You realize the most compelling story you’re writing together isn’t happening on paper at all.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗘𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘✿𓏲

The third floor of Gotham University’s library had always been your sanctuary—all dark wood and towering windows that filtered the gray afternoon light into something almost holy.

But today, surrounded by the familiar scent of old books and the soft shuffle of pages turning, you felt anything but peaceful. Your laptop screen glowed mockingly at you, cursor blinking at the pathetic opening sentence you’d been staring at for the past hour: “The implementation of CRISPR-Cas9 gene editing technology in human embryos presents significant ethical considerations.”

Even you had to admit it sounded like it was written by a robot—a very boring robot. The bioethics essay was due in three days, and Dr. Martinez had made it perfectly clear that technical accuracy wouldn’t be enough. She wanted “compelling narrative” and “emotional resonance,” words that might as well have been in a foreign language.

Pretentious ethics professors. What’s their deal anyway?

Around you, other students seemed to be writing with ease, their fingers dancing across keyboards while you sat frozen, a STEM major drowning in a sea of liberal arts requirements. It makes you feel even more frustrated than you already are. The deadline is approaching quickly and it fills you with a sense of dread.

All you can do is sit in this library alone, nervously biting your nails, muttering about the confusing assignment and eyes darting around, seemingly looking for any type of salvation some higher power might send you with the little mercy they have.

Unfortunately for you, every higher power seems to have it out for you.

A quiet huff escapes from the table beside you. You glance over just in time to catch a guy peering above the edge of his laptop, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You know, if you’re going to mutter about ‘pretentious ethics professors,’ you might want to keep it down. Some of us are trying to study.”

You hadn't even realized the fact that you’ve been talking to yourself. The stress of the essay has truly fried your nerves and now you’re blabbering in a library for any student to hear. The realization embarrasses you. Feeling the heat slowly reach your cheeks, you get defensive.

Your eyes lock onto the man from the table beside you. Black hoodie and the same black hair, messy but somehow it still looks perfect, the white streak captures your eye for only a moment before you take in the slightly amused look on his face.

He might be cute, but that doesn’t mean he can poke fun at you.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize the library had a noise police.”

The man snorts while rolling his eyes. You take in his dimples as the smile on his face grows a little bigger.

“Just curious what kind of ethics paper has you so worked up.”

You lean back into your seat, shoulders sagging. You can feel the slight annoyance you had for him simmer down as the daunting memory of the essay comes crashing back into your mind.

“It’s about the implementation of specific genes into the human embryos and if the science of it all is ethical or not.” You’ve repeated this sentence to yourself dozen of times—trying to somehow force your brain into coming up with something compelling for the essay—you have it memorized at this point. “Which would be easy to answer, but unfortunately my professor has asked for a compelling and emotional narrative, whatever that means.”

You can feel his gaze on you as he takes in your words. You look back at him. His brows are furrowed, deep in his thoughts, his hand reflexively reaches for his pen and a notebook on his table. Your eyes—totally out of your control—follow the way his fingers curl around the pen. There’s a different kind air around him now, as if he’s in a totally different element. It’s fascinating to see.

“Read the first lines for me.” He asks out of no where. It startles you, ripping your eyes from his hands to his face. The amused expression is gone, replaced with concentration and motivation.

“Alright…” You trail on, still unsure about this predicament. You can still feel the slight heat in your cheeks, but now it’s not embarrassment. The feeling is similar to shyness. Which is ridiculous, isn’t it?

You sigh. The feeling spreads to your stomach and it really settles into your mind how flustered you are about the fact that you are being basically dissected under this man’s gaze.

“The implementation of CRISPR-Cas9 gene editing technology in human embryos presents significant ethical considerations.” You read the first lines, albeit a little quietly, still nervous about this whole situation.

You hear him hum for a moment. His fingers toy with the pen between them. His nonchalant attitude only serves to tick you off when more. He tilts his head and the corner of his lips curl.

You scoff. “Aren’t you going to bless me with your verdict?”

“It sounds…” He looks at your laptop for a moment before looking back at you, the amused glint in his eyes making you huff. “Too dry.”

You bristle. “It’s accurate and clear. Not everything needs to be flowery literature.”

He nods, agreeing with you before answering. “No, but it should at least be readable. What's the point of brilliant research if no one wants to read it?”

You look back at your screen, reading the lines over and over again. His statement settles into your mind and you can’t help but agree. It does sound too dry. It won’t intrigue anyone. And it certainly isn’t what your professor asked of you.

“You’re right. The entire thing is a mess because I’m a mess and I can’t write an essay for the life of me.” You admit to this stranger you’ve been speaking to only for a few minutes.

The realization hits you like a brick. You feel the dread settle inside you again and the worry gnaws at you. How are you going to finish this essay? You groan, head cradled by your hands as you feel even more helpless.

You hear a small chuckle from the man. You can’t even bring yourself to look at him.

“Are you taking pleasure in my misery?”

He raises a single brow, as if he’s genuinely confused on why you’d think that, but the small grin on his lips makes it apparent that he does find this amusing.

Do not look at his lips.

“We barely know each other.” He moves a little closer, taking a seat on your table. “I think we should know each other’s names before I take delight in your confused and lost expression.”

You force yourself to roll your eyes, trying to direct your gaze anywhere but him. He sits too close to you now. You can make out the way his faded veins run like rivers down his arms, the way his sea-green eyes shine with a nervous glint you are sure mirrors the look in your own eyes. Looking at him is causing you a problem—a cheeks-way-too-hot kind of problem.

“It’s Jason, by the way.” The pretty stranger offers first. The mutter of his name is almost like an olive branch, and he awaits for you to return the gesture.

You lick your lips, only now realizing how dry your mouth has gotten. You give him your name.

He parrots your name back to you, as if he’s trying it out on his tongue to see what it feels like. Your name sounds pretty coming from his mouth.

“Alright, Jason.” You snap back to the conversation and he eyes you curiously. “If you’re so sure in your writing abilities, help me out.”

He settles his cheek on his free hand, tilting his head and looking at you from your height. This only serves to fluster you even more.

“This almost sounds like you’re asking for my help.”

“More like—second opinion.”

“Oh, now you are in need of my opinion?” He smiles and his dimples show themselves again. “I’m honored, sunshine.”

“Sunshine?” You ask, but you can’t help the way the corner of your lips curl in response to hearing the nickname.

He shuffles in his seat, as if he’s nervous. “You’ve been such a ray of sunshine to me this entire conversation.”

“More like a rain cloud.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Your eyes dart between your laptop and Jason. There’s a pleading look in your eyes that you can’t control.

“Use the magic word.” He says.

You groan in response. “Are you serious?”

“Very.”

And that is how you ended up in this tutoring-but-not-really mess of a situation. With a difficult essay to write, a library and a cute guy sitting next to you, offering you to proof read your essay.

You can’t lie to yourself and say that you don’t enjoy this situation you’ve gotten yourself into.

“Please… help me with my essay.”

He has this satisfied grin on his lips, happy that he got what he wanted. “There we go. Was that so hard?”

Jason moves his chair closer to yours, his eyes settling on your laptop screen as he reads your essay again. You watch him with a mix of fascination and embarrassment—fascination at the way concentration transforms his features, threading through every subtle expression, and embarrassment at how close he suddenly is.

His knee grazes yours and you freeze.

You catch the exact moment he registers the contact, the faint pink that creeps across his cheeks, the way his eyes widen and flicker back to you before he clears his throat to mask his own embarrassment and refocuses on your laptop screen.

He doesn't move his knee.

Instead, he continues with helping you write the essay.

“Okay, so you’re talking about editing human embryos. That’s huge. That’s like... playing God with genetics.”

You realize that Jason is quite understanding, if you look past his previous teasing attitude. He asks thoughtful questions, waiting for you to explain the science behind the subject, and he actually listens—taking in every word to understand.

“So when you say ‘ethical considerations,’ what are you actually worried about?” He asks.

You start explaining the real concerns—designer babies, inequality, unintended consequences. He nods along, occasionally glancing away from you just long enough to scribble something in his notebook.

During your explanation, his eyes light up. “There it is. That’s your hook. You’re not just talking about technology—you’re talking about the future of humanity.” He points to your screen. “Start there. Make them care about what could go wrong.”

You type out a new opening line using his suggestions, and it’s immediately better. As you read it back, you notice Jason’s textbooks scattered around his side of the table—thick volumes with titles like “Victorian Literature and Social Reform” and “Postmodern Critical Theory.”

“Okay, you’re turn.” You say, gesturing to the books. “What’s got the literature expert stumped?”

Jason suddenly looks less confident. It’s kind of amusing to see his cocky attitude crumple in front of you so suddenly. His eyes nervously look over the textbooks on his side of the table before his gaze returns to you.

“Are you going to try and help me out, sunshine?” There’s a light tone to his voice, and an annoyingly endearing grin on his lips too.

You shouldn’t get used to it but you can’t help but smile at the sight of him in front of you. You can tell that he feels the same feeling gnaw at himself because of the tinge of pink that keeps revisiting his cheeks.

“I might.” You offer, a playful tone to your own voice. “Only if you say the magic word.”

Jason’s eyes widen slightly. He covers his lips with his hand, but you can see the grin that paints his face. His eyes dart back to the table, as if to escape your gaze. But you don’t back down. Your eyes stay locked onto him and raising your brow, you challenge him to his own game.

“Is this some sort of payback?” He chuckles, the sound muffled through his hand, but it’s still like music to your ears. “Can’t I be honored your help without using the magic word?”

“You can’t be honored with anything of mine without the magic word.” You state, crossing your arms to appear more confident.

“Not even your number?”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore the way your heart skips. “Especially not my number. That requires at least two magic words.”

“Two?” Jason laughs, running a hand through his hand. “You drive a hard bargain, sunshine.” He gestures to his textbooks in mock defeat. “Please help me make Victorian Literature sound like it matters in our modern day.”

You feel a little thrill at his compliment about driving a hard bargain, but you force yourself to focus on his actual request. “Victorian Literature and modern relevance? That’s what’s got you stumped?”

Jason’s confident mask slips for just a moment, and you catch a glint of something different in his eyes before it disappeared as quick as it appeared. “My professor says I write like I’m talking to other literature majors. She wants ‘concrete connections to contemporary issues’ and ‘accessible arguments that demonstrate real-world impact.’” He makes air quotes around her words, but his fingers fidget with his pen as he speaks.

“And you’re struggling because…?” You prompt gently.

Jason’s jaw tightens slightly, and for the first time you’ve met him, he looks genuinely flustered rather than just cocky. “Because I can analyze the hell out of Dickens’ social commentary, but apparently, that doesn’t matter if I can’t explain why anyone should care about it now.” He runs his hand though his hair again, messing up that perfect disheveled look, and you note the way his shoulders tense. “I mean, how do you make people care about Victorian workings conditions when they’re too worried about student loans and other issues?”

There’s something almost defeated in his voice that makes your chest tighten. You lean forward, genuinely interested now. “That’s your actual thesis?”

You don’t even notice the close proximity until you take in Jason’s widened stare directed at you and the way his chest rises with every deep breath. You’re seemingly stuck in this position. Not only is his knee touching yours, now his thigh is grazing yours as well.

“Oh, sorry!” You choke out, but before you can pull your chair, albeit not truly wanting to, he stops you.

“It’s alright, sunshine.” Jason has another one of his nervous grins on his face. “Neither of us bite.”

You raise a brow and can’t help yourself as a smirk appears on your lips. You’re sure you’re blushing because his stare reaches your face and a satisfied glint in his eyes appear.

Charming bastard.

“Tell me about your thesis before I take back my very generous offer to help.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s still that grin on his face. “Didn’t I help you first?”

“Shush and just explain the thesis, Jason.”

That’s the first time you’ve called him by his name. You remember how he mumbled your own when you introduced yourself. You can’t help but feel how good his own name feels on your tongue—instinctively it is like a habit you’ve always kept—welcomed and sweet.

“Something about how Victorian Literature predicted modern social inequality, but every time I try to write it, it comes out sounding like academic garbage that no one wants to read.” His green eyes meet yours, and there’s a flicker of insecurity there that he’s trying to hide. “Pretty pathetic for someone who just criticized your writing, huh?”

A slow smile spreads across your face, and you can’t help but find his vulnerability endearing. “You know what? I think I actually can help you with that.”

Jason blinks, looking surprised and maybe a little hopeful. It’s cute. “Really? You’d want to help me after I basically called your essay dry?”

“Yes.” You say, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear nervously. “You weren’t exactly wrong. And besides…” You pause, feeling heat creep up your neck. “Maybe I like the idea of spending more time with Gotham’s most brutally honest literature critic.”

Jason goes completely still. His pen hovers frozen over his notebook, and you watch his eyes widen slightly before he quickly looks down, but not before you catch the way his cheeks flush pink. When he looks back at you there’s something different in his expression—something softer, almost vulnerable.

“Brutally honest huh?” His voice is quieter now, less teasing. He sets his pen down entirely and turns to face you more fully. “I’m not sure anyone’s ever called my honesty a good thing before.”

“Well, maybe you’ve been talking to the wrong people.”

The smile that spreads across his face is slower this time, more genuine than his earlier cocky grind. “Maybe I have.” He pauses, studying your face like he’s trying to memorize it. “For what it’s worth, sunshine, I’m really glad you were muttering about ethics professors today.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His knee presses just slightly more against yours, and this time it’s definitely intentional. “Because I really like the idea of spending more time with you too.”

You can’t help but get lost in the electrifying feeling his words make bloom in your heart. Every saccharine admission from his lips is like honey to your ears and you can’t get enough. Even his touch against you feels euphoric. It’s an ambrosia you can’t seem to let go.

You’d like to stay in this haze of emotions for even a longer time, but your eyes catch the way students pack up their supplies and head out of the library. It’s closing time and you two haven’t even noticed.

Jason noticed the way your eyes are focusing somewhere else and he follows it with his own gaze. There’s a slight pout to his lips when he realizes the time you two had has run its course.

Neither you nor him want to leave.

Jason is the first one to speak up.

“You still have to help me with my essay.” He states, before helping you pack up your supplies before he even reaches his own. “Will I be honored with your number now?”

You can’t help but flush at his words. He says them so quickly, as if he is also too nervous for his heart to stop beating so fast.

“Remember the two magic words?” You remind him.

Jason hums, as if he’s deep in thought. “Please, sunshine?”

You can’t stop the way the smile breaks out onto your face. You’re sure the flush on your cheeks is as prominent as the pink on Jason's.

“Yes, you can have my number.”

Maybe, there actually is a higher power looking out for you and sending you an angel.

𝄢　© DHAZEFAWN 𓈒　𓋫　’𝟮𝟱𓈒　ᛝ