guardian of the underworld

Tim’s hair was longer now, falling into his eyes in wild strands that made him look softer — distracting enough to overshadow a dark bruise fading at the curve of his jaw, if the fact that he was shirtless hadn’t made you dizzy enough to almost not scold him.

“I’m not backseat building,” he protested, all feigned innocence, even as he reached past you to gently adjust the tension on the cable with two careful fingers. “I’m… offering emotional support. From a very horizontal-adjacent position.”

You flattened the cable in place just as his other hand reached over to try and steal the flush cutters you were working with.

“Down, boy.” You smacked his wrist and he whined, immediately dropping the tool into your awaiting palm. “This is my work station, by the way — if you haven’t realized — and I don’t want your grimey hands all over it.”

“Thought you liked my grimey hands.” He leaned over to kiss the side of your face, then your cheek, and another one right below your ear. The slight wince from the pull of his sore ribs was obvious, accompanied by the nasty bruise still on display exactly where you left it, like a painful kiss at the curve of his ribcage.

“You don’t love me anymore? Is that it?” Tim complained.

You did. Even with the bruises. Especially with the bruises, because they were proof he was home and safe enough to be annoying.

“Do not even think of sitting down, you need to get back to bed.”

On the TV, Sailor Moon struck another dramatic pose and the music swelled to a crescendo as Tim pretended he didn’t hear you at all.

“I came to watch Yu-Gi-Oh actually,” he hummed matter-of-factly while he sprawled out on the massive sectional, stretching his legs out and draping himself against your side. “Not to see you. Or the Sailor.”

You laughed, tangling one of your legs with his. “What is your deal with Sailor Moon?”

Tim’s hand lazily found your thigh, squeezing gently as he shifted closer, peeking over your shoulder. “I don’t have a deal,” he mumbled. “I just think it’s unrealistic that the bad guys wait for her to transform before the actual fight happens.”

“Right… Because Yu-Gi-Oh is so realistic.”

“Well. If you’re asking—” He stretched one long arm toward the coffee table without untangling his legs from yours, grunting at the flex of his aching muscles. “An argument can be made about its applications to any kind of strategy based initia—

“Again, I don’t recall this being a collaborative effort.” You swatted his arm away. “Shoo.”

Tim made a pathetic little sound and snaked his arms around you again, only tighter, before his hands eventually settled on your hips and pulled you closer, just until your back was flush against his chest.

“You should be recovering,” you continued. “R and R remember? Rest and relaxation—” You shifted so you could face him better, easing yourself up onto his lap gently at first, waiting for him to give you the full go ahead.

“I am recovering,” he mumbled, lips brushing your jaw. He didn’t wait another second before pulling you down onto him, stretching his legs out on either side of you with a sigh. “This is like homeopathic medicine. Skin-to-skin contact, all that stuff. Very healing.”

You shook your head, a hand reaching behind you blindly to push the hair back from his face, your fingertips brushing the faint scar near his hairline before sliding between the strands to scratch lightly at his scalp.

“You are the worst patient on the planet.”

“And you…” he whispered, pressing a slow kiss to the curve of your neck. “Are sooo pretty…” Then another. “When you’re concentrating.” And another, working his way up until he could nuzzle right behind your ear. “It’s distracting me from how much everything hurts.”

You melted despite yourself, tilting your head to give him better access. “Manipulation tactics. I see you, Drake.”

“Are they working?” He whispered. Your stomach did a flip.

“Unfortunately.”

You could feel him grinning against your skin. “Still got it.”

One of his hands wandered down to your thigh again, just to rest there, while the other slipped down to where you held the flesh cutters in your palm against a cable. This time, you let him intervene — his longer fingers sliding between yours to grip the tool a little tighter.

“Don’t backseat me,” you warned, as he guided your hand in the opposite direction you would’ve gone. “I’m serious.”

“I won’t,” he said. “Scout’s honor.”

And he kept to his promise for a little less than two minutes.

Tim’s lips puckered against the skin where your neck and shoulder met, trailing up the line of your neck until he reached the curve of your jaw, burying his face there with the tiniest kisses.

“Maybe,” he whispered. “And this is just a suggestion,” he continued, voice low. “Let’s... not use PiSugar for power supply…”

“Oh my God, you promised.” You groaned, but there was no real heat in it. His lips were too warm against your skin, his hair tickling you softly as he nuzzled closer and closer.

“I’m not helping,” he murmured with faux innocence, voice still raspy from sleep and the remnants of last night’s patrol that he was rightfully benched from midway. “Just… offering constructive criticism. From a very restful position. And I think that this… this just isn’t it, babe.”

Tim paused to shake the flush cutters from your palm, instead forcing you to pick up the little, black rectangular power cell.

You slapped his wrist in protest and he blew a raspberry against your cheek — so sloppy and wet it made you recoil with disgust and a squealed ‘Ew, you fucking creep—!’

He tossed the PiSugar cell out of the DS’ hollowed shell and toward the pile of unused tools with a victorious smirk.

“Muuuch better,” he said. “Why are we using PiSugar anyway? I’m kinda offended…”

You twisted in his lap just enough to shoot him a look as you rubbed the wetness from your cheek. “It’s cheap and it works. And I would prefer not throwing money at an overpriced battery solution, Tim.”

He made a scandalized little noise, arms tightening around your waist as he pulled you flush against his bare chest. “Now, with all due respect—”

Tim stopped himself when you glared at him hotly.

“Babe. Darling. Smartest girl in the whole wide world—” He continued. “You did not see me use PiSugar or some cheap ass LiPo pack when I made your first cyberdeck. I am disappointed.”

“Jeez, sorry Dad.” You snorted, leaning back into him despite yourself and he hugged you close. “Maybe I just didn’t wanna outsource a battery fit for a supercomputer… It’s not like I’m catching criminals as a hobby.”

“Dad?” Tim laughed softly, the sound rumbling through his chest and against your skin. “Low blow. And no— it’s reasonable and it works better. Geekworm is the go-to, baby. I’m ordering one later.”

“No,” you objected immediately, easing up and reaching for the discarded PiSugar just to make a point. “That is exactly what we’re not gonna do. It’s like fifty bucks, Tim.”

“More like eighty with shipping,” he corrected, completely unbothered, as he hooked his chin over your shoulder again, pulling you back into him. “But I’ll have it here by tomorrow if I—”

“We are not dropping eighty dollars for a battery, you capitalist freak. The PiSugar is fine.” You elbowed him lightly as you tried to squirm free from his grip. “And seriously, go away— I have to finish this—”

He made an exasperated sound, somewhere between a whine of protest and a sigh, then pressed another warm kiss just below your ear. “But I’m bored. And you’re so... so hot when you’re all focused…” Another kiss to the back of your neck, then another, and back up again to press one more against your cheek. “Let me help.”

“Leslie said intensive bed rest. And no activities that require more than ten minutes worth of focus,” you reminded him, trying — and failing — to focus as you reached down to thread another ribbon cable.

“Oh yeah?” Tim’s palms slipped under the hem of your shirt and idled over your stomach, squeezing gently, while his fingers traced silken patterns that made it very hard to keep your hands steady. “Nothing at all?” Your entire body felt hot as he whispered in your ear.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, perv. It’s not happening,” you laughed. “Wouldn’t want you to get a Charlie Horse and die.”

“Okay, mood obliterated.” He deflated. “Even doctors overreact sometimes. I am fine.”

“You came home looking like you lost a fight with a tank. Again.” You looked at him over your shoulder. “And you told Lonnie I was beating you at home, when you know damn well—”

“Firstly, that was a joke made in good faith that is much closer to the truth than you like to admit—”

“—I will ignore that because I refuse to give into the stereotype of punching you in the mouth.”

Tim continued, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Second, it was the line that failed me,” he corrected, lips brushing your jaw. “And I won—”

“You got punched into another building. Then fell from the highest floor of said building while trying to zipline your way back down.”

“Semantics.” Tim shrugged. “Your boy’s always a winner, baby.” Another kiss, this one so much sweeter, your face felt hot. “C’mon…. Let me help. Just the cable management. I’m excellent at cable management. World-class, even.”

You turned your head just enough to glare at him again.

His eyes were soft and heavy-lidded, his tousled hair falling into them, and that faint bruise along his jaw making him look unfairly pathetic, in an endearing way.

“Terrible at staying put, is what you are.”

“Please? I’ll be good.” Tim blinked slowly. “Scout’s honor? Again?”

“You were never a scout,” you laughed, your prior defenses now rendered null and void. “Like, ever.”

“Have pity on me,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’m hurting all over, you know?”

You frowned. “I’m being manipulated again, I think.”

Then another kiss, slower, coaxing. “Make me all better?” He pouted. “Please, sweetheart?”

“Tim—”

His lips met yours softly, and you instinctively turned to him for more, the kiss lazy and slow but full of heat. You could feel him smile against your mouth before he pulled away, forcing that same pout to keep his grin at bay.

Then you sighed dramatically and handed him the flush cutters. “Okay, fine, whatever. Cable management only. But if you even think about ordering that Geekworm before we finish this section, you’re sleeping alone.”

He gasped dramatically. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me, rich boy.”

“I’d like to.” Tim’s grin was immediate and devastating and you audibly boo’d him as he shifted you both slightly so you were still mostly in his lap but could both reach the coffee table easier. His longer hair kept falling forward as he leaned in, and you couldn’t resist reaching up to tuck it behind his ear.

For the next hour you worked like that—tangled together, half-lazy, trading slow kisses between crimping cables and snapping accessories shut.

His arms framed you on either side, one hand steadying the DS shell while the other passed you tools or held wires in place and every time he leaned forward, his bare chest pressed warm against your back, chin hooked over your shoulder so you were cheek-to-cheek, breathing the same air.

Whenever he reached too far and the ache in his ribs made him wince, you’d scold him gently and kiss the fading bruise on his jaw like it would help heal the rest of him. He’d just smile that small, deafeningly self-satisfied smile and pull you back in.

At one point Tim paused, peering at the exposed internals. “Hey, want an LED status light right here?” He tapped a spot near the hinge with one long finger. “Just a little power indicator. Would look sick when it’s closed.”

You hesitated, then shook your head. “Nah, it’s fine without.”

He gave you a long, knowing look, the corner of his mouth slightly curving upwards. “Uh-huh.”

Two minutes later he was carefully soldering a tiny LED in place anyway, one arm still looped around your waist to keep you steady against him while his other hand worked with that effortless precision you fell for.

“Tim...”

“Relax. I’ve got a steady hand.” He whispered, teasing. “And I know you want the blinky light, even if you’re scared of the iron.”

“I am not scared of soldering,” you lied, cheeks warming as you watched the focused pinch of his brows. The faint smell of solder mixed with the earthy petrichor drifting through one of the cracked windows, and the faintest ray of morning sunshine struggled against the rainclouds.

“Mhm. But you want the blinky light,” he murmured, blowing gently on the fresh solder joint. “I’ve got you mapped.”

“You’re the worst,” you whispered, but you were smiling as you turned your head to press a kiss to his temple. “Fucking show-off.”

“Your show-off,” Tim corrected happily, a dopey grin on his face. “And you’ll thank me when it looks sick as hell at night.”

The cyberdeck build came together slowly but surely after that with your vision and his refinements until it eventually started to look less of a disassembled mess and more like something usable.

The rain kept falling in steady sheets outside as the final Sailor Moon episode on the television faded into the opening chords of Yu-Gi-Oh.

Tim perked up slightly at the familiar theme, unable to hide the excited childlike quirk in his brows, but his movements were growing slower and heavier as the work became more about holding you than building— the little kisses pressed to your shoulder, the pads of his fingertips thrumming against the warmth of your stomach, the feel of his unclothed heartbeat against your spine took up more and more of your attention.

Between the distant sound of Yu-Gi-Oh and the occasional soft click of tools, Tim’s breathing also changed behind you, his body hunching forward against your back in a drowsy fold.

“You falling asleep on me already?” you whispered, amused.

“Halfway there,” he admitted, voice slurred and muffled against the nape of your neck. “...‘S your fault,” you felt him smile a little, nuzzling deeper into your skin, or trying to. “You’re warm and you smell like my shampoo… and you’re doing tech things…. You’re so beautiful.”

You sat the tiny keyboard down carefully and twisted in his lap to face him properly, straddling his thighs. His eyes were half-lidded, his eyelashes fluttering gently with that unguarded softness he only ever showed when he was here and all yours.

“Poor baby,” you cooed, brushing the hair back from his forehead, fingers trailing over his hairline. “Got beat up by bad guys on national television.”

“It was a local broadcast, please.” Tim deadpanned, tilting his head to catch your fingers with a lazy kiss. “And you’re supposed to be nice to me…” his teeth grazed the tips of your fingers.

“You’re spoiled, you’ll live.” You leaned in and kissed him, tasting the faint mint from his toothpaste and all those assorted flavors of him needing you. He sighed into it, one hand sliding up your back under your shirt, a warm palm splayed across your skin.

“Take me down a peg,” Tim hummed lazily, pressing another lazy kiss to your mouth. “I like that.”

“Pervert.”

Still, you kissed him again as the rain kept pouring and Yu-Gi-Oh dueled in the background. When you pulled back, his eyes were brighter despite the exhaustion and he pressed his forehead against yours with a long sigh.

“Does it hurt bad?” You asked, carefully trying to shift your body over his lap to ease the weight on him. You could feel the faint twitch of muscles every time you moved, but he never complained.

“Stay,” he whispered as his arms tightened around your waist, pulling you closer against his chest while the half-finished cyberdeck was forgotten on the coffee table next to you. “Hurts less when you’re right here.”

You hesitated, hovering just a little. “Tim… your ribs—”

“Are fine,” he murmured, already tugging you down with gentle insistence. “C’mere. I want you on top of me. Proper R and R.”

You let out a soft laugh but gave in, carefully lowering your full weight until your chest pressed against his and you were nearly melded to him. You stayed tense for a second, hyperaware of every bruise while Tim just hummed contentedly, one hand stroking slowly up and down your spine.

“See?” he whispered against your hair. “Perfect. You feel good like this.”

You relaxed bit by bit, melting into the steady rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his bare skin as the rain drummed steadily against the windows and the low sounds of card duels came from the TV.

“Can you sleep like this?” you asked after a while, pressing a kiss between his brows as his eyelids fluttered closed. Tim murmured an ‘mhm’ and hugged you closer, his head leaned back against the cushioned sectional. “Don’t drool on me though,” you said, burying your face in the side of his neck.

“I do not drool.”

“And I’m Batman.”

Tim snorted, his nostrils flaring from amusement and you kissed his jaw.

After a quiet minute, his voice came out soft and drowsy. “We should make one like the Millennium Puzzle.”

You smiled against his collarbone, tracing patterns on his chest with your fingertip. “You seriously have a problem.”

“Hm, you’ll see my vision soon,” he said, voice low and warm. “Tell me your ideas instead. For the rest of this one, I mean. The layout, the interface, all of it. I wanna hear.”

You shifted a little lower so your chin rested on his sternum, careful not to press on the worst of the bruises.

“Okay… I was thinking the top half could have some custom acrylic designs maybe? I wanna see what I can do with that 3D printer you spent a million bucks on— I can give it a mini computer look… but I like the sort of Y2K gaming console turned high tech spyware concept in my head… if that makes sense, I don’t know—”

Tim’s hand kept stroking your back in slow, lazy circles, his breathing growing softer beneath you. “Mmm… keep going,” he mumbled, eyes already drifting shut. “What about the interface?”

You kept talking softly, describing the power cell you secretly did want just to run a bunch of gaming applications, the messaging interface you wanted to design just to sync with his cyberdeck, how you pictured the whole thing looking and operating like pure magic.

“—and that’s where the Raspberry Pi is gonna go…”

Tim’s responses got quieter, made up of little hums and half-formed words. “...Raspberry Pi.”

“…and maybe a small speaker for gaming effects, we can run an emulator for Yoshi’s Island,” you continued, grinning to yourself. “And Final Fantasy.”

You waited for his usual chuckle followed by some cheeky remark about the longstanding rivalry you two had in all things Final Fantasy concerned. But all you heard were the same slow, even breaths.

“Tim? You still with me?”

No answer. All you could feel was the steady rise and fall of his chest under yours and his arms still loosely wrapped around you like he’d fallen asleep mid-caress.

You lifted your head to get a good look at him, and his face was completely relaxed now, lips slightly parted and messy dark hair splayed across the cushiony sectional in fluffy tufts.

“Tim…” you called out to him in a whisper, but he didn’t shift. “Paging geektopia,” you giggled, nuzzling your nose against his cheek.

He twitched softly in his sleep, fingers tightening around your waist. “M’ awake…” he inhaled deeply through his nostrils, squirming tighter against you. “I’m listenin’.”

You let out a quiet, fond laugh and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Sure you are,” you whispered, nuzzling closer.

“Sure I am.” He repeated, grinning with his eyes closed. “Just resting my eyes, sweetheart,” his fingers danced in shapes over the skin of your waist — crooked little circles, lopsided hearts, the occasional RR symbol like he couldn’t help himself.

You stayed draped over him, your weight like a warm blanket that he refused to let shift even an inch.

The rain had softened into a gentle drizzle against the windows, and the Yu-Gi-Oh soundtrack played like a lullaby in the background. Every so often Tim’s fingers would still as sleep coaxed him away, then start up again, chasing the feeling of your skin as if touching you was the gravity holding him here.

“You’re gonna build the Millennium Puzzle cyberdeck with me, right?” he mumbled after a long, quiet minute, voice thick and barely there. “We should… date night… gonna be so cool…”

“Yeah, baby,” you murmured, brushing his hair back again. “We’ll build it together.”

Tim made a soft, contented hum, the sound vibrating against your chest as he murmured to himself. “So many Raspberry Pi’s….”

You chuckled.

Then his arms tightened once more, pulling you impossibly closer. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised softly, pressing one last kiss to his bruised jaw. “Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”

When you pulled back, Tim was smiling that small, lovedrunk smile, straining his eyes open a tiny fraction. “Love you, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know….” You let your head settle against his chest. “I know…”

His breathing evened out for good after that, deep and slow as his eyelids fell closed, the faint lines of unspoken pain smoothing from his face.

You watched him for a while, peering up through your lashes at the way his jaw relaxed, the flutter of those soft eyelashes against his cheekbones, and that tiny twitch of his mouth like he was still half-dreaming about his own Millenium Puzzle like a little boy on a lazy Saturday morning.

Outside, the rain kept falling while Yu-Gi-Oh played on low and your boyfriend — your stubborn, bruised, brilliant, and finally resting boyfriend — dozed in your arms.

You stayed right there on top of him, listening to the sound of his heartbeat against your ear drowning out everything else, perfectly content to let him sleep as long as he needed.

Within the tangled warmth of your limbs and his, you whispered, “I love you too,” and the rest of Gotham remained blurred away outside the glass as sleep took you too.

2 — Cry For Me: Jason Todd

Pairing: Jason Todd x Childhood Best Friend!Reader

Summary: Jason died believing he’d left behind the only person who ever truly knew him. But when he claws his way back to Gotham, betrayed and consumed by grief, there’s only one thing he wants to know: did you mourn him the way he mourned the future you were supposed to have together? And when he finally finds you again, he realises coming back from the dead hurts far less than seeing the life that moved on without him.

-> June 30th

3 — Long Way 2 Go: Roy Harper

Pairing: Roy Harper x Batsis!Reader

Summary: Roy' been in love with you since the moment you stepped into Titans Tower by Dick's side, everybody knows that. Unfortunately for him, you’ve always seemed untouchable, too composed, too clever, too far above the reckless archer constantly getting himself into trouble. But Roy’s stubborn, and if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s persistence. Even if he’s got a long way to go before you finally let him close enough to stay.

-> July 4th

4 — Never Lose Me: Conner Kent

Pairing: Conner Kent x Hero!Reader

Summary: Conner has spent most of his life feeling like a copy of someone else—something manufactured instead of truly wanted. But you never look at him that way. To you, he’s just Conner: reckless, loyal, stubborn, and entirely his own person. Yet the two of you become inseparable eventually. And when Conner’s deepest fears about being abandoned finally come to the surface, he’s forced to confront the terrifying possibility that maybe loving someone this much means trusting they’ll stay.

-> July 7th

5 — Wait For Your Love: Dick Grayson

Pairing: Ex!Dick Grayson x Ex!Reader

Summary: Breaking up with Dick was supposed to make things easier. Instead, it leaves the two of you trapped in the unbearable space between strangers and lovers, still calling each other first, still gravitating toward each other in crowded rooms, still painfully aware that no matter how hard you try, neither of you knows how to just be friends.

-> July 10th

6 — See You Again: Hal Jordan

Pairing: Hal Jordan x Hero!Reader

Summary: Being in love with Hal means learning how to miss him. A lot. He’s always leaving, across galaxies, into battles, toward emergencies too large for Earth to hold. But no matter how many lightyears separate you, Hal always comes back to you eventually, and despite every lonely night spent waiting, you know you’d choose him every single time.

-> July 11th

7— Paparazzi: Kyle Rayner:

Pairing: Kyle Rayner x Batsis!Reader

Summary: Kyle fell for you long before you ever became his. Somewhere between shared patrols, late-night conversations, and the habit of sketching your face into the corners of his notebooks, admiration turned into infatuation and it was impossible to ignore, so when the two of you finally cross the line from friends into something more, Kyle’s love only grows louder. He photographs you constantly, memorises every expression, looks at you like you’re art come to life. If loving you makes him obsessive, then maybe he doesn’t mind becoming your paparazzi.

-> July 15th

S A M P L E S

Collection of drabbles, headcanons or shorter fics (<2k words)

Feel free to request a song themed fic and after it's written, it'll be added to this list :)

Note -

Moots get preference!

Then first come, first serve.

I won't be able to write all of them

post war!mikasa ackerman who arrives a few hours later, the house cleaner and smelling better than ever, everything feels cleaner and easier to breath. "How do I thank you?" she tells you, leaving the bags of food and drinks by the kitchen door. "Please tell me." You smile sweetly, grabbing one of her hands and pushing the kitchen door open. "Let's cook together."

post war!mikasa ackerman who helps you like she can, she's never been a good cook but you teach her how to cut carrots correctly and how to crack an egg without the shell falling into the mixture.

post war!mikasa ackerman who sees the little smile on your face and doesn't understand how you are the same woman you fought beside her on the rumbling, how you were there too and you didn't relive it every night.

post war!mikasa ackerman who's been trying to be quieter during nights, she doesn't want to scare you with her nightmares or crying. She wants you to be at peace so she can be too.

post war!mikasa ackerman who, the first time you slip into her room and sit on the edge of her bed without a word, she freezes. But you just stay there, humming an old melody from your childhood days until her breathing evens out. She doesn't thank you out loud.

post war!mikasa ackerman who starts leaving little things for you in return. A perfectly sharpened knife on the counter, fresh flowers from the forest placed in a jar by your window, her own blanket draped over your chair when the evenings get cold. She never makes a big deal of it. It's her quiet way of saying stay.

post war!mikasa ackerman who begins to smile more when you two work in the garden together. Her hands are still the strongest you've ever seen, but now they move gently through the soil, planting vegetables. You catch her watching you sometimes when she thinks you're not looking, a soft confusion in her face because she can't figure out why your presence makes the heavy ache in her chest feel a little lighter.

post war!mikasa ackerman who tells you about Eren one rainy afternoon while you're both drying dishes. Her voice cracks only once. she doesn't cry, but her fingers tremble around the plate. You listen without trying to fix it, nodding and saying "I know" when the silence stretches too long. After that day, she starts seeking you out more, sitting closer on the porch swing, her shoulder brushing yours as the sun sets over the river.

post war!mikasa ackerman who realizes one quiet evening that she has been waiting for your footsteps every time you leave the house. The cottage feels too empty without you now. She watches you laugh at something silly she said (a rare comment that she didn't even realized it was funny) and feels her heart do a painful flip. It's not the fierce love she once knew. This one is gentler, scarier in its own way.

post war!mikasa ackerman who still has bad days where the grief sits on her heavy, but now she lets you pull her into a hug instead of pulling away. Your arms around her feel safe. she buries her face in your shoulder and breathes you in, the scent of fresh bread and home. She doesn't say i love you yet. The words feel too big, too soon. But she holds you a little tighter each time, hoping you understand what she can't voice.

post war!mikasa ackerman who falls asleep on your lap one night after a particularly hard day, her hair spilling across your thighs as the fire crackles softly. You stroke her head carefully, heart aching with both sadness and warmth. She looks peaceful like this, the lines of constant pain smoothed out. There will be more nightmares, more heavy silences, more bittersweet memories of a boy she loved and lost. But in this small cottage by the river, with the forest whispering outside, she's starting to believe she can carry it all without breaking. Maybe she can even learn to love again.

a/n: mikasa ackerman you're so dear to me<3 art by mochikuyo on x

Clark’s always teasing you. 

He’s always making jokes at your expense, smiling coyly and commenting on whatever comic you’re reading now, leaning over your shoulder to read and laughing when you get flustered. It’s a routine for him, something he’s grown used to during your shifts together.

More than that. It’s comforting. It helps him get through the day even when he’s late from Superboy-ing around, helps him keep even after he’s gotten lectured by the boss for the umpteenth time. 

Except you’re not here today. 

He noticed your absence immediately, and had already asked around about you only for your boss to shrug his shoulders and say you weren’t coming in today. Clark had tried to ask more questions but the boss just brushed him off, sending him to the back to bag and board more comics.

Still, even as he dives into what was usually his favorite task, Clark can’t stop thinking about you. He misses you, really. Misses your laughter when you tease him, the way you huff and cross your arms over your chest and mutter a quick, ‘that’s not funny’.

His shift drags on, the little texts he sends to you throughout the day going unanswered. It only makes him worry more—what could possibly be going on that you don’t have your phone?

He doesn’t even bother to go home after work, instead, he’s on his way to your place. He’s nervous, flying instead of walking because he can’t shake the feeling that something is horribly wrong with you. That you need him.

It’s a small victory that your living room window is unlocked, though Clark finds no comfort in that. Isn’t he always telling you to lock up tight?

He swallows it back, persisting into the warmth of your living room and locking the window behind him. He calls your name, noticing the distinct emptiness to your house.

You don’t answer.

He calls out for you again, footsteps light as he makes his way into the hallway. Still, there’s no answer. Clark’s frown only deepens.

He knocks gently at your bedroom door. “Hey, you in here?”

No answer.

He pushes it open, slow and careful so as not to walk in on anything he shouldn’t, only to find you laid out in your bed. You’re curled up in a ball, buried under so many blankets that Clark can barely make out your form.

He calls your name again, voice softer this time. You stir slightly, arms curling in to rub at your eyes. 

You blink into the darkness. “CK?”

He cringes at the sound of your voice—all scratchy and dry, sounding like every syllable hurts you. He catches a glimpse of you with his xray vision, frowning when he notices the spike in your temperature.

Sick, he realizes. You’re sick.

“What’re you—” You cough, clearing your achy throat, “what’re you doing here?”

“Was in the neighborhood, just thought I’d check in and all.”

You squint, trying to decipher the expression on his face through your bleary eyes. “Neighborhood? You live seven blocks in the opposite direction.”

“Nevermind that.”

You prop yourself up, body aching in protest, and kick away some of the blankets. You’ve been like this all day, completely laid out in your bed, in pain and hoping for a respite.

“You didn’t come into work today,” he leans against the doorframe. 

A pained smile comes to your dry lips. “You were worried.”

“I was not.” 

“Worry not, Clark.” You shiver slightly, the cold seeping in from the cracks in your blanket. “It’s just a cold.”

“You’re shivering.” 

“I’m aware.”

“Do you need anything? Have you even eaten today?”

You shake your head, a sheepish look on your face. “Didn’t want to get up,” you admit, defeated. “Body hurts so bad.”

He pauses, thinking back to what he needed when he was sick as a kid. Gingerale, plain crackers, cough syrup. A cold cloth on his forehead and someone to tell him he’d be okay. His heart sinks at the thought of you sitting here alone all day.

“What about water? Medicine?”

Again, you shake your head. Clark bites back the urge to tease you, to ask if you were just planning on dying alone in here.

“Hang tight, alright? I’ll be right back.”

It’s a half hour before Clark returns, a plastic bag hanging from his arm. You’re already half-asleep again, curled under your pile of blankets and somehow still shivering.

Your eyes open at the familiar click of your lamp flickering to life. “Clark?”

“Mhm, just me,” he says, rifling through the bag and unpacking its contents onto your nightstand. “Brought you some stuff.”

Pressing a gentle hand to the small of your back, Clark helps you sit up in bed, propping you up against your headboard. His hand lingers on the warm fabric of your shirt.

“First things first: drugs. And sorry, not the fun kind.”

You laugh a little, ribs aching horribly. Clark grabs the water he brought you off your nightstand and brings it to your lips. You swallow a big gulp before he replaces it with his palm, two blue pills resting against the skin.

You tip your head back, swallowing the pills despite the searing pain they bring to your throat. You wince, and Clark’s lips purse into a frown.

“I brought you some ginger ale too,” he gestures to the shiny green bottle on your bedside table. “And there’s lots more medicine.”

“Thanks, Clark.”

He pulls away, the sudden lack of his warmth leaving you cold. A shiver rolls through your body, limbs shaking as you desperately draw them inwards in an attempt to conceal your warmth.

He gets one step away from the bed before turning back to you. “Are you sure you’re not gonna die without me?”

“Y-yeah,” you say, but you’re shivering so badly it comes out as a stutter.

“Do you always have to be so stubborn?”

You’re too tired, too cold and too sick to think of a retort, though Clark yearns for your usual snarkiness. He sighs, kicking off his shoes.

“W-what are you doing?”

“Staying.”

You look at him with glassy eyes. “You’re gonna get sick.”

He flexes a bicep, flashing you that playful grin. “Kryptonian physiology, do your worst.”

You sigh, relaxing back into your pillows and watching as Clark shuffles over to the other side of your bed, lifting a corner of your comforter—buried under half a dozen throw blankets—and sliding under. He reaches an arm out to you, the warmth of his skin already radiating through your bed.

“C’mere.”

“You don’t—don’t have to.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not gonna sit here and let you freeze to death, work would be so boring without you.” 

Among other things, he thinks, though he doesn’t dare say it out loud.

You roll into him, letting his strong arms draw you into his chest. The scent of his deodorant and body wash is just strong enough to seep through your congested nose, the scent a comfort to you. You rest your head against his shoulder, the shivering that’s plagued you slowly fading away.

Clark holds you tightly, resting his own chin above your head, trying to cover as much of your body as he can with his. Slowly, he feels your breathing even out, feels the tenseness of your muscles fade, feels you fall asleep in his arms.

He waits, holding his breath for minutes until finally, he can’t take it anymore. “Sleep well, angel,” he mumbles, brushing his lips over your scorching hot forehead.

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That's why he's quick to open his door when you come knocking. The state he finds you in is enough to have his hands twitching out toward you. Your eyes are red, your hair is disheveled, your eyelids are swollen, and shiny tears are streaking down your cheeks.

Still, he resists the urge to reach out to you just yet.

"You're crying," he states. His voice is quiet but not soft.

"I know," you mumble.

"You disrespected me in front of the cadets earlier."

Levi's words make fresh tears well in your eyes, and you swipe the back of your hand over your face to collect them. He catches your wrist before your hand can fall back to your side.

"I'm sorry." Your voice comes out in a strangled whisper before you're being pulled forward into Levi's room. He shuts the door behind you and guides you over to his cot. Once you're seated, he settles in next to you and lets you tuck yourself against his chest.

Neither of you need to speak to know what's weighing on you. Nothing about being a Scout is easy, but you always have each other to fall back on. A bit of moodiness is never going to be enough to scare Levi away.

"Just talk to me next time," he mumbles into your hair. His arms have slowly snaked their way around your waist, and he's holding you so tightly that all you can focus on is him and his grounding presence.

"I don't want to bother you. You have enough to worry about."

Levi tilts your chin up and looks at you with the same resolve you see in his eyes before a mission. "You're the only part of my life I've ever wanted to worry about, so do us both a favor and come worry me when you're upset."

jean kirstein

"Jeez, I'm beat." Jean, your boyfriend, slumps down on the couch next to you and curls up against your side. His head finds the crook of your neck just as your hand shoves him away, and he lets out a wounded noise. "What was that for?"

"Could you be any more obnoxious?"

Jean gives you a once over before leaning back on the couch. "Probably. Want me to try—ow! Why'd you hit me?"

"I flicked you."

"Same difference." Jean rubs his nose with a huff and sideyes you. "What's your problem, anyway? You've been in a mood all day."

"It's easy when you've been annoying all day," you shoot back.

"I haven't been acting any different than usual, so you either hate me all the time, or you're being sensitive."

And something about those words really rub you the wrong way. "So you think I'm crazy, is what you're saying."

"What?!" Jean sits up and looks at you in disbelief. "That's not even—that's not nearly what I said."

"You were thinking it, though." You shuffle away from him and angle your body toward the armrest, putting your back to your boyfriend.

You are acting crazy. Or, overreacting at least. You're aware of it, but backing down, let alone apologizing, feels way too embarrassing right now. Jean doesn't deserve your ire. Glancing back over your shoulder, you're met with nothing but a soft, honey-brown gaze.

Immediately, you crumble. It doesn't take long before your sniffles are muffled against Jean's chest. His hand smooths over your hair, and his lips press to your temple.

Jean's not unfamiliar with jagged edges and barbed words. He's shown you all of his, and you've never flinched away. You've been there for years of nightmares, even after the titans and the war for Paradis were ended for good. The least he can do is keep a level head when you're struggling.

"I'm sorry," you mumble.

"Don't apologize. I don't need an apology, not from you." Another kiss to your temple and slow, methodical rubs between your shoulder blades has your heart rate regulating. "I just need you to stay."