High School Sweethearts… Sort Of” - Superman/Clark Kent
[ Clark Kent / Superman x Reader ]
Everyone has that one high school crush they never forget. You were his, the cheer captain with the bright smile. Eleven years later, Superman saves you on live television, and suddenly Clark Kent is reliving Friday night lights all over again.
Everyone had that one high school crush. The person you could never quite forget. Maybe it was the classmate who always lent you a pencil, the senior who never noticed you, or the star quarterback who felt miles out of reach. School law. Some people never grew out of it.
Fifteen years later, people would come to the reunion still looking for them. Wondering what could have been.
For Clark Kent, that person was you.
Clark graduated from Smallville High eleven years ago, at eighteen. He still remembered the smell of cut grass on the football field, the endless Kansas sky, and the squeak of sneakers against the gymnasium floor. He remembered his friends from the AV club, the hours in the dim journalism room, the nervous quiet he carried in the halls.
But most of all, he remembered you.
Ms. Popular herself. Cheer captain. Bright smile, perfect laugh. The kind of girl who could walk into a room and have the whole place orbit around her. You said you were going to be a TV star someday, and no one doubted it. How could they? You seemed destined for it.
Your family’s farm wasn’t far from his. Wheat, cattle, corn — and your father made good money off it, enough that you always had nice clothes, a clean car. You were the girl everyone loved, the one parents whispered about — she’ll be famous someday, you wait.
You weren’t cruel, though. You’d smile at Clark when you passed him in the halls. Sometimes, after a football game, you’d pat him on the shoulder and tell him “good job.”
And Clark… Clark would go red all the way to the tips of his ears.
Because even though he stood on the football field, he wasn’t on the football team, not really. He sat on the bench, year after year, careful never to risk too much, never to let his “abilities” slip. Mr. Kent had made sure of that. No touchdowns, no glory.
According to Tommy H., the quarterback, and everyone else, Clark Kent didn’t stand a chance. Not with a bombshell like you. Not with the cheer captain. Not with the girl who was leaving Smallville behind the second graduation caps hit the ground.
So Clark did what he always did. He kept quiet.
At graduation, he sat behind you. He watched you beam with your friends, heard your mother sob happily in the crowd, and saw your father’s proud grin.
When it was over, you turned, smiling at him with that blinding sunshine of yours, and Clark managed to stammer out a soft, “Congratulations.”
It was the last thing he ever said to you.
And then you were gone.
Clark Kent had plenty of secrets. He grew into them, the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders. He became a man, a reporter, a hero. He wore glasses and smiles and hid in plain sight.
But every now and then, when he let his thoughts wander back to those endless Kansas fields and the old Smallville High gymnasium… he still thought of you.
The girl he couldn’t stop thinking about all these years later.
It had been eleven years since you graduated from Smallville High.
Back then, you left with stars in your eyes and your sights set high — Hollywood, Broadway, the bright lights of New York. You swore you’d be a star, the next Dolly Parton, a household name by twenty-five.
It hadn’t quite worked out that way.
The competition was brutal. There were dozens of girls who looked like you, sounded like you, maybe even wanted it more. You landed a few commercials, a catalog shoot, even an extra role or two. But it wasn’t the career you had imagined when you strutted across that stage in your graduation cap.
Your agent suggested another direction. “You’ve got presence,” he said. “Camera loves you. Why not news?”
So you took the leap.
Now, eleven years later, you weren’t a movie star — but you were something. A recognizable face on Metropolis News Channel 1. A reporter with a reputation for her pretty smile, soft voice, and stubborn tendency to plant herself right where the action was.
You chased the biggest stories, no matter how dangerous. You’d been shoved by rioters, drenched in rainstorms, nearly flattened by a falling lamppost. You never got your exclusive with Superman, though god knows you tried, but you were always there. On scene. First with the mic.
It had become something of a running joke with the crew. You were always the first one to dash toward the blue-and-red blur with your microphone extended, calling out breathless questions. And you were always ignored. Superman never stopped, never even looked your way. You could see him in the background of your reels sometimes, just a streak of cape and muscle flying past, and your coworkers would tease you for it.
“Your boyfriend’s playing hard to get again,” they’d say, and you’d roll your eyes, laughing, but a small part of you burned with frustration.
It wasn’t the life you planned, but it was a good one. People knew your name. You never had to worry about your rent. You laughed with the crew in the studio after long shifts. And sometimes, late at night, you wondered: if the chance to audition again came…would you even want it anymore?
“Are we rolling?” you asked, tightening your grip on the microphone as you smoothed your hair back.
Your cameraman gave you a thumbs-up, his face pale as rubble shook the ground beneath you. He tried not to look at the monstrous figure wreaking havoc just yards away, probably because if he did, he’d bolt.
You pasted on your brightest smile. “Hello, Metropolis! This is [Name], reporting live from Fifth Avenue, where a surprise attack has just unfolded!”
A boulder the size of a sedan crashed into the street behind you, the sound rattling your teeth. You didn’t flinch, not on camera.
“As always,” you continued, voice steady, “we are first on the scene—”
The words cut off as you and the cameraman ducked instinctively. A car spun through the air above your heads, slamming into a lamppost and crumpling like foil.
You popped back up a second later, brushing dust from your sleeve, still smiling into the lens. “—and as you can see, the attack is still very much in progress.”
Behind you, the sky was a blur of blue and red, cape snapping in the wind.
“But our very own Superman,” you said, voice catching just slightly, “is doing a wonderful job holding the line.”
Your cameraman muttered under his breath, “You’re insane,” as he steadied the shot.
But you didn’t move. You adjusted your mic, eyes tracking the blur of motion. Superman darted forward, intercepting another chunk of falling concrete before it could crush a bus full of terrified commuters. You moved quickly with your cameraman, repositioning closer to the action, giving the audience at home a ringside seat to the chaos.
“Superman has just pulled four civilians from the wreckage of an overturned taxi,” you reported breathlessly, walking backward as you spoke, the camera following you. “Despite heavy damage to the block, no fatalities have yet been reported. Emergency crews are on route, but until then, Superman is the only thing standing between Metropolis and disaster.”
The ground trembled as another explosion rocked the avenue. You ducked instinctively, but when you straightened, you caught him again, cape flashing, body colliding with the villain, sending shockwaves rippling through the air.
The words died on your tongue.
You didn’t notice the massive chunk of concrete spiraling end over end toward you until it was already too late. Your cameraman shouted, throwing his arm up uselessly, and your breath caught in your throat—
A shadow fell over you.
And then impact.
The slab smashed against something solid just inches behind you, splintering into harmless rubble that clattered across the ground. The shockwave never touched you. Because floating there, broad shoulders squared, cape falling heavy around him, was Superman himself. The debris had struck his back and crumbled like chalk against steel.
You blinked up at him, stunned, your mic trembling in your hand. He didn’t even glance at the wreckage — his gaze was fixed on you, sharp, unyielding, voice low and edged with disapproval.
“What are you doing?”
You froze. The mic nearly slipped from your fingers.
He looked bigger up close, broader, radiating a power that made the air hum around him.
And then his gaze snagged on you.
For just a moment, his stern expression faltered. His eyes widened.
“[Name]?” he breathed.
Your heart skipped. Superman knew your name?
You blinked, and then — because live television had never scared you, you grinned at the camera and quipped, “Well look at that, Metropolis! Superman knows my name. Guess I really am famous now.”
The corner of his mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but bit it back, rolling his eyes skyward instead. Before you could say another word, his arm slid firmly around your waist, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. With his other arm, he snagged your shrieking cameraman and the heavy equipment like it was made of cardboard.
“Wait-hey! We’re still rolling!” you protested as the ground dropped away beneath you. The wind whipped your hair, your mic still clutched in your hand.
In seconds, he set you both down at the far end of the street, beyond the police barricades. The crowd gasped, phones flashing as you stumbled onto solid ground. Superman hovered above you, cape billowing, eyes sharp again.
“Stay away from the danger zone,” he ordered firmly. “You make it harder for me to work.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already turning. Panic flared. “Wait! Can I get an interview after?” you shouted, lifting your mic toward the sky.
For a heartbeat, you thought he’d ignore you.
Then, mid-flight, his voice carried back over the crowd, rich and low: “Maybe!”
The cheers of the bystanders drowned out your laugh, but you couldn’t stop smiling as you adjusted your hair, turning back to your wide-eyed cameraman.
“Please tell me you got that on tape.”
Your cameraman stared at you, pale and shaking, clutching the camera like his life depended on it. Slowly, he nodded.
“Oh,” you said, breath hitching with giddy disbelief, “this is gonna make the highlight reel.”
The battle was over.
The villain was cuffed and groaning in the custody of the Metropolis SCU. Fire crews were dousing the last of the flames, smoke curling into the morning sky. The streets were chaos, crushed cars, shattered glass, civilians trickling out from hiding places with wide eyes.
And Superman hovered above it all, cape heavy with soot, eyes sweeping the crowd.
He wasn’t sure if he’d actually give that interview you shouted for — truth be told, interviews were dangerous, distracting, and complicated. But still…he found himself scanning for you. Not the crowd of reporters clawing for attention at the barricade, screaming his name into microphones, cameras flashing like lightning. Not the news vans lined bumper to bumper down the avenue.
You.
And suddenly, he understood why he probably hadn’t noticed you before. Among this sea of lenses and shouting, you’d have been just another face, another voice calling his name. But now—
“Superman!”
His head snapped toward the sound.
And there you were.
Not at the barricades. Not wedged between the dozens of elbows and microphones. No — you’d somehow slipped behind the protective gate, standing tall atop a toppled-over car, balancing like you belonged there. Hair windswept, eyes bright, microphone still clutched in one hand. You weren’t shouting like the others. You just were. And somehow, that was louder than all of it.
He sighed, but the corner of his mouth curved before he could stop it. Of course it would be you.
He drifted toward you, footsteps landing lightly on the cracked asphalt as the crowd roared behind him. Flashbulbs popped like fireworks, “Superman! Superman, one question! Over here! Please, just one statement!” but he only saw you.
“Good job,” you said, smiling up at him like it was the simplest thing in the world.
And suddenly, Clark wasn’t standing in the rubble of Metropolis anymore. He was seventeen again. On the football field in Kansas. You were in your cheer uniform, sunlight bouncing off your hair as you leaned over the railing, giving him that exact same smile. “Good job, Kent!” you’d said back then, clapping him on the back after a game he barely played in.
For the first time all day, Clark felt warm.
The crowd noise dulled as you tilted the mic toward him, grinning like you had the upper hand.
“So,” you said, balancing on the crumpled car, “how about that interview?”
Superman’s jaw flexed. He meant to brush you off, meant to give you the usual half-answer that never promised anything, but the words slipped out before he could catch them.
“I’m free tomorrow.”
Your brows lifted in delight, lips parting in surprise. “Tomorrow?”
His stomach dropped. Too late to take it back. “Yes. Tomorrow.”
You smiled wider, teeth flashing. “And how exactly will I find you, Superman? Do I just…shout into the sky?”
He exhaled, trying to play it cool. “Give my friend Clark Kent a call. He’ll put us in touch.” The words came out too quickly, too casual, but he tried to cover it with a faint shrug. “He’s the guy that usually interviews me.”
Your eyes lit up instantly. “Clark Kent!?”
He stiffened, blinking as if he’d been struck. “You…know him?”
“Of course I know him!” you said happily. “We went to high school together! Smallville, class of—well, I won’t date myself. But yeah. Clark’s the sweetest.”
His heart nearly stopped.
You were beaming now, eyes faraway with nostalgia. “I had the fattest crush on him back then. Everyone thought I’d move away and forget all about Smallville, but…” You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I’ve actually been wanting to reach out. Catch up, you know?”
Clark’s ears rang. He was so close to giving himself away then and there, tearing off the glasses he wasn’t even wearing in the moment, shouting it’s me. Instead, he swallowed hard and forced his voice to stay even.
“Well,” he said, managing a small, sheepish smile, “I’m happy to reconnect you two.”
It sounded smooth enough, but inside he was screaming.
Because all these years later, after hiding, after doubting, after convincing himself you’d never thought twice about him, here you were, telling Superman of all people that Clark Kent had once been your high school crush.
Score.
It was late evening in Smallville when Clark asked you to go for a drive. The air was warm, cicadas buzzing in the trees, and the fields rolled endlessly under the fading light. He hadn’t told you where you were headed, only smiled that nervous, boyish smile as he guided the truck down the familiar dirt road.
When he parked, you realized exactly where you were.
The high school football field stretched before you, bleachers a little rusted now, grass patchy in spots. The goalposts still stood tall against the darkening sky, and for a second you swore you could almost hear the faint echo of cheers and the marching band.
“Clark,” you said softly, stepping out of the truck. “The field.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, following you toward the fifty-yard line. “Yeah. I thought…maybe it was fitting.”
“Fitting?”
He chuckled nervously. “It’s where you always told me ‘good job,’ even when I hardly played. You were the one who decorated my locker during spirit week. You were the only cheerleader who ever really noticed me. And I think about that all the time...that smile, the way you made me feel like I mattered.”
You blinked at him, your heart swelling.
And then Clark Kent, the boy you’d once pined for and the man you loved now, dropped to one knee in the middle of the field. The empty bleachers, the scent of cut grass, the faint glow of the stadium lights — it all wrapped around the two of you like the past had been waiting for this.
“[Name],” he said, voice steady but his hands trembling, “I’ve loved you for longer than I can admit. Will you marry me?”
You gasped, tears springing to your eyes as laughter bubbled out of you. “Clark Kent—you absolute sap—YES!”
He slipped the ring onto your finger, and you tackled him before he could stand, the two of you collapsing into the grass, laughing and kissing like teenagers who had just been given a second chance.
Later, you drove back to the farms.
The porch lights glowed warm against the twilight, and the smell of cinnamon and peaches greeted you before you even made it through the door. Martha had baked pies, two, just in case one wasn’t enough and your mom arrived with a basket of wine bottles that she declared were “absolutely worth opening tonight.” By the time everyone was seated around the Kent table, it was a chorus of voices, glasses clinking, chairs scraping against the old floorboards.
Stories flowed as easily as the wine. Your dad teased Clark about his “clean” football jersey back in the day, while Jonathan proudly retold the tale of Clark’s very first tractor job like it was a superhero feat of its own. Martha and your mom couldn’t stop gushing, trading hugs across the table until you swore they might fuse into one person.
And through it all, Clark never let go of your hand. His thumb traced absent circles over your ring, his eyes darting to it as if he needed constant reassurance it was real. Every time you caught him staring, you gave his hand a squeeze, and he’d smile at you like no one else existed in the room.
When the first toast came, you clinked your glass against his, grinning ear to ear. “So,” you teased, “does this make us high school sweethearts now?”
Clark ducked his head, cheeks pink, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That’s…not how it works.”
“Sure it is,” you nudged, bumping your shoulder into his. “You’re my quarterback, Kent.”
That made him laugh, soft and shy, the kind of laugh that warmed the table more than the wine ever could.
Dessert came next: peach pie, still warm from the oven, and cobbler that your mom insisted was “just a little burnt, but perfect with ice cream.” Everyone dug in with the kind of appetite only farm families could muster, forks clinking, laughter spilling.
It was then, while Clark was mid-bite, that you leaned toward him with a grin, lowering your voice to a stage whisper that your parents couldn’t not overhear.
“Oh! We have to invite Superman to the wedding. I mean, he was our matchmaker.”
Clark froze. Utterly. Mid-bite, fork still hovering in the air.
Then he coughed, nearly choking on the mouthful of pie, and fumbled for his napkin. Both families turned to look at him curiously as his ears flushed bright red.
“Superman?” Jonathan echoed, amused. Looking over at his wife knowingly “Now that would be some guest list.”
Your mom perked up, eyes gleaming. “Oh! Could you imagine the photos? We’d make every magazine in Kansas.”
"Whose superman again?" asked your father
You laughed, leaning back in your chair, clearly entertained by the idea. “Well, it’s true! If it wasn’t for him allowing me an interview, Clark and I might never have reconnected. He’s practically our cupid.”
Clark pressed his napkin to his mouth, looking like a man trying to hide in plain sight. He set his fork down carefully, too carefully, and gave you a sheepish, helpless little smile.
“Honey,” he said, voice low but carrying just enough weight to hush the room. His eyes flicked nervously between your parents, his parents, and then back to you. “There’s…something I need to tell you.”
The table went quiet. Even the clock ticking in the hall seemed to stop.
If he was going to tell you, he might as well tell your parents too. Because how else would he explain, a few years from now, when your kids started flying around the barn loft or shooting laser beams through the back fence?
You blinked at him, eyebrows raised, lips quirking with a half-smile. “…Clark?”
And suddenly, he looked exactly like the boy you remembered, flustered, earnest, heart on his sleeve, only now he had the weight of the world resting on his shoulders.
“Superman’s already going to be at the wedding,” he said carefully.
You tilted your head. “Oh? You invited him?”
The whole table leaned in, waiting for his answer.
Clark exhaled. His hand found yours under the table, squeezing tight. “No,” he said softly, almost sheepishly. “I am him.”
For a beat, no one moved. No one breathed.
Then your mother let out a squeak, blinked twice, and fainted clean out of her chair.
Martha was quick to scoop your mother upright, guiding her back into the chair and pressing a cold towel gently to her forehead. “Deep breaths, sweetheart,” she said kindly
Clark was still stiff as a fence post, eyes flicking nervously between your family, worried maybe they'd disapprove suddenly. He opened his mouth to try again, but you cut him off with a grin.
“Clark,” you said sweetly, leaning into him. “I already knew.”
His head whipped toward you so fast you thought he might give himself whiplash. “You knew!?”
You shrugged, sipping your wine like it was nothing. “Yeah. I figured it out after a while.”
“After a while?” His voice cracked, his ears turning bright red. “How long have you—”
“Oh, months.” You waved your free hand casually, trying not to laugh at his scandalized expression. “Honestly, it wasn’t hard. I know you too well. Besides I'm a news reporter”
You smirked, leaning over to poke Clark in the chest. “I just liked seeing you sweat.”
Clark groaned, burying his face in his hand. “Unbelievable…”
But he couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips, not when you were beaming at him like that.
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This prompt has been filled by me! Anyone can write more interpretations and I'd love to see them, but if you're a reader, here's mine!
https://archiveofourown.org/works/63921304
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An alternate universe where everything is basically the same, except for that Witchers aren't taught anything about humans, and never truly interact with any.
Witchers don't go into towns for contracts. Monster contracts are posted on boards on the outer border of towns. People must check back every day to see if the contract has a knife in it. If it does, it means the witcher is either out fulfilling it, or already has. The witcher will then walk out of the forest with proof of it's kill, you gift them clothing, food, weaponry, sometimes even a steed, and back away slowly.
Geralt is a witcher. And the most monstrous of them, if you were to ask him. He has sickly skin, long unnaturally white hair, and those slitted yellow eyes of his. It doesn't matter. Roach doesn't care how he looks, and that's good enough for him.
He's hoping this contract will give him some new clothes. He'd even take sewing supplies. His best shirt has a big gash in the sleeve. Which wouldn't normally bother him, he could deal with it, but Roach keeps trying to nibble on it.
It's a contract for a bruxa. One that's apparently been causing a lot of issues for some "count." Disrupting parties and attempting to lure people away for the slaughter. Geralt has killed her, and has her head as proof. When he approaches the board with his proof, he sees two humans waiting for him.
One of them sneers in disgust, and one of them gasps in horror, tearing up. Geralt presents the head, and then holds his hand out for his reward. The older human shoves the scared one at Geralt. The scared one stumbles as he's shoved, and looks up at Geralt with big, wet blue eyes.
Geralt tilts his head and turns back to the older one. That one must be the Count.
"Your reward, Witcher."
"F- Father!"
"Silence, Julian. I don't care what you do to him."
The Count turns and leaves. 'Julian' looks at Geralt with fear. Geralt is used to that. Witchers are scary.
"I- I thought Witchers only hunted monsters, why did you kill Emmaline?"
"...This?" Geralt asks, holding up the head, and the human gags, but nods. "It was a monster. She was a Bruxa. A type of vampire."
Julian stares blankly for a moment, before he erupts into laughter. Geralt doesn't usually see or hear laughter very often. He likes when this 'Julian' laughs! Oh, but the laughing turns to sobbing.
"I should've known! Of course she didn't like my bloody songs! She liked my bloody blood!"
The Julian cries, and Geralt feels awkward. He doesn't quite know how to make a human happy. This would be easier if Geralt were at his camp. He doesn't like being so close to a town. He needs to be in the woods. He scoops up his (apparently) Julian, and throws him over his shoulder and walks him back to camp.
Julian is now sitting by Geralt's campfire, still crying, but now it's silent. Geralt sits down beside him. Humans comfort with touch, he thinks. He doesn't truly know. He awkwardly puts his arms around Julian, and it doesn't seem to working.... Aha! Because the tears are still coming! Geralt can fix that! Geralt leans in and licks the salty water away. Julian starts laughing again, and finally relaxes. Geralt did it! He's such a good humankeeper!
Having a human around is difficult, but Geralt is quite happy with this new arrangement! Geralt smiles a lot more than he used to. His human is adorable, and he's funny! And Geralt is learning so much more about humans! But sometimes that's horrifying.
Geralt learned humans need to eat every day, so Geralt has begun hunting more. Julian didn't tell him this fact, Geralt had to learn it by himself when Julian fainted one day.
Geralt also learned that humans are delicate things. Julian tripped over a root in the ground and ended up bleeding! BLEEDING! Geralt nearly lost it, that day. He licked his scratch clean, and bandaged his human, and kept a grip on his arm the rest of the day to balance him.
They're sensitive, too.
The night had a light breeze, or so Geralt thought. Julian was shaking, teeth chattering, breaths visible. Hm. Perhaps it was colder than Geralt thought. He drags the human over, making Julian let out an odd "whoop!" sound, and wraps his arms around him. Julian scoots closer before settling, wrapping around geralt.
Humans are also curious. Too curious. Julian followed him on a hunt once and almost got hurt. Geralt shouted at him, immediately felt horrible, and apologized, but made sure to let Julian know that Julian was the one who did something stupid. Geralt thinks about getting a leash to keep his human safe at camp, but he doesn't think Julian would go for it.
His human seems happy! Until he doesn't. All of a sudden he's walking slower, and constantly frowning, and he sighs every few minutes! It's driving Geralt crazy not knowing how to fix it! He's tried all the things that have worked before! He licked him, he hugged him, he let him pet Roach, he made him a bigger portion of food, but nothing is working!
"What troubles you?"
"…Hm? Oh, sorry. It's just… I wanted to be a bard. Before."
"Before?"
"…My father.. Sold me to you, Geralt."
Oh yeah.
"…What's a bard?"
"G- Geralt, you don't know what a bard is?"
"No."
"Why, it's simply the best career out there! At least for me. Bards make music. They travel the continent singing their sweet melodies and sharing their feelings and hope to every townsperson out there. Farmers and nobles alike love a good bard."
Julian twitters on some more about these 'bard' titles.
"How do you become a bard?"
"Well, you need an instrument. I had a lute, once. And you write songs in a notebook or journal. And all you have to do is sing them."
Thus Geralt makes a plan. Geralt goes searching for these items, loots here and there, and he believes he has a perfectly functional 'lute' and a journal. Geralt has a journal. It's too full of monsters to be given to his human, though. His human deserved one just for his songs.
When Geralt gave these items to his human, his human started sobbing. Shit! But Julian insists it's "happy" sobbing??? That's a thing? Humans will also cry when happy? Geralt will take note of this.
Geralt's Julian is MUCH happier now! And he makes such nice noises! He sings for Geralt all the time now. He strums his lute, and sings, and when he's not doing that, he's humming, and when he's not doing that, he's excitedly chatting away to Geralt, and it all makes him so happy. His human is happy! He likes his little human friend. And Geralt now knows for sure his human friend likes him back.
"Though it hurt so much at the time, I'm so very glad my father gave me to you. I've truly never been happier."
It appears Julian's last humankeepers were bad at their job, despite being humans themselves. Oh well. Doesn't matter now. Geralt would never rehome him.
Thus comes Geralt's problem.
Winter is coming. He needs to head to the keep. He can keep his human alive up the path, Geralt's sure of it. He's skilled in humankeeping by now. But the actual staying part is what scares him. What if when Julian meets the other witchers, he finds one that can keep him even happier than Geralt? What if Geralt loses his Julian!? It's just unthinkable!
Synopsis: The strongest sorcerer alive can defeat special-grade curses without breaking a sweat, but a late-night scroll on Facebook Marketplace might just be his ultimate test.
Based on a tiktok I saw a couple weeks ago and couldn't stop thinking about.
The soft, ambient glow of phone screens was the only light illuminating the bedroom. It was one of those rare evenings where Satoru didn't have a late-night curse to exorcise, and he was content simply sprawling across the mattress, one heavy arm lazily thrown over your waist while he mindlessly scrolled through his feed.
You, on the other hand, were on a mission.
"Satoru, look," you whispered, breaking the cozy silence. You turned your screen toward his face, tapping the display eagerly. "Isn't this vintage vanity so pretty? Do you think it fits my aesthetic?"
Satoru barely shifted his gaze from his own phone, giving the screen a cursory glance. All he saw was a swirl of antique wood and ornate glass before he leaned in, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to your forehead. "Mhm. Totally, babe. Looks just like you," he hummed affectionately, his voice deep and relaxed.
"Good," you chirped, sliding your phone back into your hands, "because I already bought it."
"That's nice, honey..." he murmured, humming in absentminded acknowledgment as his thumb kept scrolling. The words didn't even register.
The next morning was a completely different story.
Satoru leaned against the kitchen counter, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, only to find you practically bouncing off the walls. You were humming a lively tune, twirling past him in a blur of pastel fabric and undeniable excitement.
He leaned back, watching you with a amused smirk. "Alright, what's got you bouncing around like a little pinball so early?"
"I'm bringing the vanity I showed you yesterday home today!" you beamed, clapping your hands together.
Satoru froze, a half-empty mug halfway to his lips. He lowered it slowly, reaching up with his free hand to scratch the back of his neck in utter bewilderment. "Wait... today? But how are you getting it here? Did you hire movers?"
You stopped in your tracks, turning to him with a slow, sly smirk playing on your lips. "Let's just say... the suspect is closer than they think."
Before he could process the ominous hint, you stepped on your tiptoes, planted a quick, sugary kiss on his cheek, and giggled as you scurried down the hallway.
Satoru stood there, completely motionless. The silence stretched for three agonizing seconds as the rusty gears in his sleepy brain finally clicked into place.
The suspect... wait.
His eyes widened beneath his fringe. HE was the suspect. He was supposed to go pick up and carry a massive, solid-wood vintage vanity across town! Principal Yaga was literally going to have his head if he didn't show up for his scheduled briefings today, and here he was, drafted into off-duty furniture hauling.
"You've gotta be kidding me," Satoru groaned out loud. He ran a hand through his messy white hair, letting out a long, dramatic sigh that echoed down the hall.
When he looked up, he caught sight of you peeking sheepishly from around the living room wall, only your big, innocent eyes and hands visible as you clutched the corner of the wood.
Satoru sighed again, though the exasperation melted into fond adoration the moment he saw your guilty little face. He pushed off the counter and stalked over to you, shaking his head.
"Well," he purred, stopping right in front of you and leaning down until he was eye-level, "what are strong, handsome, loving boyfriends for, I guess?"
Two hours later, the "strong, handsome, loving boyfriend" was reconsidering every life choice that had brought him to this exact doorway.
Satoru was currently wedged in the front entrance, grunting as he maneuvered a massive, hundred-pound antique mahogany vanity through a door frame that seemed to have shrunk three inches just to spite him.
He could have used Infinity to manipulate the weight, but the damn thing had so many delicate, hand-carved flourishes and fragile antique mirrors that one wrong burst of cursed energy would turn your prized possession into firewood. He was forced to move it the old-fashioned, manual way.
"Just... twist it... left..." Satoru muttered under his breath, his jaw set in pure, unyielding stubbornness. The corner of the vanity caught on the trim with a loud thump. He froze, holding his breath, praying he hadn't chipped the wood. "Okay, pivot..."
While the strongest sorcerer alive was engaged in a life-or-death battle against a 1920s dressing table, you were living in absolute bliss just a few feet away in the open-concept living area.
You flounced merrily between the kitchen counter and the couch, completely unbothered by his grunts of exertion. A dusting of flour sat on the tip of your nose as you pulled a tray of freshly baked cinnamon rolls out of the oven, humming your favorite song entirely out of key.
After sliding the tray onto a cooling rack, you flopped gracefully onto the sofa, grabbing a ball of yarn and your favorite crochet hook. Satoru chanced a glance over the top of a giant mirror frame—his white hair sticking up in crazy directions, a tiny bead of sweat running down his temple—only to see you with your head tilted, your tiny pink tongue sticking out of the corner of your mouth in deep concentration as you stitched a miniature frog hat.
"You doing alright over there, honey?" you asked sweetly without looking up, your hook moving in a swift, practiced rhythm.
Satoru took a deep, agonizing breath, muscles flexing as he heaved the heavy mahogany another inch into the hallway, determined to never, ever admit defeat.
"Just fine, babe!" he called back, his voice straining just a little bit through a clenched-teeth smile. "Piece of cake!"
Wake up, babe, a new part of Bonds of Silver is out!
Now that they're engaged and Shadowheart's parents know, it's time to share the big news with their friends. Who wants to know what the old gang has been up to? And, as a bonus, Lae'zel hears about the concept of bachelorette parties for the first time.
Ship: Shadowzel (plus other two very gay relationships)
WC: 2,168
Warnings: other than a little bit of alcohol and a mention of sex work, I'd say it's totally safe
You can read it under the cut or on AO3. And if you comment and reblog you will make me very happy! 🥰
The familiar smells of ale and freshly baked bread greet Shadowheart as soon as she steps into the Elfsong Tavern, hand in hand with Lae'zel. It's been a while since they last visited it, but it still feels like a second home. A nostalgic smile carves its way to her lips, her gaze landing on the dark wood columns, the drapes that surround some of the booths and the old stools by the bar. This place hasn't changed one bit.
She spots Lakrissa rushing around between the barrels that serve as tables in the middle of the room, carrying a tray full of pints. Her horns, high ponytail and blue-ish skin are easy to recognize. As soon as she sees them, the tiefling waves, hurrying to bring the drinks to their owners so she can go and talk to them.
“Hey!” she beams. “Alfira told me everything. Congratulations to you two!”
Definitely not everything, Shadowheart thinks to herself, and chuckles inwardly. Alfira is probably unaware of the fact that she was suspected to be having an affair with Lae'zel. The three of them engage in a little small talk while Lakrissa guides them to one of the best booths in the whole tavern. This is where they used to sit together with their companions, where they would nourish themselves and take breaks between fighting cultists and solving crimes around the city.
Shadowheart takes her seat and lets her fingers trace the seven-pointed star in a corner of the table. She still remembers the evening when Astarion carved it with his own dagger. Just a little mark to prove that he once was there, he said. In her opinion, they were lucky no-one saw him, or else they would have probably kicked them out and banned them from the premises forever.
They've barely settled when Lakrissa leaves a goblet of red wine and a mug of beer in front of them. It's nice that she remembers their usual drinks and brought them before they've even ordered. She winks at them before going her way.
“I missed this place,” Lae'zel comments as she wets her lips in the froth.
“Me too,” Shadowheart replies. “We should come more often. It's not the same without the others, though.”
And that is exactly why they're here – to share the good news with the rest of the old gang. What better excuse for them to gather than a marriage? If it weren't for Gale and Tav, who occupied the oldest inn in Waterdeep for three days, they'd be the first ones in the group to tie the knot, even though they were the last ones to make their relationship official.
“Are you nervous?” Lae'zel asks.
“No. Why?”
“You were nervous about telling your parents.”
“Oh. It's not the same. Our friends knew about us before it actually happened.”
“So did your parents.”
“Fair point. But I didn't know they knew.”
She still feels stupid for ever doubting them, and there are no words to describe her relief. Not only do Arnell and Emmeline approve of their relationship, but they're also their biggest supporters. They adore Lae'zel and constantly gush over what a great partner she is. Arnell is delighted to finally have found someone who appreciates his terrible jokes and doesn't seem to get tired of playing cards with him. As for Emmeline, buying wool was pretty much one of the first things she did as soon as they arrived in Rivington. When Shadowheart kissed her goodbye before heading for the city, she was sitting on the rocking chair in the patio, knitting a blanket for Lae'zel with one of the cats curled up on her lap. For now, they seem to be quite content. No war flashbacks triggered by being near Baldur's Gate again and no Sharran assassins showing up at their doorstep. The only things they need to worry about at the moment are wedding preparations and making sure Mondo and the cats don't hurt each other too badly.
“There they are!”
That boisterous voice is unmistakable. Karlach's radiant smile brightens up the tavern as she gives each one of them a rib-bursting hug that lifts them a few inches from the ground. Her red skin is still warm, but no longer in that ominous, unnatural way. Minthara trails behind her, offering them both polite handshakes.
“Gods, it's so good to be back here!” Karlach exclaims, slamming her fists against the table excitedly. “I missed you guys sooooo much!”
“Awww, we missed you too,” Shadowheart responds.
“This city may be chaotic and crowded, but you end up growing fond of it,” Minthara says with a half-grin, red eyes glancing sideways at Karlach.
“It's a mess, but it's our mess,” Karlach adds. “By the way, you guys need to visit us. You're gonna love our new place! It's still a little empty because we've just moved in, but we're working on it.”
“Does that mean you're here to stay?” Shadowheart's smile grows wider.
“Fuck yes!” Karlach answers. “Not even an army will keep me away again!”
“Now that this one's heart is functional and our business in Menzoberranzan is sorted out, we have nowhere else to be,” Minthara explains.
“What are you planning to do?” Lae'zel wonders.
“First of all, get some rest.” Karlach leans on the backrest of the couch and throws her head back. “These past few years have been really tiring and hectic, so I'd say we've earned it. Then – I don't know, the world is my oyster! Jaheira's been trying to convince me to join the Harpers.”
“Old woman was supposed to be retired, but doing the recruiting is in her nature,” Minthara says.
“Have you seen her recently? Do you know if she's coming?” Shadowheart wants to know. “She didn't reply to our sending spell.”
“Must be caught up saving this city's ass for the millionth time,” Karlach guesses. “But yes, we stayed in her place for a few days when we got here. Helped us find our new home.”
“Classic Jaheira,” Lae'zel smirks.
The catching up is interrupted when two more people join. Wyll looks more like a prince every day with his elegant robes and his impeccable shoes. He has let his hair grow and replaced his cornrows with a curly mane that grows between his horns. Tiny golden beads and trinkets decorate them. Astarion, on the other hand, remains faithful to his frilly shirts and leather trousers.
“Sorry we're late,” Wyll apologizes. “Council meetings tend to drag on for ages. Besides, we had to wait for the sun to set completely.”
He points his head at Astarion. The pale elf nods.
“That bloody fireball was unusually reluctant to go away today.”
“Well, we're happy you made it in the end,” Shadowheart tells him.
“Of course, darling. Wouldn't miss this for the world. Are we expecting anyone else?”
“Halsin sends his regards from Reithwin,” Lae'zel informs, “and so do Gale and Tav from Waterdeep. The only one we are unsure about is Jaheira.”
“Does that mean we can get started? Curiosity is killing me.”
Shadowheart and Lae'zel exchange a look. Then a nod as they stand up. Despite what she said before, Shadowheart realizes that she is nervous. Or excited, perhaps. With her heart hammering against her chest, she holds Lae'zel's hand before speaking.
“We're getting married.”
“Awwww!” Karlach squeals. “I knew it! I'm so happy for you both!”
“Congratulations!” Wyll smiles broadly.
Even the other two, usually less enthusiastic, seem to light up at the news.
“When? Where?” Karlach questions excitedly.
“We do not know yet,” Lae'zel answers. “We were considering next spring, but there is a lot of work to do before that.”
“And we'll be there, of course!” Wyll says. “I can't wait!”
“Yes, this is all very nice,” Astarion chimes in with his trademark smirk. “Now tell us the important part – who is going to be your best man?”
“One of my parents will walk me down the aisle, that's for sure, but-”
“But that's not the only thing the best man does,” Karlach corrects. “They take care of the rings or bracelets, organize the bachelorette parties-”
“Because there's going to be a bachelorette party, right?” Astarion raises one of his eyebrows. “Or rather two.”
“What is a bachelorette party?” Lae'zel asks.
Right. Shadowheart shouldn't have assumed Lae'zel would know of that, especially when the topic is only now being brought up.
“Oh, it's just a little gathering,” Wyll explains. “The partners meet separately with their friends to celebrate, play games, have a few drinks...”
Confusion is written all over Lae'zel's face. She blinks a few times.
“Like we are doing now?”
“Not quite,” Astarion contradicts. “Each partner is supposed to meet their friends without the other partner.”
“But why? Shadowheart and I are friends with the same people.”
Astarion scoffs. The fact that Lae'zel doesn't know anything about this tradition seems to frustrate him. He waves his hands, as though searching for words.
“Those parties represent your last night being single. Your last night of freedom. They're usually an excuse to go wild one last time.”
“Go wild?”
“Heh, yes,” Karlach snickers. “They involve quite a generous amount of alcohol and the games Wyll mentioned before are generally of the spicy variety.”
“Not necessarily,” Wyll points out. “That depends on the person getting married and the friend who organizes the party. They can be normal games, like a chicken chase or a treasure hunt.”
“Only if the bride is your seven-year-old cousin,” Astarion dismisses, “and I'm pretty sure that's not legal anymore.”
“We're talking more adult fun, y'know?” Karlach says. “Think of the kind of games that involve getting a little drunk or naked people. Or both.”
“I understand now,” Lae'zel nods. “So it is an orgy?”
Wyll almost spits his wine. Astarion chuckles under his breath, while Karlach is a lot less subtle. Minthara, on the other hand, turns to look at Karlach, lips pursed.
“If we ever get married, I'm not letting her organize our bachelorette parties.”
Shadowheart bites back her own laugh. Seeing her fiancée's puzzled frown, she decides to intervene.
“They tend to get wild, but not that wild. Remember that one night at camp when we all got so drunk because we were playing drinking games?”
“I did not get drunk.”
“No, because you refused to play.” Shadowheart rolls her eyes. “But you watched us for a while, remember? That's the kind of games Karlach was talking about before.”
“And don't forget the strippers!” Karlach adds.
“Strippers?” Lae'zel repeats.
“People who take their clothes off for money,” Shadowheart describes.
“Courtesans?”
“No! They simply dance sensually while they undress, but their services don't usually include sex.”
“Though sometimes they can go hand in hand,” Minthara says. “In Menzoberranzan-”
“Yeah, thanks, I think she gets the point,” Astarion cuts her off. “Let's get back on track, shall we? Who's going to organize your bachelorette parties?”
“Me!” Karlach raises her hand. “Please! Let me do it!”
Shadowheart is about to accept her offer, but Lae'zel responds before she does.
“I will not have one such party.”
“What?” Karlach looks as though Lae'zel had just stabbed her. “Why not?!”
“I do not see the point. Why would I want to attend an event like that? Especially if Shadowheart cannot be there.”
Taking the goblet to her lips, Shadowheart hides her smile and flushed cheeks behind it. Lae'zel's devotion is beyond adorable. At the same time, however, it makes her feel guilty. The idea of a night out with friends, full of silliness and a little debauchery, excites her. She wouldn't want Lae'zel to miss out on that.
“Are you sure?” Shadowheart asks her.
“I am. But you can have yours if you wish,” Lae'zel replies, as if reading her mind.
“Don't worry, darling” Astarion says, patting Lae'zel's shoulders. “If you're scared of things getting too steamy, we can always ask Gale to organize them. Ah, I almost feel bad for the poor guy missing the big news.”
“He already knows,” Lae'zel says. “I visited him and Tav while we went to see Shadowheart's parents in Waterdeep.”
This time, it is Astarion who looks as if he had just been staked.
“How dare you?!” he yells at Shadowheart. “I can't believe you told Gale before me!”
“In my defense, I didn't.” Shadowheart shrugs in innocence. “It was Lae'zel. And only because we had a fight and they were the closest.”
Palming his chest, he shakes his head.
“You wound me. Earning your redemption will not be easy.”
The evening goes on between drinks, toasts to the happy couple and, most of all, laughter. It's comforting to spend a few hours surrounded by friends; feels like nothing has changed since they were a group of adventurers trying to get rid of their mindflayer parasites. As she rests her tipsy head on Lae'zel's chest, all Shadowheart can think of is how lucky she is to count on all of them. If it depended on her, all of them would be the best man.
Buck and Eddie have been dating for a little over a month now. Chimney and Hen are curious. Eddie gets cornered and at some point, becomes the little shit he is. Hen and Chimney only have themselves to blame.
Read Here!
Here it is! And I feel like this fluffy comedy piece is very much needed with all this Eddie angst. Enjoy!!!
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[ @wewillcreateaworld liked my Hot Wing starter call and asked for a comedy starter, so here we goooooo! ]
It had taken a good, good amount of convincing, but Hawks had finally managed to convince the villain known as Dabi, Lord of the flames, master of the ashes, cause of all burns...
To watch a Disney movie.
The first time Hawks had heard that Dabi hadn’t seen even one Disney movie, the hero had stopped walking. He had clutched his hands on his chest, mouth open in a wide gasp, and wings tense open on his back; a perfect dumbshow to show his emotions inside.
The raven haired man had called him extra, and a diva, and had said he was only exaggerating... and to be honest, he was right. But hey!! Hawks seriously couldn’t believe that Dabi’a eyes had never seen some adorable animation, or heard music masterpieces to sing along.
Maybe that was the reason he became a villain, lost without the influence of children’s movies!!!! (Probably not).
Either way, the hero had finally managed to corner the taller man into accepting. It was a cold, rainy Saturday night, so the mood was perfect to stay inside Hawk’s apartment, and for just one night, pretend heroes and villains didn’t exist.
Inside the comfort of the blond’s nest there were no villains who had burned people to death. There were no heroes risking their lives and pretending there were villains to protect the greater good. Enemies and death and all of the pain of loving someone he shouldn’t love didn’t existed for Hawks in that moment...
Only Disney.
“Okay, dude, listen up” Hawks had melted on top of his large living room couch, his hands browsing through all of the Disney movies his streaming service had to give. “This choice is important, okay?”
Instead of his usual hero costume he wore some simple red sweatpants with white stripes on the sides, a white, worn out (and a little oversized but hella comfy) chicken little t-shirt and nothing on his feet. Perfect outfit for a perfect night.
“Here it goes...” With the most serious face he could muster, he turned around to face the villain, hazel eyes meeting turquoise ones. “The Lion King, Nemo or Mulan?”
"What?"
Geralt asks, frowning, a furrow in his brow.
"I turn into a wolf every full moon." Jaskier repeats.
"How-"
"You were always away on a hunt. You'd just meet me back in the morning."
"...You were a werewolf this whole time?"
"..Yes. I- I'm sorry, Darling. I never wanted to lie."
"Why didn't you trust me with this? Did you think I would hurt you?"
"No! I thought I would hurt you. I'm not myself on full moons, Geralt. I can't even remember them. All I know is that the moon raises, i feel this ache in my bones, and the next thing I know, I'm waking up the next morning, nude, with a full stomach of what is HOPEFULLY nothing gross."
"...You've not transformed in towns, have you?"
"No! Of course not! I'm terrified of hurting someone, Geralt! That's the only reason I'm telling you now! I got the charts mixed up, I thought the moon was still a week away, but it isn't, and we're near a town, and I need you to keep me restrained."
A long pause settles between them.
"You want me to guard you?"
"Guard them. From me. Keep me trapped in a shack and- And lock it up tight. Chain me, hurt me, knock me out, whatever you must do. Keep me from being a danger. I never wanted to be a terrifying beast, Geralt."
Jaskier says, with those damned wet doe eyes of his. Geralt agrees. Because he doesn't know a world where he wouldn't.
Mere hours later, Jaskier is sat against a beam in an old rundown barn. He's tied up with rope, and chained on top of that. There are no windows in the barn, the door is fully barricaded and locked, and Geralt guards it.
"You really should guard it from outside" Jaskier had said. "I'm not leaving you to do this alone. You never should have had to." Geralt replied.
Thus, Geralt stands and watches as Jaskier pales and starts twitching. The moon is rising.
"It's coming- I'm going to be a beast."
Jaskier says with fear, before the transformation takes the air out of his lungs. Geralt watches in horror and awe as Jaskier's body changes, changes, changes....
In...
Into a songbird?
sitting on the ground is a fat little songbird. It easily hops over the ropes and chains, now much too lose to hold it.
Him.
Oh my gods.
Jaskier's not a werewolf.
He's a... were.... werebird...
And not even a scary one.
Jaskier starts pecking the barn floor and Geralt rubs a hand over his face in exhaustion. He prepared for the worst, and instead is treated to watching Jaskier struggle to bathe in a trough.
"Jaskier, it's too deep."
He tells the bird, as it fluffs up it's wings.
"Jaskier, you're going to-"
Jaskier tries to take a step into the birdbath, only to fall, dunking his whole fat little body into the depths of the trough. He flails about in the water, chirping panickedly. Geralt rushes to his aid, gently lifting him out of the water with gentle hands.
Perhaps guarding over Jaskier will still be a challenge after all.
