songbird

Every so often, mumbles come out of your mouth at an attempt of a story that is almost immediately killed by the smashing of the backspace. The flow of words finally run dry after just over an hour of writing. You would think that the writing bug would at least stay for another hour, but of course not.

Another turn of the page and your head is now smushed in your duvet.

"Maybe if you try writing for Jason Todd, the words will come outta you." Clark's voice interrupts the headache you brought to yourself while not even peering up from the comic in his hands.

Your head snaps up from its place on the bed as Clark turns to the next page like a dad in the 1950s reading the paper. Face scrunching with annoyance towards him, the bed creaks under you as you shuffle around trying to find a big enough plush to wack him with.

"Was the 12k not enough for you?" your voice dropping in disbelief. You try to find the fourth wall, the invisible camera just to give them the look of how fed-up you are.

"I told you, it was not believable that Jason Todd of all people would eve-"

A soft thump of the plush against his face shuts him right up, thank god. You love Clark, but would it be so hard for him to shut up about characterization for a second. The amount of times that he's read the fics you wrote and complained about it and that he had forced requested you to write was astonishing.

"You know what, Clark? I'm pulling the plug, no more living the y/n life through me. I'm cutting you off," You punctuate your words with a few more clicks of your keyboard.

And then even more backspaces when you reread what you just wrote.

Of course with a flair of dramatics, Clark whips himself around to face you with a slam of his comic on your desk.

"What."

"If you know Jason Todd so well, you can be the one writing about him frenching you instead of me."

"You're kidding me, right?" Clark whines at you as his grip tightens around your shoulders, "How am I supposed to get my fill then? Hmm?"

You blink, "I can literally name so many amazing Jason writers from the top of my head, Clark. I am on first na—err internet first name basis with several of them, I've told you about them."

His hands fall from your shoulders as he starts lamenting to whoever is out there. Which you ignore as you start listing off blog recommendations and in turn, he completely ignores you as well.

"I can't believe after years of helping them build a career, a successful one might I add-"

"First of all, I don't even know how many times I've literally told you about @scissorhvnds —"

"A long-winding fanfic writing career that I had —on numerous occasions— bestowed my-"

"Actually, I think that she wrote a couple about you," you mind wanders further away from your point. And yes, you do read fanfic about the man who just body-slammed into the bed next to you, and what about it? Even if he is an ass about your writing, you're not ashamed. Hello, look at you right now.

"Very good, very exclusive, very successful ideas for them to write-"

"Which you probably would enjoy becau— anyways, back to the point."

"Wow, fun, never used the bold lettering for one of these before. Anyways-"

You start counting on your hands, "I've literally seen you scouring @luviery's Jason tag on multiple occasions, Mr. 'where-am-I-supposed-to-get-my fill'. Come on man-"

"Fat chance you're actually gonna cut me off."

"Wait a minute, aren't you literally mutuals with @starr-jazz???" Your body shoots up, just to peer down at him for emphasis, "I literally saw you messaging her the other day, I mean-"

"Wait, where is this even going?" Clark interrupts.

"Even if I really were to cut you of-"

"We're getting further from what this was originally supposed to be," his arms make a vague circular gesture to everything, "Of course, I have to be the one to get this back on track."

Effectively cutting off whatever was happening before, Clark snatches your computer right infront of you. You hear him mutter a small curse at the writer under his breath as his eyes start darting across the screen, reading your half-written draft.

"Hello- the fuck? Don't read that!"

"Too late," Clark's voice tutting at the t in the word and completely ignoring your order.

"What the hell Clark, I'm not fucking done with that, like all," you stammered while trying to get your computer back, "You know I don't like anyone read before it's done."

You lunge at him, aiming for the computer.

Only for you to flop right back onto the bed as his body zooms from under you and rises higher and higher.

Clark floats above you, slowly spinning around airspace as he continues to scroll. You can't help but huff as all you can do now is scoot back onto the pillows and watch the reactions on his face while he reads. Legs tucking under you, you pull the previously thrown plush into your lap, slowly inspecting it to distract yourself. Embarrassment and doubts starts to creep in the more Clark stays silent and reads your writing right infront of you.

Sure, many people have read your writing and for sure, Clark has definitely done so as well, but actually seeing someone read it infront of you feels uncomfortably vulnerable. Seeing their reactions to something you put your heart and soul into sends uncomfortable chills up and down your spine. It took you about a year into writing to even tell him about this particular hobby.

And he fucking knows that.

"So," you can hear smug grin starts to grow on his face," is this about me or…"

You deadpanned, "You're joking."

"I mean, it says Clark Kent," Clark says with an amused tone, "Didn't specify which Clark Kent."

You pretend to think for a moment and prop your head onto your fist. For some reason, Clark's eyes seems to shine at the notion.

"It is about my favorite Clark, now that I'm thinking about it."

Clark floats back down the the bed and hovers right infront of you, the computer gripped loosely in his hands. Your fingers twitch in your lap as he floats closer to you.

Clark exhales, leaning closer and closer into your personal space, "Really?"

"Yeah," you whisper to him, drawing him in anticipation.

You can see his mouth start to twitch, probably loading up a smug comment.

"I actually wanted to tal-"

"Yeah, the one who doesn't complain to me about my depiction of Red hood," you say while snatching your computer back from him.

Clark pulls back with a whine, "Corenswet, really? Again? God, you don't know how to have fun."

He starts to float back up to the ceiling in a pout. You aren't really sure why he's so disappointed.

Before he's too far from your reach, you're able to gently wrap your hand around his ankle, anchoring him back to the bed.

"You know I'm joking," you gently tease. With a small tug, you're able to guide down back onto the bed with minimal resistance. A large crease between his brows is still present as he lands right next to you.

While your focus is now locked onto the words on the computer screen, you hand off the small bear in your lap to Clark's. There's an uneasy feeling stuck in your chest, left over from before, as you rake through the story again. The words no longer feel right after seeing his reactions leading to more retypes and frustration.

For a while, the only thing you can hear is the clicks of the keys as you start editing and revising with Clark's shoulder pressed into yours as he watched the cursor move back and forth. After a good ten minutes on revising the parts you already have, you start to feel better on your work and the words start to flow again.

Clark, on the other hand, was having a bit of a dilemma. Well, he knows that you loved writing for the other Clark Kent. Like, he was pretty sure you wouldn't be writing for Jason if it weren't for him. He has read everything that you had written and while he did have qualms with some of your writing, Clark genuinely thinks that you're an amazing writer.

The problem to him though was the fact that when he read your Clark fics, it was like you were writing about him. Something he prides himself on his that he knows these characters like the back of his hand and when reading your fics, its obvious that the Clark written by you isn't the same ones he's dedicated his life to studying or the ones you spent hours upon hours watching.

Maybe it's the fact that the two of you hangout too much, who knows.

Clark interjects, but not before giving you a quick glance just in case, "Hopefully, I know the exact reason, but we haven't got to that part yet."

If he were to be totally honest, something inside him is pissed off that it isn't him you're writing about.

"You've got that right."

Your head peaks up, "You talking to them again?"

"That's none of your business."

You only shrug before trying to turn your attention back to the screen.

Suddenly, your brain starts to stall.

You start watching his hands run smooth over and over again over the blanket underneath the both of you.

"Clark, can I ask you a, uh, favor?"

His focus is still somewhere else but a small hum comes back as a reply.

Your eyes flicker to the blinking cursor, waiting for your brain to come up with the next scene. Ok, you admit, intimate scenes like cuddling or kissing or affection adjacent was never your strong suit. Writing them felt clunky and whenever you read them back, you always felt like your inexperience shown through the screen like a spotlight.

"Are you gonna ask me or no," Clark waves a hand infront of your face shooting you back into your surroundings. Your heart jumps as he settles back to his place next to you, one of his hands setting on your knee.

"Well, you read it," you start, "I need help trying to explain a couple of things."

"Like…"

"Mostly the positioning of how they would be in bed because I don't know if people would actually be able to move in that way," the words come rushing out before you chickened out.

Your head turns to face him, his head tilting, his full attention on you as Clark starts to nod slowly, knowing you're gonna ask him another thing.

The silence stifles you, pressuring you to just let out what you want to ask of him.

"Okay," panic starts to flare up inside of you, "I also need help trying to explain how it is to try and just almost-"

His deep laugh cuts you off, a lopsided smirk that always seems to send warmth rushing thru you appears alongside it.

"If you wanted me to kiss you, you really should've asked a long time ago."

"What?" your body freezes yet overheats at the implications, "A long… time ago…"

Clark slowly shuts the computer, placing it to the side. As you still try to wrap around the thought, his frame starts to slowly envelop around you.

"Wait, wait, wait," the warmth from him starts to reach out, finding you as he inches closer "So, you're telling me-"

A similar hum escapes him as he takes your face in his hands. Clark dips his head lower making sure to catch your eyes with his, making his intentions crystal clear. The distance starts decrease as your breath starts to quicken.

Your body seems to move opposite of your mouth, inching closer and closer like you have been waiting for this exact moment. Unfortunately, you can't help but tease him just as your lips are about to meet his.

"All this time I could've been getting your help writing these scenes if I just like, what. Asked???"

A long groan of frustration rips from his chest. Almost inaudible curses spew from his mouth as you can't help but giggle at him. Your foreheads collide softly as you continue, his head still tilted low in disbelief.

"God, Clark, you know how hard it is for me to write these scenes, I mean-"

The feeling of his mouth against yours shuts you up quick.

Your hands find it's way up his hair, raking through the dark strands as a smile erupts across your face, still pressed against his. Your eyes droop as you pull away from him, if only for a moment so your brain can catch up to your body. Clark chases your lips as soon, capturing you back into his, not even a second after you pull away.

His arms snake around you as you feel weightless pressed against him. A hand presses you closer as it finds a place right at the nape of your neck with the other securely around your waist.

Your hands pull at his hair, almost forcing a delicious groan to be pull out of him. His hold tightens around you, pulling you deeper into him until all you could sense, feel was him.

A whole new world is revealed to you as Clark starts to nudge his mouth open, giving more of himself to you. Waves of warmth seem to rush over you as you drown in everything that is Clark. Small whimpers of pleasure slip from him, only spurring you on to never let go.

Not that you even want to.

God, this was so much better than just reading about it.

All that seems to be running through Clark's brain is just you. God, the feeling of you simply pressed into him was enough to kill him. Sounds that he only could imagine till now started to fall out of you that will forever be ingrained in his brain, replaying over and over again. The feeling of your mouth against his, shyly and slowly licking up into him as if you were trying to memorize everything about this very moment sends chills up and down him.

It's almost clinical the way you push and pull at him. Not that Clark minds, he is more than content to hold you and keep you on him for the… rest of…

Clark reluctantly pulls away, "Is there anything else you need help with?"

Now, you are the one to chase his lips, your brain mush and dizzy at the feeling.

"Hmm.." you move forward, trying to catch his lips again, " W'are we talking about?"

A whine escapes your throat as Clark dodges the slow attempt and your hands slowly fall from his now messed up hair to his chest.

"Aw, do you not remember?" Clark teases as he places slow kisses over you, of course making a point not to give one to the place you really want one , "Of course, you don't remember, do you."

"Clark, please," you whine up to him, eyes almost glassy at the loss of him.

"What? I'm just trying to be thorough about all of this," Clark can't help but play with you, "You did ask for my help, just wanna be helpful."

"God, screw that, I do not care anymore. Can't believe we could've done this so much sooner," you murmur into his skin, attempting to bring his focus back onto you.

It feels like torture the way he starts to give attention to the rest of you. Kisses start to trail lower, almost immediately finding every weak point. Pleasure starts course through you as the feeling starts to radiate around you.

A feeling of pride starts to fill him just looking at the state of you from just kissing you and Clark can't help the small laughs that escape him as he watches you try to capture is lips again.

"If you get so whiny over this, imagine how you would act if-"

A small tug at his hair distracts him long enough for you to take his mouth back onto yours.

You can't help the small sigh that escapes you can as you feel his body start to mold back into you, melting into your touch. You really should've asked him for help a long time ago.

"I mean if you need any more help with positioning, I am more than happy to help."

general taglist: @wichu127 @kryptidfiles @scissorhvnds @starr-jazz

if you enjoyed, remember reblogs and comments are an authors best friend!!!!!

If you asked Stephanie Brown who Batgirl was, she’d say it depends. 

Barbara’s Batgirl was strong, brave, and cunning. A pathfinder, a wonderful hero who saved countless lives and gave everything she had to the life. She was a pioneer, a champion who pathed the way for the rest of them.

Cass’s Batgirl was different, a fresh take on an old hero. Though she’s quiet, though she’s vicious in her fighting, she’s still heroic.  She brings a calm sort of comfort wherever she goes. 

But if you asked her about herself, she’s not sure what she’d say. She’s a civilian amongst gods, someone dressed in a knockoff costume playing pretend while the others do the real heroic work. A cheap imitation of the real thing.

As far as hero-ing goes for her, she already feels that she doesn’t have much going on. Not that she needs the reminder.

Entering the Batcave, already exhausted from her lack of sleep and the incredibly long day she’s had, she’s not sure what to expect. Maybe the usual arguing amongst Bats, Tim and Damian trading insults like a normal day while Cass sits quietly and reads in the corner.

Definitely not the scene that comes to play out in front of her—Barbara and Cass teaching someone new to spar, someone she’s never seen before who is very much dressed in a rendition of the Batgirl costume. She blinks, rubbing her eyes like the scene will disappear when she does.

It doesn’t.

Her lips purse into a frown. Another Batgirl? Something ugly twists in her chest. She’d fought like hell for this mantle, had done it all on her own against the will of pretty much everybody, and here’s someone new, wearing it with the support of both her predecessors.

She shakes her head, blonde hair bouncing. No, that’s not fair. She forces a smile, stepping up to the mat to watch.

She watches quietly for a few minutes while you trade blows with Cass, watches you fight as hard as you can to keep up with Cass who’s very clearly restraining herself. Cass sweeps a leg, taking you down to the mat easily, your mask bouncing off your face.

You squeak, sitting up and rubbing the back of your head where it hit the mat. 

Steph’s eyes widen slightly. You took that hit like a champ, and now, seeing you without the mask, she can’t help but think how pretty you are. That twistiness inside of her only grows heavier. 

“Hey, good timing,” Babs calls, waving her over.

Steph tugs down her hood and mask. “Hey, guys.” She strains to keep her voice as cheery as usual, “who’s this?”

Cass introduces the two of you, and Steph can’t help but note the way she already seems warmed up to you. How long has this been going on? 

You smile and step forward, offering her a hand. “I’ve heard so much about you!!”

“Hi.” She takes your hand, that same strained smile on her face, and shakes it. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

She can’t help but notice the softness of your palm against hers—not yet calloused by night after night of hard fighting and acrobatics—and the purple sheen on your nails, almost perfectly matched to her costume. Her hand lingers just a moment too long.

“She’s helping us with this drug trafficking operation at the docks,” Barbara explains, and Steph wonders if she can see through the facade she’s putting on. “Cass and I are helping her brush up on her fighting skills.”

She nods thinly, “right.”

“The Batgirl thing is just temporary,” you explain. “I just needed something to conceal my identity and Babs—”

Stephanie winces at the way the nickname rolls off your tongue, like you’ve always been friends.

“—just had this one laying around.” You finish.

You do a little twirl in the costume, the long cape splaying out as you do. Steph can’t help but look you up and down, examining the way the costume seems to fit and accentuate every curve on your body. Her eyes widen slightly. It fits you like a glove.

The three of you get back to your training, leaving Steph to watch on the sidelines. Slowly, she edges her way out until she’s back outside in the Gotham rain.

If you asked Stephanie now who Batgirl was—her version at least—she could only tell you one thing: replaceable.

The Batgirl thing, it seems, is not just temporary, and Stephanie can’t seem to escape you.

She’s gotten used to your presence now—the way you linger nearby on missions, the way you spend more time with Cass than without, the way your eyes occasionally meet hers only for you to look away quickly like it never happened. She’s never quite sure if you’re judging her, or trying to get her attention, or some other third thing she hasn’t thought of yet. 

It would almost be sweet, if it didn’t have her feeling so self-conscious. 

It’s after patrol one night, the summer sun just beginning to kiss the horizon of Gotham City, when you catch up with her.

“Steph, hey, Steph, wait up!” 

She’s tempted, if only for a moment, to speed up and pretend she hasn’t heard. And yet, for some reason, she can’t. You’ve never been anything but perfectly nice to her, and this jealous mean girl act of hers is so high school.

She tugs down her mask, turning to face you. “What’s up?”

“I think Cass and I were going to this cafe this morning for breakfast, do you want to come?” You smile awkwardly, tilting your head to the side, “they have amazing coffee.”

She considers it for a moment, gears whirring in her head. Some coffee and breakfast would be amazing right now, as well as some time with Cass. But you’ll be there, like a constant reminder of everything she isn’t, and she knows she won’t be able to keep up her positive mood the whole time.

She flashes you a weak grin, “I think I’m just gonna go to sleep.”

“Oh,” disappointment flashes behind your eyes. “No worries, sleep well.”

You turn on your heel to leave, approaching the edge of the old warehouse rooftop you’ve been standing on, when suddenly you look over your shoulder. The golden light of the rising sun reflects off your skin, making your eyes glow and your skin shimmer. You look so pretty like this, Steph can’t help but be a little grateful she only sees you at night.

“I’ll get Cass to text you the address,” you say, that familiar hope back on your face, “y’know, in case you change your mind.”

“Thanks.”

Despite what she said, an hour later Steph finds herself freshly showered and digging through her closet. 

She pulls out a casual pink sundress and tries it on, standing in the mirror and examining herself. She frowns at her reflection, smoothing her hands over the dress like that’ll make it fit better. It doesn’t.

Discarding it in the growing pile of clothes on her bed, Steph goes back to the drawing more. She pulls different garments out, trying them on only to drop them back in the pile. She always never struggles this much getting ready, least of all for a casual breakfast with friends.

Sighing, she lets herself flop onto her bed, sitting on her mountain of clothes. It’s just a casual outing, Steph, she tells herself. Just pick a damned outfit,

But she can’t, because all she can think about is what you’re going to be thinking. Are you going to look at her with those eyes like you usually do? She wonders what you’ll be wearing, if you’ll be dressed casual or cute or comfortable. Knowing you, it’s probably some perfect combination of the three.

Her eyes flutter closed as she pictures it. You, wearing some comfy practical outfit, hair perfect, sipping on some fancy drink from the cafe. She thinks about how your face will light up when she walks into the cafe, the way you’ll smile and wave at her when she approaches the table.

“Glad you can make it,” you’ll probably say, or some other line of the sort.

Her heart speeds up at the thought, stomach doing a whirlwind. You’re so…perfect, and here she is, sitting in her mess of a room, unable to pick a damned outfit. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair. 

Tears prick at her eyes. One minute, that’s all she asks. One minute where you’re not constantly on her mind, where she’s not constantly wondering about what you’re doing, who you’re with or how you’ll replace her next.

She doesn’t end up going to the cafe.

Steph’s not sure how she ended up here.

The two of you, trapped in a burning warehouse, surrounded by low level lackeys. She’s not even sure who they work for, their outfits a mess of colours and patterns that she can’t quite make out through the steadily thickening smoke.

Your back is pressed to hers, the warmth of your body seeping through both of your costumes, acting as a comfort. At least, it would be a comfort, if the two of you were in any other situation.

The masked men close in, the roar of the distant fire burning gets louder. Steph’s nerves catch fire, buzzing with the impending promise of action. She bounces on her heels, loosening up her muscles just like she was taught. One more step, one more step and she’s ready.

The heel of the closest man inches forward. Steph pounces. All hell breaks loose.

It’s a blur of action, of fighting her way through the seemingly neverending wave of goons. Her muscles ache, every punch and kick only making the burning under her skin worse. The warehouse gets hotter, the smoke rises, clogging her senses.

Behind her somewhere, the sounds of your own violence echo off the walls. You’ve always been a good fighter—probably better than her—but something in the back of her mind buzzes with worry. Like something bad is going to happen, like she needs to look out for you.

She shakes it away, diving back into the action, trying to ignore the constant nagging in the back of her mind.

She finishes off the last of her men, freezing at the sudden silence. She can’t hear you fighting anymore, can’t see you through the smoky haze. Her heart hammers in her chest. Where on Earth could you have gone?

One second. That’s how long she’s distracted for, maybe less. But one second is all it takes for someone to come up behind her, a forearm pressed over her throat and a leg hooking over her ankles. She’s taken quickly to the ground, back thudding hard against the hard ground.

Stars explode behind her eyes, the wind knocked out of her. Through the haze, she just manages to make out the masked goon above her and the gun barrel shoved inches from her face. She cringes, bracing herself to duck and roll, to do anything but lay here and take it.

And just like that, he’s gone, slammed into the ground by a familiar figure. You’re breathing heavily above Steph, eyes wide behind your mask as you reach a hand to help her up.

She grabs you, letting you tug her to the feet, and the way your hand lingers on hers reminds her of the day you met. Your jaw is slack, worry written across every feature. Steph blinks, letting the air come back to her lungs.

“T-thanks,” she gasps.

“We need to get out of here.”

Steph nods curtly, letting you tug her after you as you search for the exit, only dropping her hand when you brace yourself against the emergency exit and shove hard. Cold night air greets her, filling her burning lungs with sweet relief. 

She’s dizzy from the smoke, dizzy from the hit she took. Her lips purse into frown. It’s surely going to leave a big, ugly bruise. Goodbye sundresses.

Standing on the rooftop of the burning warehouse, she watches you approach the edge, scoping out the ground below for any sign of the goons who almost overwhelmed you.

You turn to face her. “Tim called the fire department, they’re on the way.”

She braces her hands on her knees, still lightheaded from the fall. The fall. She forces herself to stand up straight, peeling off her mask and hood. “Where did you go back there?”

“Huh?”

“You—you disappeared, it distracted me. Where did you go?”

She cocks a hand on her hip, waiting for an explanation. She was too busy worrying about you, about your safety, to take care of herself. If it weren’t for your impromptu disappearance, she wouldn’t be coughing her lungs up like an amateur right now.

You scratch the back of your neck awkwardly. “One of them tried to get away and—”

“You couldn’t have told me that?” She snaps, walking towards you, closing the gap until you’re inches away. “We’re partners, you’re supposed to tell me these things.”

“I didn’t think I had time!”

“Or you just wanted the glory for yourself,” she spits bitterly.

You pause, lips parting in confusion. She tugs at her hair. Even now, a slight cut on your cheek and sweaty from battle, you still look perfectly cute. She’s sure she must look a complete mess, sweaty and dirty and bruised.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She tucks a sweaty strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Nothing, just—nevermind.”

You shake your head. “No, what did you mean?”

“I mean it’s—it’s—” Frustration bubbles up in her chest, muscles pulling taut like she’s about to enter another fight. She’s not even sure where she’s going for it, what word vomit she’s about to shove in your face now. You’re inches away, staring at her like a deer in the damn headlights, and she’s the lone car on the road with the choice to hit you or not.

“It’s what?”

“It’s you! Always being so—so perfect about everything, being everyone’s favorite, having everything come naturally to you and—and—”

And that urge buzzes beneath her fingertips, that urge she’s always felt just beneath the surface. The one she felt that day you met, when she’d had that fear you’re replacing her. The one she’s felt every day since when you’re around, the same one she gets before a big fight.

She raises a hand and you don’t even flinch, looking up at her with those damn wide eyes. She’s not sure who’s more confused by what she’s doing—you, or her.

And then she’s kissing you, the taste of smoke heavy on both of you. Her hand reaches to cup your cheek, thumb swiping over the length of your cheekbone. It’s hot and tense and she feels more that she’s trying to eat you alive than kiss you.

She pulls away, taking a big jump back like she’s been burned.

“Steph,” you breathe her name.

She shakes her head, closing her eyes. “No.”

“Stephanie—”

“No, okay? I don’t—I don’t want to talk about it.” She’s shaking slightly, her voice breaking on the words, “I don’t even—I don’t want to see you right now. Okay? Just…just forget it.”

She spins on her heel, bolting over to the far end of the rooftop. She can still taste you on her tongue, like smoke and leftover chapstick and something else buried beneath. She wipes at her mouth and the taste still lingers, follows her down the fire escape at the edge of the roof, chases after her on the way home.

It’s only when she’s in the shower, desperately trying to wash it away, that she feels she can breathe again. What on Earth was that?

Your soap isn’t enough to wash away the smell of smoke on your body, or the taste of Steph’s chapstick lingering in your mouth. You stand under the water for what must be an hour, scrub every inch of your body twice, and still, it doesn’t help. Stephanie’s voice still rings in the back of your head.

You disappeared, it distracted me.

You just wanted the glory for yourself.

Always being so perfect about everything, being everyone’s favorite, having everything come naturally to you.

I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to see you right now.

Coming from Steph of all people, someone you’ve looked up to, pined after, tried to forge a friendship with, the words hurt. They leave you cold and numbed, a new weight in your chest that wasn’t there before the mission.

She’s always been the sun in your eyes, warm and scalding, bright and beautiful, painful to look at. You’ve always gravitated closer to her, done your best to accommodate her, and this is where you end up. With a bitter kiss and more distance between you than there was to start.

You blink the thoughts away, staring into the steam rising from your kettle on the stove. Your phone buzzes, an unfamiliar number popping up on your screen.

Hey, it’s Steph. Can we talk?

You pick up your phone, contemplating opening the message and answering, and yet you can’t. What do you even say to her right now?

You turn off your phone. Let her sit with it for a while.

A while turns into a week. A week of unanswered texts and calls, of attempts by Barbara and Tim and Cass to get the two of you to talk. You shirk your duties as Batgirl, spend as much time as you can locked away at home, far far away from your double life.

Still, Stephanie isn’t one to give up.

The knock at your door comes early in the morning, so early, it rouses you from your sleep. You rub the sleep from your eyes and sit up in bed, the pink hue of the rising sun greeting you.

Another knock at your door sends you stumbling down the hall, slippers barely on your feet. You squint through the peephole, stomach syncing when you see who it is.

Steph stands there, dressed in low rise jeans that suit her just a little too well and a baby tee. Her hair is still wet, curling slightly at the ends where it’s started to dry. She must have showered and ran over here right after patrol.

You sigh, turning away from the door, fully intent on ignoring her.

“I can hear you,” she calls.

You stop in your tracks.

“I know I screwed up,” she says, “please just hear me out.”

“I thought you didn’t want to see me.”

“You know that’s not what I meant, I almost just died, c’mon.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, taking a deep breath. Deep down, you know she has a point. You almost wish she didn’t, if only so you could stop seeing it from her side.

Despite yourself, you turn around and unlock the door, inviting her in.

She looks sad, undereyes sallow like she hasn’t been sleeping properly. She steps on the backs of her shoes, peeling them off before falling you inside.

“Do you want something to drink?”

She shakes her head, blonde strands falling into her face. You settle in on the chair in your living room, Steph settling in on the far end of your couch—the distance between you hurts, but you’re not sure you could take it right now if she was sitting any closer.

“I’m sorry,” she starts.

You nod, tight lipped.

“About everything.”

Everything. She doesn’t say it outright, but you can hear what she hasn’t said: I’m sorry for kissing you.

“I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have said what I said, I was scared and-and frustrated, and I took it out on you and it wasn’t fair.”

You always take it out on me, you’re tempted to say. It lingers on your tongue like her lipgloss from the other night, heavy and toxic and yet filled with something sweet.

“It’s hard, you know?” Her voice cracks on the word, pretty eyes brimmed with tears, “I’ve been Batgirl a while. I-I fought to be Batgirl even when nobody wanted me to be.”

You remember Barbara telling you about that, heard whispers about it from Tim. It was strange to you, you couldn’t possibly imagine a world where Steph isn’t Batgirl. Someone as wonderful and capable as her.

“But then you show up and it’s like, what’s even special about me anymore? And you do everything so well, you’re so—so perfect all the damn time, and everyone loves you and it’s like…what’s even left for me?” Tears brim at your lashes and Steph’s face drops. She frowns, reaching forward like she can stop them from coming. And then you’re laughing, the sweet feeling of relief flooding your chest.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make yo—”

“Do you think I don’t feel that way?”

Her lips part, shock clear on her face. “No,” she mumbles out.

“Do you think I don’t find you perfect and capable and honestly, really fucking intimidating?” You shake your head, “you left some big shoes to fill, Stephanie and—and it hasn’t been easy.”

She laughs, equally as wet and filled with emotion as your own. “You really think so?”

You rise to your feet, shuffling over to the couch and sitting down next to her. She’s so close, you can smell her strawberry scented body wash and the vanilla lotion she put over top of it. 

“Yes, god.” You giggle, and it tastes like relief, “I wish you would’ve just told me this before. We could’ve had this talk a long time ago.”

And she laughs with you, the sound like heaven and sunlight and everything you thought you could never reach, and her laugh makes you laugh more. You let your eyes flutter closed, leaning your head back on the couch, ribs starting to ache from the laughing you’re doing.

And then she’s cupping your face and kissing away the laughter, vanilla flavoured chapstick heavy on your tongue. She moves against you, body pressing to yours and pressing you further into the couch.

She pulls away, cheeks flushed. “Does this mean you forgive me?”

You press a hand on the small of her back, pulling her in again. “You might need to do that a few more times.”

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you nearly fall to your knees. you don’t know how or what sukuna’s going to do now that you’ve dropped the honorifics on accident and called him by a nickname.

you hold your hands together, “my deepest apologi—“

“again,” sukuna demands in a rough voice.

you freeze for a second before tilting your head back. you catch a glimpse of his expression; he’s amused, intrigued and perhaps still a bit annoyed. he repeats, “call me that again.”

sukuna isn’t annoyed by the fact that you’ve called him by a nickname for the first time. he’s annoyed, because your sweet voice makes him feel stuff he’s sworn to never feel for a regular human.

that warm feeling in his chest. . . he hates it. yet he yearns for it. from you.

you hesitate for a second, unsure if the firm tone in sukuna’s voice was a bad sign or not. you decide to just comply and hope for the best, “. . . ryo.”

sukuna grits his teeth. you think he’s mad, but in reality, he’s trying to eliminate the feelings of love from within him. your voice calling him so affectionately—so intimately; it makes him feel that warmth in his chest.

no one’s dared to call him anything like that before. everyone’s formal with him. it’s a must. sukuna’s used to everyone acknowledging his superiority in the conversations he holds. it’s a given.

no one refers to him so casually. no one dares to.

you’re the first one to break that pattern. the first one to make sukuna’s cold heart tremble. if it were anyone else, they’d be his dinner by now. but it’s you so it’s. . . fine, he assumes. an exception.

silence falls in the hallway. luckily, not another soul is around to witness the king of curses struggling to contain his own ‘foolish’ emotions.

sukuna clicks his tongue and sighs before continuing to walk ahead of you.

you scurry after him—keeping your head low. you don’t wish to upset him any further. you feel like you overstepped a boundary just now.

the silence continues for a couple seconds, both of you deep in thought.

sukuna’s the one to end the quiet atmosphere. his voice is as deep and cold as ever, though there’s no denying the subtle softness that creeps in whenever he talks with you.

he takes a deep breath and sighs. he keeps walking and doesn’t spare you a glance, however his words say enough;

“from now on, that’s the only way you’ll address me until i say otherwise, understood?”

face mask?

check.

slippers?

check.

phone… where the hell was your phone?

you dig through your blankets that have come undone, then move to the undersides of your pillows.

still nothing… so you check the canyon between your bedframe and your wall and ah– there it is on the floor.

you scoot along out the door and make your way to the kitchen, woefully pausing your show in the meantime.

"gahhh," you exhale, rustling through the pantry and cupboards for those chocolate turtle chips you always keep in stock… until you guessed right now.

great.

"hey you're the ice queen right?"

startled, you turn around, your face mask sliding off the peak of your forehead. "yup that's me, except my hero identity is actually 'chill-her,' being called 'ice queen' is just a nickname."

the dark-haired boy nods–mark, eve's friend. "like elsa right?"he jokes, but you only cross your arms in front of you.

you sigh, pursing your lips, "can I help you? in any sort of way…? to get away from me…….?"

mark basically droops like a kicked puppy, "uh, I just wanted to get to know you… eve speaks very highly of you, you know?"

you hum absentmindedly, moving past him to the exit, slipping on your errand shoes. "–hey are you going somewhere? could I tag along… maybe?"

you slowly turn to face him, looking him up and down, "maybe not," you state as you proceed out the doorway.

"hey," he jogs up and catches up to you, "i'm not that bad you know?"

you take a deep sigh, "i'm sure you're not invincible–""–mark, just call me mark."

"if you wanted to just humbly be called mark, your supersona would not be 'invincible–' I mean who ever told you you were invincible? pretty pompous and self-important if you ask me"

you scoff. its truly absurd that this boy would call himself invincible– because no one is.

by now, the two of you have just been walking in silence for about 10 minutes until the two of you have made it to the asian store at the corner of 5th and 42nd.

you open the door first, now feeling kinda bad you went all in on the kid to the point he was just silent. "you coming?"

his eyes light up, quickly making his way in the store. you walk in behind while he grabs a small basket. "sooo, what are we getting?"

"I don't know what you are getting… but i'm getting my snacks and probably some other things since I need to restock anyways."

he nods thoughtfully, taking in your words like a sunflower on a warm sunny day, "i'll probably ask my mom real quick if she needs anything."

at this point, you knew this store was like the back of your hand. making your way over to the snack aisle, you take a second to breathe… until mark pops up behind you again.

god would this boy leave you alone?