a girl who knows her liquor it's a girl who's been dump.
⠀ ݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ the name is Honey .ᐟ twenty-five years old. she/her ♡⸝⸝
Intern at the Daily Planet, Clark Kent's wife and future journalist. Dean Winchester's sweetheart. leo rising. long hair. tarot reader. girl kisser. horror movies. cronically watching supernatural. Jason Todd's apologist. don't look for me, you might find me. minors and wincesties do not interact.
⠀ ⠀ 𓍯𓂃 listening to: Bando Stone and the New World by Childish Gambino.
ㅤclick here to see the m.list & ao3 ⋆˙𓍊₊ ⊹˚ hang out with me here ★ request and dm's are open. ⓘ 2026. all rights reserved.
but it's not his fault, okay? eating your pussy just shuts his brain off. like his whole fucking body just relax. it's the only time he's not thinking about shit. just warmth and wet and you.
and he's down there for hours so yeah he gets sleepy. your thighs are so soft around his head he can't hear anything outside them. just the wet little sounds and your breathing. your smell is all over his face and he loves it. loves sucking your clit slow and lazy, tongue flat and heavy. groaning into you just to feel you shake.
he already made you cum twice. he's on his knees on the floor, face pressed into you so deep his nose is smushed against your pubic bone, drool and your slick all down his chin. you're gripping his hair tight, grinding down on his mouth.
fuck you're so close.
right there right there right there—
his tongue slows.
his jaw goes slack.
huh?
he fell asleep already.
mouth still open. lips still wrapped around your clit, sucking weakly. letting out soft little snores.
it's okay. you already got permission. he said you can use his face to get off if he ever fall asleep.
so just grab his hair and ride his face until you cum. use his nose, his tongue, whatever. he's out cold. won't wake up until you're shaking.
Summary: You love to take pictures! Especially when Superman is writhing under you, whimpering for more...
Warnings: Smut (Unprotected p in v), camera sex, sub!Superman, still in suit, whiny and needy and lovey, tummy bulge, fem!reader, | WC: 1.0k
AN: Guys is this theme cute for like fall... Lmk! Enjoy :)
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Click, Click
The quiet sounds of your camera snapping pictures of the man beneath you.
The neediest whines, hands grasping at your hips as he bucked up into you.
Clark hadn’t even gotten out of his super suit yet; the room was dim, and the sun had just set behind the city’s skyline. After a particularly rough fight, Superman needed to wind down in the best way possible.
You cooing over top of him as you brought him to near oblivion was his idea of unwinding.
The sound of your heartbeat racing above him only made him feel more connected to you.
“Please, that feels so good…” he whispered into the quiet of the apartment. He bit his lip to try to hide these embarrassing noises you ground out of him with the buck of your hips.
One hand was on his big chest, his suit peeled down to his thighs, revealing the bare skin beneath.
The other hand was on the camera that you used for everything. Pictures of landscapes, for your Instagram, and for taking detailed pictures and videos of your boyfriend squirming under your body.
You recorded his body, showing you the happy trail of hair that led to his pretty, pretty cock that was making lewd noises as you slid over him, slow and mean thrusts.
“Wanna show the world how much of a mess I can make Superman…” you drawl, catching his needy, teary blue eyes on camera.
“Baby, please!” he begged, his hand travelling up your stomach. His eyes weren’t on the camera lens but on you behind it.
Your breasts out, bouncing with each roll of your hips, how your lips parted breathily, and how your hair cascaded down your neck and shoulders.
“Please what, Superman?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. His hips bucked, and your free hand balled up into a fist on his chest, nearly biting a hole through your lip.
His biceps flex, and his jaw clenches at your particularly slow speed. “Just a bit faster, I’ll be so good.” You grin at his words; this is the most desperate you’ve ever got him on camera.
“Yeah? You’re a good man, save the world… You deserve it?” He throws his head back, moving you with his hands.
Clark needed this more than he needed the sun.
He nods, his groans getting louder. His hand moves to where you connect, rubbing your clit with his thumb, hard circles that make you gasp.
Your hips start to speed up, and your whines get more desperate behind the camera. “This is embarrassing…” he said, whimpers escaping without his permission.
A small laugh bubbles up and you shake your head. “Mm… I think it’s very sexy,” you bite your lip, deep rolls of your hips, making him hit deeper than he ever thought possible.
His eyes roll back, and his hips start to move against yours uncontrollably. “I’m gonna cum… I’m gonna—ah—cum, golly!” A moan ripped from Clark’s throat, his hips leaving the bed and you clench around him.
“Cum… Show us how pathetic Superman really is.” Clark didn’t hesitate, spilling his load deep inside you. His heart felt like it would explode out of his chest, your tight walls accepting every ounce he pumped into you.
He had never seen anything so perfect; Clark didn’t even care that this camera was catching him at his most vulnerable.
Superman—the man of steel—who could knock over a building with a simple shove, or take on an army, was weakened underneath you with that silly camera.
Clark loved the way you smirked, getting professional angles.
He panted, coming down from his high.
His hefty thighs under yours. Clark’s head lolled to the side, his eyes fluttering open when you grabbed his chin.
“Smile for the camera, Clarkie…” you giggled, squeezing around him. He wore a fucked-out expression; a shaky laugh escaped him, happy to be the center of your attention.
Even Superman needed to be teased and ridden.
He knew you hadn’t cum yet; he reached a hand up, taking the camera from you. The equipment was small in his hand as he flipped it around. “Give it t’me… your turn, honey,” his deep voice rasped.
You liked how much more confident he was in his suit, how his hands roamed, how his voice was deeper, and how that cute little stammer faded. His drawl came out sometimes, and his beefy hips tightened as his hips left the mattress.
The camera lens on you now made you shy. You were used to being behind the camera, instead of in front of it.
Clark held the camera steadily. “Ride it, sweetheart… come on,” he cooed, watching as you started up again, making yourself feel good—setting your own pace.
“Prettiest woman in the solar system. Look how good you take me,” he edged you on, watching your hands splay out on your chest as you took exactly what you needed. “Ah… Kal-El!” you called out, pressing your head into his bicep, sinking your teeth into his skin.
He felt his cock pulse inside you; he loved when you called him Kal-El. Your stomach bulged with his thick, long dick. “Say that again,” Clark said, making you sit up again. Making you visible to the camera. He wasn’t looking through it, too busy watching you in real time.
“Kal-El!” He bucked up into you; his hand went to palm your breast. His thumb ran over your hardened nipple. “I’m so close,” you tell him, your mouth agape as you take him impossibly deeper.
“Come on, show the camera what my cock does to you,” he commands, thrusting up into your tight pussy. That opened the floodgates, his tip kissed your cervix, and you sat there, shaking over him as your orgasm flowed through you. “Oh, thank you, Superman.”
You collapsed over top of him, and Clark hit stop, setting the camera down. “Come here.” You don’t hesitate to collapse into his chest, your face burying between his pecs and his big biceps wrapping around you and squishing you.
He eased out of you, kissed the top of your head. Your body was sweaty, but gosh, that was too perfect to care. “Can’t wait to watch it later…” You giggle, making him chuckle too. “You're insatiable,” he jokes, knowing it was what he loved most about you.
fucking clark to the beat of a song blasting in your bedroom after ovulating for 24 hours you wanted to take him in deep, deeper than you’ve been able to take him before, and the slush on his cock is leaving clark gobsmacked with awe while he watches you pussy cream splotches as you bounce hard. breathy and whiny and so fucking helpless while he murmurs to you, trying his best to hold on, “how are you getting so creamy like this? oh god, that looks so good. bounce baby. keep bouncing, keep fucking me, that’s so good. you’re so wet for it.”
Summary: the boys are shocked by other men’s behavior
Warnings: shitty boyfriends (scary)
Dick Grayson
You and Dick were out enjoying the rare nice weather in Bludhaven. He took you to your favorite ice cream shop before the two of you walked across the street to the park. You were now parked on a bench, talking about nothing in particular. The subject of conversation wasn’t nearly as important as enjoying the other’s company. Your words slowed when another couple walked by who were clearly having a much worse day than you and Dick. They were arguing, engaged in a screaming match with each other. Dick gave you a quick glance before you both piped down, not having to do much to hear the conversation.
“I just feel like you don’t see me Rich! Everything I do, everything I say is a fucking problem to you!” The woman yells.
“Yeah? Well if you would just shut the fuck up for once, maybe I could fucking think! I can’t do shit with you constantly nagging at me Jessica!” He yells back. Dick’s jaw literally drops and he can’t do anything to stop it. He immediately turns to you eyes wide as the scene plays out before you. Pure disbelief was written all over his face, even your own brows shot up in surprise. The woman slaps her, hopefully soon to be ex, boyfriend before storming off. He stands in stunned silence before looking around at the small crowd of onlookers who gathered to watch the spectacle. He huffs and storms off in the opposite direction of his girlfriend. Once the crowd disbands, Dick starts talking, immediately ready to debrief the whole situation.
“Babe… that was insane. Have you ever seen anything like that in real life? You know I’d never talk to you like that, right?! I think I would rather die,” Dick emphasizes, still in awe about what he just saw. Even when you two argue, you were still the love of Dick’s life. He would never disrespect or yell at you over a disagreement. You smile at your kind-hearted man and press a sweet kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you baby, I know.”
Jason Todd
While at lunch with your friends, you were showing them some of the photos Jason took of you on your date. “So I’m thinking about posting these, but I’m not sure. What do you guys think?” You ask, passing your phone around the table so they could look at it.
“You should def post them girl! They are so cute! Where’d you take these anyway?” Your friend asks curiously.
“Jason took me to this breakfast place last weekend. The photos online looked like it might make for a cute photo op, so I got more dressed up than usual. When we got there, it was literally the perfect scenery so I had him take these,” you respond. Your friends are immediately looking at you, confused looks on their faces. You raise an eyebrow as you look back at them, “What?”
“Are you telling me Jason, your boyfriend, took these stunning photos of you?” Another of your friends asks and you nod.
“Uh yeah? Isn’t that what I just said?” You say confused.
“Wow. I can’t believe it. It is worse than pulling teeth to get my boyfriend to take photos of me,” your friend says. Apparently it is a shared experience because all your friends sitting at the table nod to agree.
“Facts. Even if he does, they are always fucking terrible. The angle is all wrong or I look god awful. I would never post a photo he took of me,” your friend laughs, but the sound is hollow. Clearly, a disguise for some complicated feelings. Your friends eventually get your phone back to you and you can’t help but to shrug your shoulders.
“I guess you guys just need to train them better. He didn’t take super amazing photos at first, I had to give him some pointers. Jason is a more artistic guy than he lets on, and he likes to make me happy so he learned my angles. Maybe I’ll have him teach a class on how to take photos of your girlfriend,” you state, making your friends laugh. Maybe you could also have him teach your friends to not accept the bare minimum, but you kept that part to yourself. You open your phone, going to your messages with Jason to shoot him a quick test.
You: I have offered you up
Jay❤️: I am literally scared to ask
You: To teach other boyfriends how to take good photos of their girlfriends. Apparently this a problem other people have??
Jay❤️: 🤦🏻
Jay❤️: Lack of home training
Jay❤️: Lemme know when
Bruce Wayne
You and Bruce had just finished taking photos and answering press questions before the annual Wayne Enterprises’ charity gala. It was a mission you and Bruce shared to constantly donate, both time and money, to the charities and causes that were important to you. But, this event was the Super Bowl of fundraising. Millions would be raised and sent to charities doing amazing work in and around Gotham.
The event was being hosted in an older building that maintained its old money aesthetic. There were wide, grand stairs that led to the front door. You groaned at the base of the stairs and looked up. Roughly thirty stairs loomed largely before you. “Next time I insist on wearing my brand new red bottoms, remind me these events love buildings with a ridiculous amount of stairs,” you say. Bruce smiles at you and before you can start your ascent, he carefully picks up the train of your dress. Making sure it doesn’t get caught, dirty, and it makes your steps easier.
“You know my offer is always on the table, I’ll just carry you up these. Promise I won’t even break a sweat” he states, standing close to your side just in case you trip or lose your footing. You smirk and look back at him, all the trust he would catch you before you could fall.
“Bruce Wayne! Think of the scandal and gossip you would cause. I can see the headlines now. Crown prince of Gotham breaks every high society rule by carrying beautiful girlfriend up flight of stairs,” you tease with a faux gasp. Bruce shakes his head at your antics which makes you smile. When you two are almost at the top, you hear grunts. Looking back, you find a woman tugging desperately at her dress. It was stuck on something you could not see, maybe a chip in the stairs. She looks at her useless date for help, who is engaged in conversation and walks inside without her. You immediately recognize the look in Bruce’s eye. The silent battle he fights whether to leave you or help her.
“Go, Bruce,” you reassure softly, putting a hand on his chest. “I’m okay, we are almost there anyway. Meet me inside.” He looks grateful, taking your hand off his chest to press a tender kiss to it. You take the last couple stairs to the top and turn around to find Bruce. He is on one knee, delicately removing the woman’s dress from whatever it was hooked on.
The media were already having a field day with this, lights flashing rapidly in Bruce’s direction. You could see the stories the tabloids were going to spin as if you wrote it yourself. One might read “Playboy Back Again!: Bruce Wayne flirts with Mysterious Woman?” Or another one might say, “Wayne to the Rescue: Bruce Wayne Saves Woman from Fashion Emergency." You can’t help but smile and shake your head at yourself. How sad was the world that a man showing basic chivalry was front-page news?
Wally West
Wally was lying on the couch in your apartment, his head in your lap. You were nose deep in your newest read, draped comfortably in a blanket. The quiet atmosphere had a calming effect you both enjoyed. With your lifestyles, you and Wally didn’t get a chance to relax nearly enough. The tranquil environment was disturbed when Wally spoke up,
“Babe, do you think I like you too much?” He asks. The question throws you for a loop and has you immediately putting your book down.
“What?! Why would I think you liked me too much? I actually don’t think it is possible to like your partner too much. Where is this coming from?!” You ask, almost bewildered by Wally saying that. He was definitely clingy and loved to be in your space, but you always found it extremely endearing. It was your whole thing. You would pretend to be annoyed that he wouldn’t leave you alone, he would bother you until you stopped complaining, and then you would be together for hours. Did something happen that Wally thought you were no longer joking?
“When I was hanging out with the guys, I made a joke about you keeping me on a tight leash. They did not find it funny and said I was 'too into you,' and eventually it would 'scare you away,'" he whispers solemnly. Anger is the first thing that overcomes you. Next time you saw Wally's friends, you were going to give them a verbal lashing they would never forget. Then you look at your usually happy boy, whose whole demeanor has deflated. You grab his chin softly so he is forced to look at you.
"Wals, I have never thought you were 'too into me.' One of the reasons I agreed to go out with you was because of how adamant you were about your feelings for me," you reassure, cupping his face, which he affectionately leans into.
"I didn't think it was possible to be too into your partner, either, until they said something, then I got it into my head. I always thought boyfriends were supposed to be obsessed, in a healthy way, with their girlfriend," he states. You smile at him and lean down to press a kiss to his lips.
"And you are absolutely correct, Wally. Nonchalant is in style, and not enough people think it is cool to be unapologetically in love with their partner the way you are, Wals," you affirm.
"That is sad. That is very, very sad."
"I know, baby. That is why you are the only one of your friends in a long-term relationship. Remind them of that next time they try to give you shit for loving your girlfriend," you reply, pressing one more kiss to Wally's lips, who smiles against you.
. . . not that he actually owns the color red or anything — it’s just that when he sees you wearing anything maroon or scarlet . . . his brain immediately associates it with red hood.
it’s like a silent declaration that you chose him. despite everything.
despite all the skeletons in his closet and the anything but pretty remnants of his past trailing behind him like a shadow, clawing at his neck, threatening to suffocate him and everything good in his life.
it doesn’t even necessarily have to be an item of clothing that’s his. it could be anything.
for example: a maroon top or a red bow in your hair, a pair of tinted sunglasses or that little handbag you always carry around, even if jason keeps insisting that ‘literally nothing can fit inside that thing’.
and still, you somehow manage to shove all you need inside: your phone, your lipgloss, your wallet etc.
it doesn’t really cross your mind when you do it, it’s instinctive, it’s second nature. you just put it on because well … you like it.
to jason however, it’s more than just clothes and accessories. so much more.
it is a declaration of loyalty. physical evidence of your commitment to each other. of something he cannot doesn’t want to name yet.
whenever he sees you walking around the apartment wearing that one specific tank top which clings just perfectly to your waist and accentuates your cleavage. his mind goes numb. literally.
bonus points if it’s red. bonus points if you’re wearing no bra.
at one point, he even starts encouraging you to wear more red lipstick or red lipgloss or whatever, and when you asked him about it he just shrugged. “looks nice.”
safe to say, it didn’t take you long to figure it out.
so you started adding more red to your wardrobe, nothing too obvious or flashy — a new belt, a wristwatch with a burgundy band, some ballet flats. subtle, chic. (as much as a vivid color like red could be)
however what really makes jason’s brain short-circuit, convincing him that dick has thrown a batarang at his head, because his brain has become incapable of processing coherent thoughts, is when you got red nails.
“you like them?” you had grinned expectantly, holding out your pretty fingers with a coat of dark red polish covering your nails.
he started at them. sucked in a breath. shoved his hands into his pockets. nodded curtly.
“jason…” you snickered softly.
“what?”
“are you blushing right now?”
yeah, you never let him live it down.
and when you do actually take any of his red clothes. whew. the man is on the last thread of willpower.
you’re doing something casual like preparing dinner or scrolling on your phone but you’re in his hoodie. the soft, cotton, maroon one he always wears.
“thief.” it’s the only thing he can manage. but when you argue that ‘it’s soft and it smells like him’ and then you offer to give it back he just replies with.
“keep it.”
maybe he doesn’t really mind.
he’s not so subtle about eyeing or outright staring at you (not to be creepy or anything) when you wear anything of his. his mind trailing to some … unorthodox places.
so that’s how, during the trajectory of your relationship, you manage to accumulate quite a few pieces of red clothes. some yours. some his.
but anyway, no one can deny that red hood loves seeing you in his color.
how cockwarming would be with bruce, clark & jason (>'-'<)
Clark agrees because you promise to sit still while he finishes his article, but once you sink down and settle around his thick cock, he reads the same sentence so many times that none of it makes sense anymore. He hears your breathing change as you grow wetter in his lap, his large hands holding your hips tighter whenever you shift. By the time you whisper his name, his mouth is already against your neck.
“Baby, you have to stop moving.”
Bruce continues reading with you settled on his lap behind the desk, his cock still buried inside you, one arm locked around your waist while the other turns the page. Every time you roll your hips, his hand stops you before you can do it again. He feels you getting wetter around him and still refuses to give you even one thrust. When you clench again, Bruce leans close enough for his mouth to brush your ear.
“You asked to keep it inside you. Now sit still.”
Jason agrees to cockwarming and lasts exactly four minutes. At first, he leans back on the sofa with you tucked against him, pretending your pussy wrapped around his cock is not driving him fucking crazy, but the second your ass shifts, his grip on your thighs grows tighter. When you clench on purpose, Jason laughs under his breath, grabs your hips and starts moving you himself.
he's just lying there, mouth open, eyes so wide they look glassy. not moving. not breathing right. his hands hover over your hips like he's scared to touch you.
you're the hottest thing he's ever seen and he's afraid he would burn if he touch you.
you roll your hips down slow, and the only sound in the room is his shaky little exhale and your voice. he's so quiet. no dirty talk, no growling. just these soft, punched out moans every time you sink onto him.
"you—ahh—okay baby?" you ask.
he nods all dumb, lips parted, eyes locked on where your bodies meet, then back up to your tits and face. his mouth moves but nothing comes out. then you clench around him, just a little, and his whole body jerks. his eyes roll back and he's cumming with this broken, high pitched whimper.
you're just too beautiful and he's too in love to hold it.
"ughh fuck—" he gasps, face red, hands finally gripping your waist. "pretty—y-you're so pretty—so p-pretty"
he's trying. he really is.
so just smile down at him and run your fingers through his hair. tell him he did good. he'll blink up at you all teary, still hard somehow, and whisper that he loves you.
When he's a golden retriever in public but anything but that in bed
He's always had a personality in the public of oh he's too sweet and charming, the golden retriever, cutie who helps old ladies cross the street, the one who crams his girlfriend's family members names and birthdays, the one who carries all your shopping bags and never let's you lift a finger, who takes you out on dates to celebrate any achievement, who drives you everywhere. He's the perfect text book golden retriever boyfriend in public but in private it's a whole different story
When he has you face down in the bed sheets crying from over stimulation as he plows back and forth into you whilst you're shaking and barely staying up on your knees if not for his hands keeping you on your knees and arching your back perfectly so he can fuck your cunt just how he wants.
"S'too much" you slur out whilst squeeze the sheets beneath you to get a sense of stability "sorry love it's just that you look so good today─ and everyone kept looking at you and nngh fuck" he rasps when you squeeze around his swollen cock, the compliments going from your head all the way to your cunt.
Nobody would think that it's your boyfriend who couldn't hurt a fly that has his hand squeezing the fat of your hips and fucking up into your ass and rearranging your guts.
"S─shit right t─there" you whine while he pistons into your with his balls slapping against your clit driving you crazy, every thrust sending closer and closer over the edge.
The sheer size of him overwhelming you backed with how many times he's made you cum has tears running down your face and ruining your makeup
"S──so tight, all mine fu─ck... No one else mine mine MINE nghh" he's so fare gone after going about this for hours his cock twitching inside you.
"I'm gonna, I'm c─cum─" you cry into the pillow body shuddering all over, eyes rolling back hips snapping back into his cock, spasming and gushing all over his cock. Finally you felt his cum flowing deep into you fill you up to the brim the frothy mix of both of your releases forming a ring at the bottom of his dick.
Still recovering from the high you notice he hasn't stopped moving in you, his cock is still going at that punishing pace, like he doesn't even realize he's still fucking you and talking to himself in a daze "ah fuck so good baby , too good your pussy feels too aghh"
Clark can literally never pull out for the life of him. He used to be better. When you guys first started dating, he always made sure to keep condoms in the nightstand, just in case. Then after a while, it turned into marathon sessions where you burned through three to four condoms in a night. Inevitably, when the box ran empty, and neither of you wanted to stop for ten minutes to go grab more. Clark promised he would pull out. And to his credit he did. Barely. The feeling of sinking into you, completely raw. Feeling every muscle twitch, subtle clench, wetness oozing out around him, almost got him. You almost regretted telling him to pull out, getting to feel the true heat and heft of him, along with his tip sliding in and you, made you reconsider how awful pregnancy would be. You both kept saying how you needed new condoms, and Clark was always saying how he would definitely go out after work to pick up another box.
But somehow, every night, when Clark is settled between your thighs, desperately rutting into you, his hands gripping your hips, the box never showed up. Your legs would lock in around his strong hips, digging your heels into the dimples on his lower back, your hands gripping anywhere they could find purchase on. You really are scared of getting knocked up. Even though you really don’t take any precautions. You honestly are. It’s just…watching Clark grip his dick, pulling the skin back and rubbing his leaky tip up and down your folds…you can’t exactly stop him. His eyes half closed and locked onto where your hips meet when he fully bottoms out, seeing your body clench and pulse around him with his xray vision. Just seeing your internal muscles grip him makes him want to blow his load. You guys should really get condoms soon.
One night. It was just going to be one night. But that’s also what you guys said about going raw. It was Clark’s birthday, what else were you supposed to do. A day off from work, museum visits, nice dinner, cute blue lingerie. Letting him cum inside you was just the cherry on top. You almost came from how needy he already was. Holding your legs over his shoulders while he feverishly ate you out. His hands held onto your hips, pulling you impossibly closer to his face. Surprisingly, he put you in a collapsed doggystyle for tonight, his hands never getting enough of your ass and hips. He rambled into your spine as he bottomed out, licking and kissing your heated flesh. His pace almost knocks the wind out of you. His arms wrap around your waist, while he whines and pants against your neck. Even on his birthday, Clark would never be selfish. He makes sure you come around his cock, out of wanting to please you, but also because the feeling is otherworldly. After you come, catching your breath, you reach around and grip his ass, “don’t pull out” you mumble, your cheek pressed against the pillow. He makes you say it over and over, whimpering louder as he holds onto your thighs and ruts into you for his own pleasure,
“Oh gosh honey…oh honey, p-please say it again?”
“D-don’t pull out, baby,”
Whine, “oh you really mean it…? Oh gosh, you’re sure?”
“I’m serious, Clark. Don’t you dare pull out…wanna feel it all,”
He kisses and buries his face into your shoulder, letting out a string of noises most men his size would be embarrassed to make. His cock twitches incessantly, balls drawing up tight. He thrusts slowly, feeling himself slowly empty into your accepting cunt. You groan into the pillow at how hot it feels. It was already a surprise the first time Clark came on you, how warm it was compared to your already hot skin. He holds you tight, keeping you still as he bottoms out, catching his breath and making sure every last bit goes in. You guys really need to start buying condoms.
Obviously, after getting a taste for it, neither of you can resist. Somehow, Clark can go to the store to pick up Plan B, but never come back with a box of condoms. Not that either of you notice. You’re too busy with your ankles on his shoulder while you hold onto his waist. He buries his face into your collarbone, occasionally dropping his head to suck on your breasts. Watching himself fill you up is a borderline fetish for him. Whenever he cums, he’ll tilt his head down and just watch how your bodies react to each other. You pulsate and occasionally clench around him, keeping him nice and warm. His cock twitches, needing to be as deep as possible whenever his load starts to shoot. Watching your gummy walls happily absorb all his load, only a few drops ever leaking out. You try to be responsible, not having sex every night, but it’s growing increasingly difficult with Clark always rolling over in bed, kissing your neck and rubbing your sides. How could you deny such a needy face. Even during foreplay, Clark used to cum from handjobs or dry humping, knowing he’d just fill up a condom or cum all over your tummy. But now, it’s like he’s saving it all up for when he’s buried inside you. Neither of you should’ve been surprised when the test was positive. Apparently, you both missed the part on the box that said it won’t work if you’re ovulating. You both should be worried, stressing about finances, but instead, you both find yourself in the same place that landed you here. On the bed, ass up, gripping the sheets while Clark kissed down your back. Guess there’s really no need for condoms anymore.
clark kent x f!reader x bruce wayne (battinson)
word count: 6.9k
warnings: smut, stalker!bruce, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, situationships, slight dom/sub dynamic, threesome
synopsis: she technically doesn't belong to clark. so technically, her bringing the guy he hates more than anything else in this world over to have sex with shouldn't be a problem...
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Her hands are in Clark Kent’s hair to hold him in place between her thighs and her eyes are locked on Bruce Wayne from where he watches them in the window across from hers. He thinks he’s discreet, dressed in his all-black getup, shrouded by the darkness of his room. He thinks she can’t see him there in his dark hat and mask and binoculars, greedily taking in every gyrate of her hips, every bite of her lip, every heavy breath inflating and deflating her chest.
Clark licks a firm stripe up her slit and hooks either of his arms around her thighs to anchor her down when her hips instinctively buck into his face. She loses her focus on Bruce for a moment to screw her eyelids shut, a string of hurried curses tumbling from her lips.
“You taste so good,” Clark mumbles against her cunt and she whimpers, shuddering as the low drone of his voice ripples through her body.
“Don’t stop,” she moans, trying and failing to thrust her hips against the strong grip of his hands. She growls, a series of pathetic whines tumbling past her lips soon after. She can feel the crescent shape of Clark’s grin against her clit as he chuckles. She can feel the crease of his dimples against her thighs.
“You’re so impatient,” he says before finally diving back in, nose brushing her clit as he circles his tongue around her entrance. Her vision swims as her fingers practically curl into talons, clawing at the sheets around her, back rising from the mattress. There’s an ache in her toes from being held curled for so long but she can’t help it as she kicks her heels against Clark’s shoulder blades, trying to blink the haze away from her eyes.
“Fuck Clark, how are you so good at this?” She asks breathlessly, tossing her head back when he gathers her clit in his mouth, rolling his tongue around it, toying with her. Her pants are short and clipped, her chest hardly able to keep her breath’s rhythm. Every stroke of his tongue is agonizing, reducing her mind down to a murky puddle of slime.
“A master can’t reveal his own secrets,” Clark replies, to which she rolls her eyes, still rocking her hips as much as his grip will allow her.
“You’re nothing if not corny, Clark Kent,” she remarks, gasping at a particularly firm swipe of his tongue against her clit. He chuckles against her and again, it pulses through her, her body buzzing in its wake.
If Clark makes a remark back, she doesn’t hear it. She’s too far gone to care, too drunk on her own pleasure to argue. It’s almost enough to make her forget about Bruce Wayne, who still watches from the window across from hers, too far gone himself to muster the decency to look away. She raises her head again, just enough to be able to see him.
She can still make out a tiny gleam of moonlight reflected in his binoculars. Just below it, a small sliver of skin from his hand peeks out, also illuminated by the pale moon. She wonders if he even realizes she’s looking at him, and if he does, whether he’s too dazed to care. She wonders whether his other hand is where she likes to think it is— beneath his pants, locked around his cock, slowly pumping up and down the shaft, imagining it was her he was wrapped around instead.
She wonders whether or not he’s jealous of Clark, whether he wishes he was between her legs instead. She wonders if he’s jealous that it’s Clark eating her out, Clark touching her, Clark’s teeth marks in her skin. She thinks he must be seething— he and Clark have never gotten along after all.
She wonders what Bruce would do, should he be in her bedroom instead. No more stalking through binoculars, no more dark clothing, no more hiding in shadows. Would he be dominant– confident in the way he touches her, rough when he fucks her, eager to bring either of them to the edge? Would he be more submissive– allowing her to take the reins, eyes rolled back in ecstasy as she rides him, pleading with her to allow him to come?
Part of her wishes he was here, angry that Clark Kent of all people was the one fucking her, tearing him off of her, taking her and having his way with her. Part of her wishes Clark would fight back, shoving Bruce away, fucking her and washing every ounce of Bruce Wayne away of her.
This fantasy mixed with the feral way Clark’s devouring her is enough to spark a fiery trail from the pit of her stomach all the way down to her core, searing her insides in the process. She tosses her head back into the pillows and reaches for Clark’s hair, practically yanking him down further into her cunt, canting her hips into his face.
“Fuck, right there Clark!” She yowls, fighting against his arms snaked around her thighs with every ounce of strength she can muster. “I’m so close, I’m so close, don’t fucking stop.”
Clark hums against her clit, knowing all too well how greatly it affects her. She lifts her head again and through the bleary sheen of her gaze, finds Bruce in his window, knowing he’s looking, knowing he knows she knows he’s looking.
‘Bruce!’ She mouths, knitting her brows together, pinching her bottom lip between her teeth. ‘Bruce, fuck, I’m coming, I’m coming…’
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” She cries, her head lolling back into the pillows again, no longer able to support it. Clark laps at her cunt with the greed of a starved animal, moaning both her name and incoherent noises as he does. The aftershocks of her orgasm wash through her like a rippling tide, the waves slowly calming, coaxing her back into reality.
Clark curses as he presses one last kiss to her clit before trailing his mouth up to her belly, all the way up to the valley between her breasts. “You’re so beautiful baby,” Clark whispers once he’s reached her mouth, mindlessly suckling on her lip as he works his pants and underwear down just enough to let his cock spring free.
When Clark moves his head to bury her face in her collar, she snakes her fingers up the hair on the back of his neck, blinking over at Bruce’s window across from hers. As the head of Clark’s cock bullies its way into her, Bruce’s curtains draw closed, and they do not move for the rest of the night.
Clark left hurriedly after fixing her breakfast in the morning despite how many times she’s insisted that he doesn’t owe her anything.
“I’m not your girlfriend,” she’d reminded him.
Clark had simply rolled his eyes, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, snatching a piece of bacon off of her plate and shoving it into his mouth.
“And I’m not a booty call,” he’d said through his mouthful, promising to see her again tonight as he made his way to the door.
She’d rolled her eyes after him as he left, but the kiss he’d left on her head still made her heart flutter in her chest. Still made her skin crawl with warmth. Still made her wish that her remark wasn’t true.
It was annoying.
She practically slams an apple into the clear fruit bag, narrowing her eyes as she searches for her next one. She’d been going crazy all day since he left, unable to think straight, unable to focus on a task long enough to get anything done. So she’d finally left for the grocery store midway through the day, hoping the walk would be able to clear her mind of all things Clark.
An attempt that would of course, come to no avail.
For three months her arrangement with Clark has been going on. For three months, what she and Clark had was just sex, no strings, no serious, long-term attachments. It was her idea in the first place. Years and years of being let down by men had stolen every ounce of faith in romance she’d ever had.
Love was supposed to be something dead to her, a concept long buried, dead and cold in the ground. And yet, it lingered like an annoying little maggot, eating away at her resolve, reanimating the corpse of her once abstinent romance. It was to the point where she couldn’t so much as think about Clark Kent without feeling like she’s a stupid girl in a stupid rom-com who gets tongue-tied at the mere mention of him.
She clasps her hand around another apple, eyeing it scrutinizingly before finally throwing it into the fruit bag along with the others. Tongue swiping over her teeth, she reaches for a tie, spinning the top of the bag around until it seems tight enough. As she secures the tie around the bag, she catches a glimpse of dark clothing from the top of her vision, the hair on the back of her neck standing erect.
As if her feelings couldn’t get anymore complicated, there was Bruce Wayne, standing on the opposite side of the fruit stand as still and wide-eyed as a deer caught in headlights.
Bruce Wayne— the polar opposite of Clark Kent. Where Clark Kent was all sunshine and daisies and puppies and kittens, Bruce Wayne was an enigma— dark, silent, and utterly strange.
Where Clark was everything good and real and right, Bruce was bad, immoral, wrong. He watches her as she has sex with other men for Christ’s sake. He no doubt followed her here to the supermarket now. She should feel horrified, mortified, every other appropriate synonym.
She knows she should. And strangely, she doesn’t.
She feels… aroused. And flattered… sort of?
It’s a tug-of-war of what she knows is right and wrong. She knows she shouldn’t feel this way, knows she shouldn’t even be giving someone like him–a stalker– the light of day. Not when she has access to someone like Clark at her disposal anyway. Not when she knows she could lose Clark for even associating with Bruce Wayne— they’re so-called “sworn enemies” after all.
Somewhere deep down, Bruce must know this too. Perhaps it’s the shame of knowing he’s been caught, the confirmation that she knows he watches her when he thinks she isn’t looking. He blinks, seemingly finally coming to. He stumbles a bit as he takes a couple steps backwards, hands sliding out of the pockets of his jacket, beginning to reach for his hood. Before he can turn away though, she finds herself calling out his name before she even realizes it.
“Bruce, wait,” she calls, dropping her bag of apples into her basket, her feet feeling like they aren’t her own as they bring her closer to him. Bruce freezes in his tracks as she approaches, strong jaw locking in place, lips pressed in a firm, thin line.
They stand there for a moment in silence, simply blinking at one another, uncertain what direction this interaction will go. They really haven’t spoken much to each other outside of ‘hello’s and ‘goodbye’s outside on the sidewalk in front of their buildings. They’ve been in many of the same places at the same time in the past but that’s always been about the extent of it. He’d always stuck to the shadows at the bars or the parties they’d found themselves at when they were in college. She’d always been Clark’s friend, and Bruce absolutely loathed the mere idea of that man.
Even so, she’d never understood why he and Clark despised each other so much. Sure, they were complete and total opposites from one another, but she never thought that was enough to warrant a full on hatred for each other.
In the back of her mind, she’s reminded of that little fantasy that managed to trickle itself into her brain through the thick fog of her pleasure just the night before. Clark and Bruce both shoving and shouting at one another, trying to tear the other off of her, fucking her every chance they got to try and wash the other away from her. She remembers feeling Clark’s tongue digging her orgasm out of her pussy as she mouthed Bruce’s name where she knew he could see. She remembers the little glimpse of that jealousy she knows Bruce felt last night when Clark fucked and kissed her with the sliding closed of his curtains.
Bruce blinks, rolling his lips together, finally showing signs of life. “I’m… I’m sor—“
“Do you wanna come over?”
She knows Bruce is watching as she shrugs off her coat. She can feel his eyes watching, searing holes into her skin as she folds it over her sofa. She turns to face him again where he stands awkwardly by her front door, fists balled at either of his flanks. Their gazes meet for the briefest of moments before his drops to the floor, strands of dark umber hair falling over his eyes, casting his face in shadow.
It’s the first time she’s managed to get a closer look at him since college. It’s strange how a man can change while simultaneously not changing at all. He’s just as quiet as he’s always been. He’s just as tall and as handsome as he’s always been. But he seems more reserved than he used to be. More mysterious. Sadder.
Bruce Wayne has always been sort of an outcast. He’s handsome and rich, yes, but he never quite got along with anyone else in college. She used to always wonder sometimes why he’d even bother going to parties. She even wondered if maybe he was being forced to attend them. If maybe they were attempts at making him friends.
She wonders if this is the same case for him having even bought an apartment in the first place. It’s no secret that Bruce comes from old money. The Waynes have their own manor in upper Gotham for Christ’s sake. It makes no sense why he’d buy an apartment in one of the shittiest blocks in Metropolis. Perhaps it was an effort at independence, to live a life outside of Gotham and the shadow of the Wayne family name.
Though, a thought creeps like a spider into her mind. What if it was all for her? It was a selfish and self-centered thought for sure, but one not entirely implausible. How coincidental could it be for Bruce Wayne, her stalker, to manage to secure an apartment whose bedroom window is directly across from hers?
A pulse sparks between her legs. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice calls her out for having no shame but she’s too curious and turned on to really even care.
She steps forward, again and again until she’s before Bruce. He manages his breathing well, though his anxiety is evident in the way his gaze darts between her and the floor. She tilts her head for a better angle of his face, blinking up at him curiously.
“I know you watch me at night, Bruce,” she says. Her words hit like a thrown glass shattering beside his head. His flinch is small, but doesn’t go unnoticed. “When you think I’m not looking. When I’m laying down. When I’m changing. When you think I’m too caught up in my own pleasure to notice you in the window.”
For the first time, his jaw trembles, though he doesn’t appear frightened. Not even when she draws nearer, her face closing in on his. He even musters the courage to meet her gaze, his uncertainty from before slowly melting as he realizes she isn’t angry, isn’t even disgusted.
“Doesn’t it kill you, watching me with someone like Clark?” She continues, blinking down at his lips as his breath rolls like hot smoke over her face. “Watching someone you hate go down on me, finger me, fuck me?”
His breath stutters. A small smile tugs at her lips.
“Doesn’t it make you feel angry to see me sucking someone like Clark Kent off when I could be sucking your cock instead?” She continues. She can hardly believe her own words. She can hardly believe how incredibly aroused she feels right now. Bruce’s desire emanates from him through every heavy, unsteady breath, the narrowing of his gaze, the tightening of his jaw.
She can’t resist the temptation to reach for his face, to trace her thumb along the sharp lines of his jaw. It trembles when she does and she realizes just how touch-starved he must be.
“Doesn’t it make you just want to lose your mind?” She asks, slowly drawing her hips into his. His cock is practically bursting from his pants already. It must be agonizing. “Doesn’t it make you just want to lose control? Have your way with me? Take me until I—“
Whatever she was planning on saying next is completely stolen from her. Bruce’s mouth is on hers in an instant, pouncing like a predator on its prey. Where Clark’s kisses are tender, firm but always lined with an edge of intimacy, Bruce’s are feral, ravenous, greedy. For at least three months, he’s had to watch from the darkness of his bedroom as she’s been taken by Clark again and again and again. For at least three months, he’s only had his imagination of what she feels and tastes like to work with.
Now that he’s here, inside her apartment, kissing her with the greed of a starved wolf, he’s uncontrollable.
His hands cup either of her cheeks as he swirls his tongue inside her mouth, every bit as dominating as part of her she expected him to be. Her knees buckle under the weight of his kiss and one of his arms drops to circle around her waist to keep her upright. Even through his thick layers of dark clothing he feels firm– different from Clark and not as big as Clark, but still firm, strong.
Her hands rise to the zipper of his jacket, tugging it down in one swift motion, knocking his hat off his head with another. His fingers tear at her clothes, uncaring what happens to them or where they end up, only that he is here and she is here and he has her right where he’s always imagined having her.
Her nipples swell against her bra as her ripped shirt slides off her shoulders. His lips never once leaving hers, he backs her into the sofa, pushing her down onto the cushions, breaking their kiss only to trail his mouth down her throat to suck marks into her skin. Her back arches and her chest meets his mouth when his kisses reach her breasts, his hands snaking behind her back to unclasp her bra.
“How long have you been thinking about this Bruce?” She asks breathlessly, her skin erupting in gooseflesh as he pulls away enough to rip her bra from her arms. “How long have you dreamed of this?”
He shakes his head against her, taking a handful of her breast, swirling his tongue around the nipple of the other. “Too long,” he admits, his voice low and raspy, as if this was the first time he’d spoken in a while.
“Yeah?” She gasps, her fingers carding through his hair, drawing him in closer to her breast. “Do you know what I’ve been dreaming about?’
Bruce blinks up at her, tongue circling around her nipple. Strands of dark hair fall over his eyes and she brushes them back, whimpering as she cants her hips up, seeking friction.
“Been dreaming about you touching yourself, thinking of all the things you’d do to me,” she continues, gasping when his teeth pinch her nipple, flattening his tongue over to soothe the ache. “And you’d get frustrated because your hand doesn’t feel nearly as good as my pussy.”
A deep, guttural noise emits from Bruce and his teeth etch their mark into the side of her breast. She yelps, instinctively bucking her hips into him, his pinning them back down. He lifts his face from her chest, pretty lips glistening with spit. She stares back at him in wonder, anticipating his next move. Bruce is a man of few words– again, the complete and total opposite from Clark. Oddly enough, his silence speaks volumes. By his gaze alone she’s trembling, aching at the apex of her thighs.
Slowly, he lifts himself away from her, their gazes never breaking. She wonders what exactly it is he’s thinking. She wonders if she’s everything he’d hoped she’d be. If watching her from afar for so long had been worth it. If she was everything he’d dreamed of and more.
His hands reach for the hem of his black shirt and she watches, blinking like a curious bird as he lifts it over his torso, up and over his head. Her mouth falls agape in awe and for the first time in what feels like truly a long time, she’s rendered speechless. Wonderstruck.
Simply saying Bruce Wayne is beautiful would be like saying Clark Kent is simply strong. Bruce is a work of art. Memory mars his skin and stories are scattered across his chest in angry, red pieces of ribbed flesh like stars in constellations. She wants to reach out and feel him, read his story like braille across his flesh. It’s devastating– seeing him like this only makes her want him more, only makes her already confusing feelings for Clark that much more annoying.
Because as much as she really likes Clark, she really likes seeing Bruce like this.
When Bruce does finally speak, his voice low and rumbling, rolling like thunder through her, she’s afraid she’s on the cusp of collapse.
“Remember when you looked at me last night?” He asks, leaning forward, his fingers curling around the hem of her pants. Her skin burns where his knuckles touch. She waits, panting in anticipation. “How you taunted me, calling my name while he was making you come?”
Slowly, he pulls her pants and underwear down her thighs, legs erupting in gooseflesh as the air blows over her skin.
“You wanna know what I was thinking then?” He continues, her bottoms pooling at her ankles. She nods, lips pressed together, a small, pathetic whimper bubbling in her throat. He rips her clothes away from her ankles, tossing them back onto the floor somewhere behind him, dipping his head low between her legs. “I was thinking about how much of a slut you are. Just how I imagined you’d be.”
His breath is hot, like the fumes of a fire rolling over her skin, fanning over her sopping core. It sends shivers snaking down her spine, makes her instinctively buck her hips up, hoping for some sort of friction. He flattens a palm just above her clit, pushing her back down. It’s painful, being touched so close yet so far from where she wants to be.
“Bruce,” she whines and he scoffs, eyeing the glistening cunt before him.
“Every bit as pretty as I dreamed you’d be,” he murmurs, a comment seemingly more for himself than for her to hear.
It’s excruciating watching Bruce between her legs, staring at her pussy as if he were a caged animal eyeing its first meal in days. She could practically feel his gaze devouring her, soaking in every detail of her cunt he can as if he feared the moment wasn’t going to last.
And it seems he was right to think so.
“Just do something already,” she whines, canting her hips into his palm, clit managing to brush his chin. Bruce’s gaze is piercing when it finds hers just over her mound but it seems he, too, has had enough of waiting. The world around them is a blur and they are the only beings in motion. Bruce is the nexus of her universe, the only thing she sees clearly as his mouth drops to her clit, pressing a soft, devastatingly tender kiss to the bud…
“…you know you left the door unlocked, right? You really shouldn’t do that, anyone could just walk in on you, and what if you’re—“
Clark’s voice slices through the moment and she blinks, suddenly aware of the world around her. She and Bruce both lift their heads over the back of the couch to see Clark standing at the door, suit coat draped over his arm, briefcase dangling from his hand.
“—naked… or something…”
Suddenly, all she can hear is the incessant drone of her heart pounding in her chest. Her mouth opens and closes, warmth seeping into her cheeks. Fuck, she thinks. How’s she going to explain this one?
Her living room is pregnant with silence. Clark’s eyes blink between her and Bruce, dark brows knit together, dark creases forming on his forehead. Out her periphery she can see Bruce, just as mortified as she is but also vexed— it’s evident in the way his jaw tenses.
He finally had her right where he wanted her and of course, Clark Kent of all people had to barge in and ruin things, as he tended to do. At least, this is what she imagines must be going through Bruce’s head.
Clark blinks and a disbelieving scoff rips from his chest, dropping his suitcase by the door, staggering his hips. “I’m sorry, I think I’m just trying to understand,” he says, voice laced with a web of different emotions: anger, confusion, annoyance, bitterness. “What the hell’s he doing here?”
Bruce rises to his feet and she glances up at him in time to watch his gaze sharpen into the blade of a knife, cutting into Clark.
“Could ask you the same thing,” Bruce clips.
She turns back to Clark, adjusting her position on the couch so that she sits more upright.
“Clark, look, I didn’t mean for you to walk in on us like this,” she begins, unsure how to even begin approaching this. Her heart is producing about a million beats a second. Vexation pulses at her temples and lust pulses at her core. She’s caught in another game of tug-of-war, one that’s on the brink of tearing her apart.
“As far as I’m concerned, she doesn’t belong to you,” Bruce says. Her eyes cut back up at him. “Not everything is handed to you on a silver platter, Kent.”
Clark’s chest swells with a mix of rage and hatred. He steps forward, pointing a finger in Bruce’s face, jaw tense, dimples creasing with every pronounced syllable. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you, Wayne,” he says. “No pun intended.”
She should be mortified. And in a way, she is. Genuinely, she had no idea Clark would come barging into her apartment like this.
But more than anything: she’s more turned-on than she’s ever been. The fantasy that crossed her mind the night before was literally unfolding before her very eyes. Bruce and Clark, both fighting over her while she’s sitting there, completely in the nude, ready and eager to be touched. The back and forth of their voices is only fuel to the fire ignited between her legs and she feels like a volcano on the cusp of eruption.
“Get out of here!” Bruce shouts and Clark scoffs in disbelief again, a curse murmured beneath his breath. A hand rises to his face and he digs his fingers into his closed eyelid, mumbling “I can’t believe this” as he moves to reach for his briefcase again.
“Clark!” She shouts, breaking her silence. She climbs off the couch and lands on her hands and knees on the floor. Shivers roll down her spine as the cool ground meets her palms and kneecaps but it doesn’t break her determination. She crawls— crawls— her way towards Clark’s feet, circling her arms around his legs, resting her chin on his thighs. “Don’t go. I don’t want you to go.”
Another silence stretches across the room. Clark blinks down at her, the crease in his brow slowly unraveling, making room for his shock. Her eyes are round and pleading and she can see his lips tremble when she kisses his leg through his pants, murmuring feeble little pleas into his thighs.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” she says, digging her nails into the fabric of his pants, planting her chin against his belt. She kisses the zipper of his pants, eyes pleading. “Please don’t go.”
“I…” Clark begins, trailing off. Behind her, she can hear Bruce scoff and what sounds like him collecting his shirt from wherever he’d discarded it. His boots are loud and heavy thumps against the floor as he makes his way for the door, but before he can brush past, she reaches out, managing to grab his hand and yank him back.
“Please don’t go,” she says, directed at Bruce this time. She turns her head, blinking up at him, eyes big and pleading with him instead. His lips fall slightly open, his chest— still bare— inflating with his breath. She sinks her teeth into her lip, rolling it around. “I want you to stay.”
She glances away from Bruce to look up at Clark again.
“Both of you.”
Silence ensues again, pregnant with tension. She blinks between the two men as they both turn to share a look. For a moment, they are both unified through confusion.
Her hand still locked around Bruce’s, she trails her other up from Clark’s belt to his tie, wrapping her fingers around the bottom and yanking with all the strength she can muster. Clark exhales in surprise as she tugs him down to her, her lips crashing into his, desperation tied together with need laced in her kiss. It takes him a moment to come to, and just as he begins to reciprocate her kiss, she pulls away, dropping his tie to clasp both her hands around Bruce’s wrist, yanking him down to the floor with her.
His lips practically fall onto hers and this time, he anticipates her kiss, tongue swirling into her mouth, seeking out control. Her chest flutters when she feels Clark kneel beside her, one of his big, warm palms steadying himself on her thigh. Breaking away from Bruce, a thread of saliva bridges their mouths together. She turns to Clark, leaning in to kiss him fast, the bridge between her and Bruce unbreaking.
She moans into Clark’s mouth, cupping his cheek with one hand, palming at Bruce’s pants with the other. She hears Bruce’s sharp inhale beside her and her lips curve against Clark’s, slowly moving back towards Bruce, breaking from Clark’s mouth to immediately slam onto Bruce’s.
“Shit,” she hears Clark murmur as one of his large palms kneads her breast. She mewls into Bruce’s mouth when she feels the pads of his fingers brush against her clit, sliding between her folds, jolts of electricity flashing through her body.
She gasps as she pulls away from Bruce’s kiss, resting her forehead against his as he trails back up to her clit to rub circles around it, the tops of his fingers teasing her entrance.
“Fuck,” she hisses, pinching her bottom lip between her teeth. “Just fuck me already.”
Bruce’s head nuzzles against hers and slowly, her eyes flutter open.
“Yeah?” He whispers, as if for confirmation.
She nods, humming, sharply inhaling when Clark’s mouth sucks on the delicate skin just under her jaw, near her ear. “I know your dick’s just aching to be inside me already.”
“God,” Clark whispers beside her ear and she turns, rocking her hips in tune to Bruce’s fingers, reaching up to knock Clark’s glasses off his nose. He gathers her lips with his, their tongues rolling over one another. Clark’s face splits in a grin that she reciprocates, pecking either of his lips. Fluttering his eyelids up at him, she nuzzles her nose against his. “You can’t say things like that to me.”
She chuckles, kissing the side of his mouth again. “And why’s that?”
Clark rolls his eyes, butting his forehead against hers, leaving a sloppy trail of kisses along the side of her nose. “Cause you’ve no idea the things you do to me…”
She laughs but before she can lean in for another kiss, her face is being turned, Bruce stealing the kiss meant for Clark.
“Hey!” Clark protests, shoving Bruce back by the shoulder. “If this is gonna work, you’re gonna have to learn to share, buddy.”
“You’re still touching her,” Bruce replies simply, nodding towards Clark’s hand caressing the inside of her thigh. “Besides, you’ve had all the time in the world with her, buddy.”
Clark’s brow furrows and his lips roll in a scowl. Mouth still on Bruce’s, she reaches for Clark’s tie, tugging him down to her neck in the space just below her ear. Once he’s over the initial shock of being yanked forward, he (rather begrudgingly) complies with her silent request, swirling his tongue over her skin. Shivers roll through her as Clark’s warm breath fans over the saliva already cooling on her skin.
She paws at either of their pants, feeling Clark’s hum buzz against her throat. She breaks away from Bruce’s kiss, squeezing down hard on his cock, pleading with her eyes. He moves almost immediately, undoing the buttons and zipper of his pants, leaning forward for another kiss as he slides them down his thighs.
Clark murmurs her name into her neck and she hums in reply, unable to tear her gaze from Bruce as his cock finally springs free from his underwear, the head angry and leaking already. They pull away enough to allow him to kick out of his pants entirely and she moans— moans— when they come together again.
Bruce is working a finger up and down between her folds, toying with her, taunting her. She whines into his mouth, another plea to just take her already. He hums in reply, the pad of his forefinger pressing down onto her clit, quakes rolling through her body.
“Goddammit Bruce,” she whines as she pulls away from their kiss. “Are you gonna fuck me or not?”
In what feels like an instant, Bruce’s fingers are gripping either side of her jaw, holding her face in place, locking his gaze onto hers. A gasp escapes from her lips and prompts Clark to pull back from her neck, lips pink and shiny with saliva.
“Impatient, aren’t we?” Bruce’s voice is low, dangerously low. Heat rolls through her body like a tsunami, crashing down into her core. “You know how long I’ve waited for this?” He leans in closer, their noses touching, his face so close, it eclipses all the light in her vision. “You don’t get to rush this.”
She whimpers again and she can practically feel her mind melt, becoming nothing more than a useless pile of mush. It’s something she’s never felt before, something she’s only ever dreamt of feeling before.
She loves Clark, really she does, and she loves the way he fucks her. But it’s never like this, never too rough, never too much. And she likes it— being treated as if she’s something delicate, something to be cared for, nurtured.
But a part of her always wondered what it would be like to be at someone’s mercy, forced to comply with somebody else’s rules, into submission.
“Jesus Christ, Bruce, not so rough.” She can hear Clark’s voice somewhere off in the distance, but his words don’t quite register in her brain— not with Bruce’s gaze piercing through her, dissecting every measly ounce of her being, nor with his fingers lingering on her clit, and certainly not when he’s currently getting himself into position between her legs, his cock ready at her eager entrance.
“She can handle it,” Bruce replies, his thumb pressing down onto her lips, tightening his grip around her face. “Can’t you?”
She nods, breathing uneven as his head brushes against her sex, heavy against her clit. Using the grip he has on her face, Bruce turns her head towards Clark. Only then does she take her eyes away from Bruce to instead fix them on Clark.
“Tell him how much you love being a fuck toy.” Bruce’s voice drips with honey-like seduction, and it falls down straight to her clit. She opens her mouth, words forming but dying on the tip of her tongue when Bruce lets go of her face and bullies his way into her cunt, slowly sheathing himself inside of her.
“Fuck!” She yelps, screwing her eyelids shut, head beginning to snap backwards, en route to smack the floor had it not been for Clark’s palm rushing to shield it.
Inch by agonizing inch, Bruce fills her up all the way to the fucking brim. It feels like his cock goes on forever, and she half expects it to keep going even when she feels him hit against her cervix.
A soft curse tumbles from what could only be Clark’s mouth and she slowly flutters her eyes back open, blinking away the blurriness from her vision. His face materializes above her, his eyes not fixed on her but rather her pussy, greedily taking in the sight of her absolutely devouring Bruce’s cock.
Bruce reaches for her jaw again, fingers tight against her cheeks as he locks her head in place again. “Go on, tell him.”
Clark blinks back at her, his cheeks flush and breath unsteady. This is new for Clark— this she knows all too well to be true. Clark’s never had to share a thing with anyone else in his life, nothing sacred, anyway. And this thing— whatever you could call it— between them always felt sacred to him, as if there were a thread of some sort tethering them together, bounding her to him.
The idea that something, someone, so sacred to him could be taken by somebody else should anger him to no end. He should want to fight for sole control, to be the only one to ever have her like this.
And yet… seeing her like this, so clearly turned on and incredibly beautiful while being used, even if by someone else— even Bruce Wayne of all people— is so… hot to him.
“I.. I love it,” she pants, her syllables pronounced with each thrust of Bruce’s hips. “I love being a.. fuck! I love being a fuck toy!”
Bruce fucks her like an animal, he fucks her with primal-like instinct, as if he’d been caged all this time— and in a sense, he has. When he fucks her, he holds her as if he wants to conquer every square inch of her body— his hands dance between her jaw, her tits, her hips, her wrists. Perspiration beads and drips from his forehead and onto her skin with the effort.
It’s mesmerizing to watch. Watching Bruce fuck was like watching a master working on his craft, like watching an artist painting his work of art. Perhaps this tension has been building up within him for so long, it’s practically instinct now— postponing his hips, bullying his dick as deep as it can go inside of her, pawing at her body, digging her orgasm out of her.
She’s a babbling, whining, crying mess. Clark’s still cupping the back of her head in his palm, so incredibly mesmerized by her, he can hardly even move. He wipes strands of hair away from her face and tucks them behind her ear, tracing his fingertip down the curve of her cheek to the line of her jaw. Droplets of tears have collected on her eyelashes, so when she flutters them up at him, he uses the pad of his thumb to wipe them away.
“You’re so pretty, baby,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her lips. “You’re doing so well.”
Her body quacks with a sob and Clark can feel it on his lips so he pulls away to shush her, wiping more tears away from her cheeks with his thumb.
“I know, I know, it feels so good, doesn’t it?” Clark’s voice is so soft and laced with a silky edge, such a stark difference from Bruce’s. Her brain can hardly wrap around it— being fucked like a white whilst simultaneously being pampered as if she were a porcelain doll. Her vision glosses and blurs, feeling white hot bliss pool in her belly.
“You take cock so well,” Clark whispers close to her ear and her core throbs, his voice pushing her even closer to that edge Bruce has been working her towards. She can feel one of Clark’s hands trail down her body, from her chest, to her belly, almost down to the apex of her thighs. As his fingers inch closer to her core, as Bruce drills his cock harder, faster into her, she can feel Clark’s lips against the shell of her ear. “You’re so beautiful. My beautiful, little gi—“
A loud smack interrupts Clark, prompting his hand to pull away from her body, and somewhere in the far off distance from her hazy mind, she can hear “ow!”
“If this is gonna work, you’re gonna have to learn to share, buddy,” she hears Bruce repeat Clark’s previous line. Had she been in a clearer, more coherent state, she might’ve laughed. "And right now, this pussy's mine."
a/n; this has been in the works for... quite awhile 🥴 i haven't been able to stop thinking about these two so i hope anyone else who hasn't been able to stop thinking about a superbat threesome enjoys LMAO (to be posted on ao3 soon!)
🦇 if you enjoyed, please leave a reply or even reblog to let me know! hearing your feedback makes my day! 🐿️
Clark found you in the bath, completely surrounded by bubbles and what could only be the biggest, roundest bath bomb he'd ever seen in his life. You looked completely content, with your eyes closed as you submerged yourself face up in the water, letting the outside world fade away.
This was where you belonged: in the water. Where you could float all day long and just let all of your worries melt away.
You didn't even notice him leaning against the doorway, looking down at you with the widest smile, his dimples on full display.
"Well, someone looks happy." He sat down next to the bath, not caring if his shirt got wet as he leaned over and took your hand in his, an action you immediately reciprocated, your hand lightly squeezing his—a wordless hello.
You both stayed like that for awhile, simply existing together in mutual silence.
"Dude—"
"You did not just call me dude." He sounded offended, maybe a bit dramatic, but still offended nonetheless.
"Would you rather me call you bro?" You giggled and sat up, not caring to hide your body from him. He'd seen it before anyway, and you watched as his gaze flickered down to your exposed breasts before snapping back up to your face.
"The love of your life has a nice ring to it, actually." His gaze flickered down again, unashamed.
"Dude, stop staring at my boobs."
"You know I was going to, but since you called me 'dude' again, I've decided not to."
Your expression fell blank. "Oh, wow. My boyfriend is a pervert."
"For your boobs? Yeah, I mean, look at them. Absolutely perfect."
You rolled your eyes and leaned forward, unplugging the drain and then standing up.
"You're a dork." You snorted.
Clark didn't hesitate to grab the closest towel and hand it to you, watching as you wrapped it around your body. He stepped back, letting you step out of the tub without issue. "You know I actually heard that letting your body dry naturally is really good for your skin."
You stared at him, unimpressed. "No, you didn't."
"No, I didn't."
A/N: here's a little drabble I never got to finishing. The ending is a little abrupt but y'all will live. Love you <3
Bruce had almost finished the case file when you pulled it from his hands and dropped it facedown on the side table. His tie had been loose since dinner and his sleeves were still rolled to his elbows. He could have stopped you before you climbed into his lap, but his arm went around your waist instead and he leaned back to make room.
He shifted you onto his right thigh and lifted your skirt above your hips. His fingers caught the edge of your panties and pulled them aside, leaving you bare against the charcoal wool of his trousers. The fabric felt rough against you, and the first roll of your hips left a wet streak across his leg.
Bruce widened his stance and planted his foot firmly against the floor. The muscle tightened when he raised his knee, pressing into the ache between your legs until your fingers curled into his shoulders. He let you choose the pace at first, keeping one hand firm at your waist. Whenever you rocked far enough back for the pressure to fade, his grip tightened and brought you straight back over the flexed muscle.
Bruce kissed you without letting his hands leave your hips, biting your lower lip when you became impatient. You felt his thick cock harden beneath his trousers, pressing heavily against the inside of your thigh. Your hand had barely reached his belt before he caught your wrist, placed it at the back of his neck and returned his hand to your hip.
He pulled you forwards as he lifted his knee to meet you, and the rough slide of his trousers made your thighs begin to tremble. You stopped trying to keep the pace slow and ground against him harder. Your knees slipped against the leather seat, and Bruce slid one arm around your waist while his other hand continued pulling you over his leg.
You came with your face pressed into his neck and your nails buried in his shirt. Your legs tightened around his thigh while Bruce kept moving you, holding you upright when you slumped against his chest.
He pulled your panties back into place and smoothed your skirt over your hips. One arm remained around your back as the other slipped beneath your thighs, lifting you from his leg. Bruce stood and shifted you against him until your legs wrapped around his waist.
You had his tie halfway off before he reached the stairs.
Sam Winchester who has spent years avoiding cameras but somehow never minds when you're the one behind one.
Sam Winchester who instinctively ducks his head every time you point your camera at him, mumbling, "Come on..."
Sam Winchester who secretly saves every photograph you've ever printed of him.
Sam Winchester who insists he isn't photogenic while you're convinced you've never photographed anyone more effortlessly handsome.
Sam Winchester who catches you looking at him through your camera lens instead of actually taking the picture.
Sam Winchester who blushes every time you quietly tell him, "Stay exactly like that."
Sam Winchester who pretends to be annoyed whenever you ask for "just one more picture," but never actually says no.
Sam Winchester who always ends up carrying your camera bag because "it's heavier than it looks."
Sam Winchester who carefully holds your spare lenses like they're priceless artifacts.
Sam Winchester who gets genuinely interested in photography because listening to you explain aperture, focal lengths, and composition reminds him of how passionate you are.
Sam Winchester who starts pointing out beautiful lighting before you even notice it yourself.
Sam Winchester who quietly says, "Golden hour," every time the sunset starts making everything glow because he knows you'll immediately reach for your camera.
Sam Winchester who catches himself staring at you while you're completely absorbed behind your camera.
Sam Winchester who thinks your "photographer face", that little look of concentration you get, is unbearably cute.
Sam Winchester who can't understand how someone who spends their life behind the camera can somehow be the most beautiful thing in every room.
Sam Winchester who notices you never photograph monsters.
Sam Winchester who eventually realizes you only use your camera to preserve the beautiful parts of the world, because hunting already forces you to see enough of the ugly ones.
Sam Winchester who quietly loves that about you.
Sam Winchester who has become surprisingly good at standing still while you adjust your settings.
Sam Winchester who never quite gets used to someone looking at him like he's worth photographing.
Sam Winchester who discovers you've taken dozens of candid pictures of him reading old lore books, sleeping in the passenger seat, laughing with Dean, or fixing the Impala.
Sam Winchester who asks why you never showed him those ones.
Sam Winchester who goes completely quiet when you answer, "Because they're my favorites."
Sam Winchester who eventually asks if you'll teach him how to use your camera.
Sam Winchester who spends more time photographing you than actually learning.
Sam Winchester who pretends he's testing different settings when really he's just looking for another excuse to keep you in the frame.
Sam Winchester who has an entire roll of film that's accidentally just pictures of you laughing.
Sam Winchester who eventually admits that he used to hate having his picture taken.
Sam Winchester who realizes he only hated it because no one had ever looked at him the way you do.
Sam Winchester who finds himself hoping you'll ask for "just one more picture," because it means he'll get to watch you smile from behind the lens for a little while longer.
you have mdni but interact with a minor? your recent reblog...
Can you tell me who? I was checking my recent reblogs but I couldn’t find the minor. Although I think I saw some ageless blogs, are they minors? My last reblog?
My reblogs are usually from posts that appear on home/timeline/idk how to call it, not from moots (sometimes I also follow them, but not always). And I think I have trusted that because I have the mdni, minors wouldn’t interact with me, but recently came to my attention that some of my moots have had minors interact with them regardless. So I’m starting to be more careful in that sense, but I’m not sure how to deal with it. Should I block them when I notice they’re minors?
Anyway, if you ever see me interacting with someone who’s a minor please let me know! I don’t really check cause I didn’t think it was necessary but apparently it is and asking minors to please not interact with me isn’t enough…
⏾⋆.˚ pairings: Jason Todd x reader, Fatson Todd x reader
⏾⋆.˚ summary: Jason needs your kisses and cuddles to have sweet dreams, but Fatson keeps getting in the way, and it’s making Jason very jealous.
⏾⋆.˚ warnings: none just fluff!
The soft, low hum of a lullaby had barely left your lips before a deep, aggrieved groan vibrated straight through the mattress, causing the edge of the duvet to shift violently.
You paid it absolutely no mind, carefully tucking the tiny, frayed edge of the blanket right up beneath a round, plush chin. You smoothed down the tiny felt tuft of white hair on the plushie's forehead, pressing a ridiculously sweet, gentle kiss right between its wide, embroidered safety-button eyes.
"Sleep tight, baby," you cooed softly, patting the absurdly sphere-shaped body. "You’ve had a big, long day of being perfect."
"You have got to be out of your fucking mind."
Jason’s voice came out as a low, gravelly rasp from the far right side of the bed. He was lying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling with an expression of betrayal. His broad shoulders were tense, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and his lower lip was pushed out in a pout so profound it looked almost painful on a man built like a brick wall.
"Don't speak so loudly," you whispered sternly, casting a sharp look over your shoulder at him. "He's trying to wind down for bed. You know how sensitive he gets after eight o'clock."
Jason snapped his head toward you, his dark brows furrowing into a deep, furious line. "It’s a blob," he hissed, pointing a giant, scarred finger at the cuddled bundle in your arms. "It’s a literal stuffed doll, sweetheart. It doesn't have a sleep schedule, it doesn't have feelings, and it certainly isn't sensitive."
You immediately gasped, quickly cupping two fingers over the plushie’s embroidered ears to shield him from the harsh words. "Jason! Do not talk about him like that right in front of his face! He is a delicate boy!"
"He is polyester fill and cheap felt!" Jason groaned, throwing his hands up in the air before flopping them back down onto the mattress with a loud, dramatic thump. He rolled onto his side, propping his heavy head up on one giant hand, glaring at the plushie nestled securely against your chest. "I cannot believe I’m getting sidelined by that thing. Look at him! He doesn't even have neck features! He’s just a ball with legs!"
"His name is Fatson," you corrected him instantly, drawing the blanket up higher over the round plushie shoulders. "And you will address him with the proper decorum."
"Fatson," Jason repeated, his tone dripping with utter disbelief. He dragged a palm down his face, dragging his fingers over his heavy jawline. "You bought him off some shady internet listing that literally called him 'fat hood', and now he’s somehow usurped my rightful position in this bed?"
"When I ordered him, he was listed as 'fat hood', yes," you admitted smoothly, giving Fatson’s plush tummy a loving little squish. "Because the creators lacked vision. But the second he arrived in the mail, soft and squishy and perfectly round, I knew his true identity. He became Fatson. And he has been the light of my life ever since."
"I am standing—well, lying—right here!" Jason whined, his voice pitching up in a way that he would fiercely deny to anyone else in Gotham. He dragged himself a few inches closer across the bed, the mattress dipping under his broad frame, though he still kept a cautious, pouting distance. "I am your actual boyfriend! The guy who buys you late-night takeout! The guy who lifts heavy boxes! I am six-foot-two and made of muscle, and you're cuddling a stuffed potato!"
"Fatson doesn't steal the covers," you noted reasonably, resting your cheek against the plushie’s squishy head. "Fatson doesn't come home at two in the morning smelling like gunpowder and motor oil. Fatson doesn't kick in his sleep."
"I kick once because I’m having a dream about beating up the Riddler, and suddenly I’m worse than a plush toy?" Jason scoffed, his blue-green eyes narrowing with intense jealousy as you leaned down to plant another loud, smacking kiss on Fatson’s plush cheek. "Okay, now you're just doing that on purpose to drive me crazy."
"Doing what? Giving my sweetest boy his bedtime affection?" You stroked the soft material of Fatson’s little red felt helmet hood. "He works hard, Jason. He holds down the bed all day while we're gone. He deserves a loving home."
Jason let out a long, dramatic huff, throwing his head back onto his pillow and rolling onto his back again, staring up at the ceiling fan with a scowl that could wilt fresh flowers. He crossed his arms over his chest, his bicep bulging against his dark t-shirt, resting in supreme, petty silence for all of four seconds.
"I’m your sweetest boy. Not him. He doesn't even look like me," Jason muttered bitterly into the quiet room. "My chin isn't that round."
"It's an artistic interpretation," you replied softly, adjusting the blanket so Fatson’s tiny felt feet didn't get cold. "It captures your core essence. Round, soft, slightly grumpy, but overall completely harmless."
"Harmless?!" Jason sat bolt upright at that, looking utterly scandalized. "I am a Crime Lord. I’m the Red Hood! I strike fear into the hearts of Gotham's underworld! I am a dark, brooding lethal weapon!"
"Shh!" you hissed, glaring at him over your shoulder. "You’re going to wake him up! Look at him, he was just settling down!"
Jason looked down at the plushie. It sat there, totally inert, staring straight ahead with its black bead eyes and a perpetually stitched-on neutral line for a mouth.
"He's not asleep!" Jason yelled in a harsh, forced whisper, leaning over toward your side of the bed. "He's not awake either! Because he is cotton stuffing, babe! He doesn't have a nervous system!"
"You're just jealous," you said simply, pulling Fatson closer into your arms, tucking your chin over his round little head. "You're jealous that Fatson gets prime cuddle real estate without having to do any of the emotional heavy lifting."
"I am not jealous of a lump of fabric," Jason snapped, though his body language betrayed him entirely. He scooted even closer, his large frame practically invading your half of the mattress now, his chest just inches away from your back. "I just think it's ridiculous that I'm lying over here on the cold, lonely side of the bed while you're pouring all your warmth and affection into something that came out of a vacuum-sealed plastic bag."
"If you're nice to Fatson," you offered generously, "I might let him share a sliver of the blanket with you."
"I don't want a sliver of the blanket from Fatson," Jason grumbled, though his hand subconsciously reached out, hovering over the soft duvet. "I want my girlfriend."
"Fatson says he's open to sharing, but only if you apologize for calling him 'that thing'."
Jason stared at you like you had completely lost your mind. "You want me to apologize to a doll?"
You just held his gaze, unblinking, casually patting Fatson's back in a steady, soothing rhythm.
Jason let out a groan that sounded like a dying engine, rubbing his knuckles over his face in defeat. He leaned down until his nose was just inches away from the plushie's tiny felt face.
"...Fine," Jason muttered, his voice dropping into a deep, grudging rumble. "I'm sorry I called you 'that thing', Fatson. You're... a very structurally sound lump of stuffing."
"And?" you prompted softly.
Jason gritted his teeth, his cheeks flushing a faint, adorable pink in the dim light of the bedside lamp. "And... your white streak looks very handsome."
You tried. You really, truly tried to keep a straight face. You squeezed your eyes shut, bit the inside of your cheek, and buried your nose right into Fatson’s soft, velvety head to muffle the sound. But watching a giant, ruthless vigilante gravely apologize to a tiny, spherical plush toy was simply too much for your body to handle.
A small, choked noise escaped your throat, followed immediately by a sharp snort.
Jason froze. His eyes narrowed as he leaned in closer, catching the way your shoulders were violently trembling. "Are you... are you laughing at me?"
"I can't help it," you giggled, finally catching your breath. Very carefully, with exaggerated gentleness, you placed Fatson onto the nightstand right next to the lamp, pulling the edge of a stray coaster over his tiny feet. "There. Fatson’s asleep now."
You turned back around, flipping over to face Jason properly.
Before he could grumble another word, you slid across the sheets and threw your arms around his neck, tucking yourself directly against his chest. Jason didn't hesitate for a single second; his heavy arms immediately wrapped tight around your waist, hoisting you flush against him like he’d been starving for the contact all night. He buried his face right into the crook of your neck, letting out a long, heavy sigh of absolute relief.
"Finally," he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin as his big hands smoothed down your back. "Felt like I was waiting in line at the DMV over here."
"You are such a big baby," you teased gently, running your fingers through the thick, soft dark hair at the nape of his neck, catching the faint texture of his own white streak.
"I am not a baby," Jason grumbled softly, though he nuzzled deeper into your warmth, resting his heavy chin on your shoulder.
"You were jealous of a seven-inch doll named Fatson."
"I wasn't jealous," he lied smoothly, his broad chest rising and falling against yours in a steady rhythm. "I was just enforcing proper bed distribution rules. He was taking up valuable real estate."
"He weighs four ounces, Jay."
"Four ounces of pure evil," Jason corrected, though his grip on you was loose and comfortable now, his thumbs lazily rubbing circles into your waist through your shirt.
You smiled softly into the dim quiet of the bedroom, tilting your head back just enough to look at him. His eyes were half-closed, long dark lashes casting soft shadows over his cheekbones, the faint line of his jaw finally relaxed.
You leaned up and pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to his cheek, right over a tiny scar near his jawline. Then another one to the bridge of his nose. And finally, a soft, warm kiss right against his lips, holding it for a long beat until he hummed softly in approval, leaning into the contact.
"What's all this for?" Jason murmured, his eyes fluttering open, glistening with a soft, affectionate light in the dark.
"Just making sure my actual favorite boy gets his bedtime routine," you whispered back, tracing the line of his cheekbone with your thumb. "Since Fatson gets all the credit."
Jason hummed, a small, triumphant smirk spreading across his face as he tightened his hold around your waist, pulling you so close there wasn't a single breath of space left between you. He pressed his forehead against yours, his warm breath fanning across your lips.
"Good," he murmured lazily, his voice thick with rising sleepiness. "Because I actually need cuddles and kisses to have sweet dreams, you know. It's a medical condition."
"A medical condition, huh?" you laughed quietly, kissing the corner of his mouth once more. "Did Alfred diagnose that one?"
"It's a very rare ailment," Jason insisted, closing his eyes contentedly as he tucked you under his chin, wrapping the heavy duvet over both of your shoulders until you were completely cocooned in his heat. "Only cured by staying right here all night."
"Well, we wouldn't want to risk your health," you murmured, resting your hand flat against his chest, listening to the steady, comforting thrum of his heart beneath your palm.
Jason let out a deep, satisfied sigh, his body melting completely into the mattress as he finally got his way. On the nightstand, Fatson sat quietly in the dark, but in the center of the bed, wrapped up in the arms of the biggest pouty baby in Gotham, you closed your eyes and let the quiet warmth wash over you both.
