saw this and immediately pictured the bat boys reacting to their girlfriend wearing something like this but it's their own symbol. like Bruce's girl wearing this top, Jason's girl wearing a top that is his symbol, etc
~ 🩷
symbol crochet crop
✦ bruce wayne is the man who spoils you, so why not spoil him, too? you thought it'd be cute to buy a symbol crochet crop from a handmade shop just to give a little back to gotham residents who really seemed to enjoy making batman-themed merchandise.
was this one of those new fashion trends? whatever, it was a cute top, so there was absolutely nothing wrong with buying it.
you were right in the midst of trying it on when you heard a knock at the bedroom door, scrambling to finish tying the back strings together, when bruce opened the door. "honey, have you seen the..." you'd never witnessed your husband quiet down so quickly before, the words at the tip of his tongue, but never being found quick enough to say anything.
in your few years of marriage, you'd never worn anything resembling the batman emblem in any way, cautious of being spotted by the media and starting more rumours than there already were.
but this was certainly a sight for his eyes, ogling you the hardest he's ever done. not even in an open-back dress has he given you that look: a pure batman and bruce wayne mix that no one would ever be able to describe.
"you're drooling," you tease, knowing there wasn't a hint of wetness on his lips. regardless, he wipes them, too stunned to think. "that's... new, right?" he asks, clearing his throat. professionalism was out the window the moment you decided to wear something like this when he was around. "very new," you answer.
bruce pulls at his sleeve, looking down at his watch for the time as he walks to you. "i've got forty minutes before work."
"good," you smile, knowing well where this was going.
his jaw clenches. "it stays on," he informs, wrapping both arms around your waist.
"didn't think to take it off," you tease.
"good. don't."
✦ jason todd was all for your expensive tastes. he wouldn't buy a soap bar worth more than a dollar fifty, but giving you free rein of his credit card? he could get behind that any day.
"where'd you get that?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe. you startle, clutching the crochet crop of his symbol over your chest. "jeez, jason," you shake your head, "kill me while you're at it." he chuckles. damn it, he chuckles, striding over to help you tie the strings around your neck and back.
"wouldn't get to see my gorgeous girl in this if i did," he chides, the red yarn contrasting deliciously against your skin. he can't help but bite his lip, staring at the curve of your back displayed perfectly in this, trailing a finger down your spine.
he turns you around to see the front, letting out a breath between a laugh and absolute shock. "this is better than that red hood bra you bought last month," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the curve of your shoulder.
of course you had underwear sets with his symbol plastered on them. another way to claim you silently as his, name and brand even on your intimate sets.
"you like it?" you ask, tilting your head a little too innocently for his liking.
"like it? baby, i'm sporting a boner right now."
the confession takes you aback, pushing his shoulder gently with a scoff. "pervert," you tease, his lips pulled into a sweet smile as he pulls you close again.
"you just look so good, baby. i can't help it." his fingers are already trailing to the bottom of the crop, gliding beneath the yarn.
"we have somewhere to be," you warn, only to be met with soft squeezes on your tits.
"it can wait. it always does."
✦ tim drake isn't a symbol enthusiast. sure, he's got a pretty unique one, but it wasn't all that when literally every vigilante in gotham city had their own version of a cool symbol, too. he means well, it's just that you barely see his symbol anywhere, and when you do? you buy whatever it is immediately.
it's not to say tim hasn't seen you in a fair share of red robin-themed pyjamas or red robin-themed tennis shoes. he thinks you're adorable whenever you bring up finding something with his symbol to wear, so, naturally, he bought you the crochet crop, not expecting much other than your excitement.
but, oh dear, had he never been so wrong. this is a big deal. you're standing there, the brightest smile on your face, hugging him the tightest you've ever done because this is his gift to you instead.
"oh, thank you, tim!" you smile.
"it's really nothing, i just thought you'd like it." he didn't know if it was more dangerous hiding the arousal in his pants from the fit of the crop on your body or from your smile. either way, he'd be turned on regardless. that toothy smile and pretty face always had him going.
"nothing? it's perfect," you say, holding the floppier bits down on your skin.
"it's shaped a little weird; i wouldn't call it perfect." he helps you hold up a piece, fingertips against your skin feeling almost electric.
"you got it for me. that makes it perfect enough." you draw the breath out of his lungs. how did he ever have any self-esteem before you? oh, that's right, he didn't.
"if you keep looking at me like that..." he trails off, cupping your cheek.
you pull him by the arm, dragging him towards the nearest surface. "done deal, you've got it."
xtra....
✦ clark kent is a dork. you could be wearing any hero symbol in general, and he'd gush about how you look good in just about everything -- not without getting a little bashful about it, though. he's still very much the shy reporter you know.
so when you storm in with a bag full of superman merchandise from the local hot topic, of course he sits down and watches you try every single piece on. with quiet 'that looks great's' and 'you're so beautiful's' at his lips with every piece, he's a little ashamed to admit he was leaking pre at the sight of you in everything.
but that crop? oh, it did something to him. pink kryptonite be damned, the way your breasts looked in that crop was enough to have him gently squeezing the crotch of his pants with a hand.
"clark, honey, are you okay?" you ask, rounding the table to get to him.
"yeah! yeah- yeah- totally, you just look so..." he can't muster the words without feeling like he'll bust right then and there.
you examine his face and posture, pity forming in your eyes at the wet spot he'd been trying to hide so hard from your eyes.
"oh, lovey... i'll take it off right now," you start, but he stops you immediately.
"no- nope, you can't do that," he begs, biting his bottom lip, "if you take it off, it's worse."
in all your little moments of joking with him, you'd never seen him so close to making a mess in his pants like right now.
"bedroom?" you suggest, squeezing his bicep.
he only dares to nod, clearing his throat and making his way there painstakingly.
a/n: i couldn't help myself this was actually such a cute idea.
things included- p in v, oral sex (m & f receiving), slight mention of choking, eiffel tower position, Satosugu implied, fingering, squirt.
Everyone thought you were the luckiest girl on campus. Hell, even earth. As in the words of your friends and many other girls, guys, and teachers,“You literally have THE Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto pining after you! This is like everyone’s dream!”.
But if only they knew; it wasn’t as nice as it seemed. Not to say both of them wanting you wasn’t nice it totally was but it got tiring. Sometimes their jealousy got so bad that there was a huge fight between them! And other times you had so many gifts you couldn’t open your front door. So you decided to ask someone for advice. the only person who knows them better than her: Shoko
You convinced Shoko to help you with two packs of cigarettes and a 12 pack of beer. you both went to meet at a bar so she could help. “Honestly, I'm surprised they're pining after you” shoko slurred downing her 2nd wine glass.
“Whats that supposed to mean? Are you saying I'm not their type or something?” “Well not exactly. In high school, I'm pretty sure their type was someone of the same gender as them. To be more specific I'm pretty sure they were each other's type. I know atleast Gojo likes someone with bangs and Geto is the only one who's nice to Gojo really so..yea.”
You suddenly locked in. wait a minute…theyre…GAY!?! Or were? Whatever it didn’t matter because this changed everything. You had just hit the JACKPOT! You started quietly rambling. “......Gay…....open minded……..threesome…….” Shoko just sighed, ordered a wine to go, and slowly backed away after paying the tab. a few minutes passed you realized you looked schizophrenic, left, and decided to carry out your plan.
STEP 1: ASK IF THEY’RE OPEN MINDED
That's it. At least so far. You were hoping they'd say OK and you guys started fucking or something. Honestly that was probably gonna work anyway since it was Gojo and Geto. So you drove down to the frat house. Now was the perfect time since all the other frat brothers were gone doing frat bro stuff like frat flicking and sending nudes to random women and whatever other stuff frat bros do.
That wasn't important in fact you couldn't care less if someone walked in or even if someone watched. You were just horny. But anyway you went out for the frat house and you got there rather quickly for a person running while a little tipsy
You got to the frat house a little sweaty since you walked but it was ok because you had 27 hours left on your 72 hour deodorant so you still smelt amazing. You knocked loudly on the frat house door and were greeted by a shirtless Gojo who then yelped, slammed the door in your face, fixed his hair and then opened the door back up looking freshhh.
“Hey there shawty uhh fuck what was i gonna say” he mumbled. “Oh yea, are you from japan cause im trynna get in japanties! uheh uheh..am i muted?” “Sadly no..can i come in?” “Of course you're always welcome here”.
Gojo stepped to the side letting you in. “Who’s at the door?” Geto yelled from upstairs. “Y/N” “YO DEADASS BRO” “DEADASS” “ON YOUR DEAD PARENTS” “I DONT HAVE DEAD PARENT” “DAMN YOU DONT?” “YES BRO THATS ONLY YUJI WHO HAS NO PARENTS” "ISN'T THAT THE KID SUKUNA TAKES CARE OF?” “YEAH HIM AND FUSHIGUROS KID ARE GOOD FRIENDS WITH” “ARE WE SURE THEY'RE JUST GOOD FRIENDS” “WHAT DO YOU MEAN?” “MEGUMIS ALWAYS ROLEPLAYING WEIRD SHIT WITH HIS BARBIES THE OTHER DAY HE HAD 5 KEN DOLLS AND ONE BARBIE AND THEY WERE ALL-” “WHY ARE WE YELLING” You finally said after their back and forth going for 2 minutes.
“YO Y/N DEADASS IS HERE!” “I TOLD YOU BRO” “You guys are not doing this again. SUGURU COME DOWNSTAIRS " You yelled. "YES MOMMY ""what.” “nothing.”
“OK i wanted to ask you guys a question.” “You can piss in my mouth if you want.” Satoru said smiling. “What.” “Nevermind” both boys started snickering. “Are you guys..how do i put this..” “Just spit it out, we won't judge.” Suguru said smiling at you “HAHA thats what she said am i right lads?” Both boys started laughing again.
“Ok thats it, the next person to laugh or make a joke dies.” “yo chilll” Gojo said laughing still. “Did you just make a joke Satoru? Chapter236.” “Huh? What does that mean?” “Oh nothing..But now be quiet i wanted to ask..are you guys…open minded?” yes i finally asked now all they have to do is say-
“no we are actually very homophobic and hate all gay people trans people and filthy monkeys.” Suguru says deadpanning “what the fuck. Wait, was that a joke Suguru?” “Lol yea not the filthy monkey part tho like monkey in a non jujustu sorcerer way not in a i think black people are monkey way but why would we out of everyone be homopho-” “How’s Riko doing?” “Huh?” “Oh nothing” you said smiling.
“Ok that was the last time I get interrupted, now it's for what I was saying. Since you guys are clearly open minded and clearly a little gay for each other and because you both like me ive devised the perfect plan. Mwahaha THIS IS MY PERFECT VICTORY THATS RIGHT I WIN"
"Blahblah anyway whats the plan?” Gojo said, almost falling asleep. “We fuck.” They both jumped up and started dancing.“YES I USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THIS” Suguru started yelling “I JUST HIT THE JACKPOTT” Satoru sang. “So is that a yes?” you asked. You quickly got an answer after you saw their pants get unbuttoned.
“So are you guys gonna take turns with me or?...” You asked laid out on the bed “Nah, you have two holes for a reason right?” “There's actually 3 Satoru” “Ew no ur not going in my ass” i took a massive shit 5 hours ago and i cant let them know better safe then sorry. You were lost in thought before you got flipped over onto your stomach and felt a tongue on your pussy.
“Ngh~ fuck whose tongue is that?” “Suguru’s i thought he should put his long tongue to use and speaking of long..” you felt two long and thick fingers enter you. you practically already were about to cum from the combination of Suguru’s tongue and Satoru’s fingers but didn’t want to seem like a virgin loser like Naoya.
“Hurry up suguru open her up im getting impatient!” “Patience Satoru if we don’t open her up enough then it could lead to a tear.” “What ever here let me do it” You felt Satoru’s fingers come out feeling empty but then immediately filled after feeling Gojo’s Tongue. he starts moving it in and out and you feel his thumb reach for your clit and start rubbing. It felt so good you saw stars.
Suguru came around to the front and put your back against him so he could touch and fondle your breasts. He pinched your nipples making you wince but also making you wetter.
You felt pressure bubbling in your lower abdomen almost like you had to piss or something. And the fact that Suguru had started to run your clit for you while Satoru fingered and ate you wasn’t helping. Hold on, I read this somewhere in a book “Oh my god i’m gonna cum!” but instead of that normal white cream coming out you squirt. for the first time ever. and it had to be right onto Satoru’s face.
“Woah! I've only ever seen this in porn! Remember that one we watched together Suguru back in high school? wait never mind we only watched gay porn back then. why am i saying back then we still do.” Satoru exclaimed, bumping Suguru's arm. “Satoru shut the fuck up please. but speaking of that…you take the back and i’ll take the front?” “That’s fine with me.”
“Wait guys i feel bad that you just ate me out and fingered me..like should i suck your dick first or something?”. You didn’t know how this worked since you were technically a virgin but you still didn’t want to be greedy or anything. “Don’t worry” Suguru said grabbing you out your thoughts. “Like Satoru said, you have two holes right?”
After he said that you felt the bed positions shift and before you knew it you felt Satoru’s veiny dick teasing you. you barely had time to register Satoru pushing in when Suguru tapped open your mouth and pushing his dick into it.
There wasn’t much of a size difference between their cocks but Suguru’s dick was definitely thicker while Satoru’s had more veins and was longer. Holy shit i’m literally taking dick from both ends right now if i was spinning i’d be like a damn rotisserie chicken! damn now i’m kinda hungry..Focus! you literally are taking dick from both ends right now!
After being lost in thought you realized how good it felt having dick from both ends. Sure Suguru’s dick constantly forcing itself in your mouth hurt a little and choked you but Satoru’s dick hitting your g spot made up for it. this is nice you thought. they’re going so slow and steady they must know how big they are!
Unfortunately you had to jinx yourself and they increased the tempo from 90 bpm to 120 bpm making Satoru bruise your core, and insides, and Suguru bruise your throat. You moan against Suguru's dick making your silenced moans vibrate against him causing him to let out a groan which was music to your ears. Oh my god that was so fucking hot.
“Hey Suguru wanna switch? I wanna see her face while she cums" "Sure” you get flipped around and suddenly you’re met with Satoru's white happy trail and his dick which ends up being pushed and thrusted into your mouth.
Suguru thrusted in and out of you much slower than Satoru had but he felt much deeper almost like he knew how and where to make you squirm. You moved your hand down to rub your clit to ease the pain and to bring pleasure which made you squirm more.
You were caught up in the estacy until you realized they had been pretty quiet especially compared to you. You had moaned like a whore no matter the position, even while kissing! You looked up and saw them making out while eiffel towering you. Holy shit this is so hot i’m gonna-
You suddenly came undone on Suguru’s cock. Embarrassed you turned your face away hiding it so they wouldn’t see the blush on it. “Dude..did you just..cum from watching us kiss?” Satoru looked down realizing what had happened
“Sh-shut up it’s not like i’m a fudanshi or anything!” You stammered back. “Okay you might not be a fudanshi but you’re definitely a tsundere.” Suguru joked. “Was that another fucking joke suguru?” “N-No-“ “How’s haibara?”
“What?” “Oh nothing…”
“Also how have you guys not cum yet?” You asked. Was there really that big of a sexual difference between the two of you? so big that they lasted way longer than you?
You were gonna ask another question until you realized what to do. You slide down to your knees and grabbed both their cocks sliding you hands up and down getting faster and faster. You kissed both their tips otherwise they would start arguing.
You knew it was working when Satoru started whimpering and his hips started buckling. Suguru on the other hand looked almost unphased but you knew what to do.
You got to work sucking Suguru’s dick making sure to moan against it while pumping Satorus leading them both to cum at the same time on your tits. “Dang..i wish i had someone to clean this-“ you barely finished your sentence before Satoru kneeled down and start licking like a thirsty puppy.
Notes: This is my first smut fanfic that i really worked on so please put tips if anyone has any!
Your boyfriend finds out about your crush on the Dark Knight and he can't let it go.
cw: jealous bruce, reader gets drunk, cheating but not actually u cheat on bruce w batman...it all works out in the end I swear 🤞, ooc bruce? he says more than one sentence responses and he's a little jokey which some people may think is ooc but I think it fits, ending kinda rushed
note: i had another idea that was quite similar to this but kind of different may write it may not we'll see. actually had another bruce x reader draft that I started and then this hit me...and that one is also semi similar. 10/10 originality guys. also never actually made a fake imessage before what a hassle that was. im an android and ms owner so
...
The pillows are being fluffed. You've readjusted the throw blankets. Your sheets have been changed. All the dishes are clean. The pantry is stocked. You broke out a new tablecloth for the dining table. The lights are dimmed. The rug has been straightened. Your plants have been watered.
Everything is perfect for Bruce to come over tonight.
You haven't been dating billionaire playboy Brucie Wayne very long, still a little pleasantly confused as to how you got yourself in a position to be called his partner. You've often spent evenings at his place, the grand Manor he modestly calls home, but somehow, in the busyness of both of your lives (and perhaps due in part to your embarrassment over how wealthy he is and how average your place is) Bruce has never been over. All that changes today. A showing of The Outlaw Josey Wales awaits you - Bruce's turn to pick - along with an expensive bottle of bourbon to hopefully make up for the lack of generational wealth your apartment exudes.
The doorbell finally rings and you eagerly open the door. The sight of your newfound partner greets you, in a fitted black sweater and pleated grey slacks, boots already coming off as you let him in. He holds a lush bouquet of carnations and begonias as he pulls you into a sweet kiss, the scent of his cologne mixing with that of the flowers.
"Hi," he settles on with a smile, soft and low as he pulls away from your lips.
"Hey," you smile back, pressing another kiss to his jaw before he's holding the bouquet between your bodies. "You didn't have to get me flowers, Bruce..."
"Alfred said it'd be impolite to not get you a housewarming gift. Duke and Cass said the diamond necklace I was eyeing was overkill..." he grins lopsidedly, leaning in for another kiss as you laugh.
"Please, no diamond necklaces, you don't have to go through the trouble. Anyway, aren't housewarming gifts supposed to be for the house?" you tilt your head slightly, dodging his lips to talk.
"A Meissen vase, then," he suggests, still leaning in.
You avoid his kiss again, "Bruce, I don't even know what Meissen is-"
"A German porcelain manufacturer- stop talking," he muses lowly, before pressing a more insistent kiss to your lips again. He draws out the moment, pressing kisses to your cheek and then your jaw.
"Okay- okay, I get it, you're happy to be here. You're like Ace," you chuckle softly, half-heartedly pushing him away with a hand on his shoulder.
Bruce's expression sours, "I'm not a dog." He straightens up a little, hands still on you as he looks around the open living room and dining area. "You have a beautiful home."
"Thank you," you nod, "it's no Wayne Manor, but-"
"It's perfect," he cuts you off firmly, softening a little as he looks at you, "I know I joked about the expensive gifts, but I don't want my wealth to become a divider between us. Your apartment is more than enough," he pauses, "...I can appreciate the normalcy of it. Wayne Manor can get to be too much."
You smile a little, reassured, "...as long as you're comfortable."
"I am."
"Good."
You take the next moment to grab the TV remote and get the movie up, and Bruce watches for a moment before his voice makes you pause, "...you're not going to give me a tour?"
You blink from the TV screen to him, "You want a tour?"
He shrugs, "I'm interested in your space."
Slowly, you put the remote down and step back over to him, "...this is the living room," you point to your dining table, "that's where I eat."
"Riveting."
"You asked!"
"Is emotion too much to ask for? Maybe an anecdote?"
"Ugh..."
Bruce folds his arms over his chest and taps his foot, raising an eyebrow, "...I gave you the history of Wayne Manor, all the dents and cracks in the walls courtesy of the kids- I showed you where Damian's cow lives..."
"Alrught, fine, I'll entertain you," you roll your eyes. You tell him that you've slept in your bathtub and it's quite comfortable, so long as you have a pillow. You dive into the details of how you stole your parents CD player (you had the most CDs before you moved out, it was your right). You start a spiel about how you argued with an old man for the rug in your home office.
Bruce is enraptured by it all, by you letting him into your life piece by piece. He's deliberately avoided researching you in depth just so he can ascertain the little details about you on his own, hearing them from your lips (he also knows it's wrong to cyberstalk your partner. Very wrong. He definitely did not have to be told that by Babs of all people).
But it's in your bedroom where Bruce's focus falters. Not because of anything less than appropriate, he's not the type to get excited just because he's in someone's bedroom. It's your bed that fascinates him. Specifically, the pillows and plushies on it. There's an old bunny rabbit and one shaped like a star.
And then there's Batman.
Well, Bruce can hardly call the mess of polyester on your bed Batman. It doesn't have his impeccable physique- instead, the poor imitation of his alter ego is a large cylinder of soft fabric with little bat ears and his cowl, four tiny, disproportionate nubs for his limbs, his body clad in his blue and grey suit, yellow utility belt sewn and black bat symbol embroidered in.
Bruce picks up the rotund mimicry of his fearsome hero persona and he can feel how soft it is. Up close, it smells of your shampoo and lotion, and there isn't a stain or blemish on it, but the label is worn and fraying, indicating just how well-loved it is.
"Oh. You like him?" you ask casually.
Bruce pauses for a long moment, unsure of how to answer. He decides on a tentative, "...'him'?"
"Yeah. Batman," you naturally fall back into feeding him little stories about yourself, "a friend got him for my birthday a few years ago."
"Why?" Bruce asks slowly.
You shrug, "well, it's a bit of a gag gift. I've had a celebrity crush on Batman for ages."
"You what," Bruce's expression buffers.
You blink, "oh, c'mon, you're not jealous, are you? It's a celebrity crush, I've never actually met him."
Bruce pauses for a long moment, "Batman isn't a celebrity."
"Yeah, but he's famous," you take the plushie from his hands and wrap your arms around it, giving it a soft squeeze, "they make merch of him. He show up on the news. And...he's handsome."
Bruce's eyes widen a little, his ego swelling with the more you reveal about your crush on Batman, "You can't see his face."
You scoff like he's stupid, "You can see the bottom half of it. And, I don't need to- you can hear his voice in clips, you can see his body, you can see how he moves, how he acts- that's enough to have a crush. Way more than enough," you shrug, "he's a superhero. People have crushes on Wonder Woman and Superman and-"
"That's different. They embody truth and hope, they're ideal people saving the world, of course people become infatuated with the idea of them," Bruce reasons.
You blink, "Batman is justice. He saves Gotham all the time, and the world with the Justice League- he's a hero. He's the city's hero. It's the same. Batman is our hero. So many people admire him, I'm sure some of those people also crush on him, me included."
Bruce pauses for a long moment, soaking in your words. It's touching, so incredibly reassuring, to hear someone talk about him like that, even when they don't know he's Batman. The burden of choice weighs heavy on his shoulders each day he goes out in that cape and cowl, and to think that you admire him, think of him as your hero, the city's defender, and even have innocent feelings for him, an attraction to his nobility and altruism, to the point of sleeping with his cuddly resemblance- it warms something in him. It also stirs some pride in him, that you could fall for him either way- if you knew he was Batman.
He doesn't forget about that moment. Not as you keep showing him around. Not when you finally get to the couch and watch the movie. Not when he has to leave and he's out on patrol as the hero you like so much. Not for weeks after that.
That's when Bruce decides to do something out of his comfort zone. Something a little dubious, even. He doesn't consult the kids or Alfred on this one, he knows it's probably a strange and unusual idea, but he can't stop thinking about it. Which is why Batman ends up in the alley next to the bar you're singing inside, your friends rallied up for a karaoke night, buzzed and content as all friends should be on a night out.
You told him you'd be out, even sent a few fun photos and flirty texts to him during your night, a video of your friends' missed high notes with you giggling behind the camera. And now he's waiting outside like a creep. He's starting to realize this is probably not an idea he should've executed when you finally step out of the bar, you and your friends saying goodbye on the street, getting picked up by partners and housemates or calling rides as you hug and wave them off. You make your way down the sidewalk and before Bruce can truly consider the implications of doing this, he's silently stepping out of the alley, right in front of you.
Not Bruce, but Batman.
You gasp and jump a little before your eyes widen in awe, "Batman?"
He doesn't nod, doesn't move for a moment, before gritting out in that low tone, "You shouldn't be going home alone at this hour, especially not drunk."
You blink, "I'm not drunk..."
"You've been drinking."
"How do you know?"
Batman stays silent for that one, the white slits in his mask staring straight through you. You acquiesce, "I don't live far."
"I won't let you get hurt," he ignores your words, opening the passenger door of the Batmobile.
You find yourself nodding before you can really think it through, a slightly dopey smile on your face.
Batman carefully guides you inside before settling into the driver's seat and pulling out of the alleyway, heading down to your apartment automatically. He drives in silence before briefly glancing at you and the dreamy stare you're giving him, "something wrong?"
"I can't believe I'm getting dropped home by Batman..." you whisper with a floaty laugh.
Bruce feels his heart squeeze at the sound of you, sounding so awed and admiring, but he maintains his composure, replying, "you're a fan?"
You nod with hum, "Mhm."
He doesn't respond, driving in silence the rest of the way. He doesn't stop right in front of your apartment, instead stopping in a dark alleyway nearby.
You frown softly, "What are we...?"
"I can't be seen near your apartment. For your safety," he lies.
Your intoxicated brain takes it, "Right. Okay, well, it's just there so I'll walk-"
"Wait."
You turn back to him, seatbelt unbuckled, and blink, waiting for him to continue. Your face flushes when he leans over the console.
Batman stares at you through those white lenses for a while, "I appreciate your support of me. What I do."
It's a clumsy, awkward, out of place statement from a superhero. Your brows furrow in confusion but you nod, "Oh, uhm...'kay..."
He leans in closer and your face burns. "I mean it," he mutters lowly.
You nod, but move back a little, "I- I have a boyfriend," you whisper, but your eyes flickering down to his lips betray you. You feel guilt and shame curl in your gut, but somehow it's quelled with a silent reassurance. Your mind fills with Bruce, but it melds with the image of the Bat in front of you, and the longstanding admiration and attraction you've had for the masked hero.
You swear you see his lip quirk up a little, not cruelly, just amused, "he won't mind. I need all the encouragement I can get."
In your tipsy haze, you find yourself nodding, but only press a kiss to his cheek, not wanting to betray your beloved, adored partner.
Batman looks so soft after the kiss, despite most of his face being covered. He lets out a soft sigh of your name, and recognition stirs up in you at his voice. He smells like something familiar too, under the scent of metal and rain. You swear you've felt his skin somewhere before, under your lips in just the same way.
"Thanks, Batman," you say softly, and he nods as you get out of the car.
You make your way down the sidewalk and fumble with your keys, heading up to your apartment door and crashing onto the couch, fiddling with your bag for your phone. You frantically open up your texts and tap on Bruce's contact, typing your confession at lightning speed.
You stare at Bruce's response for a long moment, your brain too muddled from alcohol and kissing a superhero and texting your billionaire boyfriend about said kiss. You read his last response over and over before burying your face in the throw pillows. You must be imagining things. You'll answer in the morning.
in which bruce isn't used to waking up without you.
( bruce wayne x fem!reader | fluff! )
it was an unusually quiet night. bruce hadn’t done patrol tonight, instead he opted to stay in, rest. usually he would be against the idea—gotham didn’t sleep so neither should he, but ever since you came into the picture bruce found himself waiting for his days off. sleep only came easy to him when you were near, which was why he was jolted awake when he turned to pull you closer only to be met with an empty side of the bed.
panic filled his chest as more than one scenario filled his mind each one becoming more disturbing than the last causing him to jump out of the bed and leap into a search for you. he silently cursed the massive manor as he felt like he was running a marathon as he checked every room he thought you would be in.
it wasn’t until bruce peaked into the kitchen that the panic settled and relief took over as there you stood in the middle of the kitchen—your mouth filled with cookies and the area dimly lit by the refrigerator that had been left open.
you weren’t aware of the man who leaned against the frame of the door and bruce took advantage of that as he just watched, taking in your appearance. your eyes looked heavy with sleep that was needed, your hair had been a mess and your socks were inside out no doubt being lazily thrown on.
yet bruce couldn’t tear his eyes away from your stomach. he smiled softly as his shirt stretched over the curve of your pregnant belly—your hand rubbing up and down the bump as you mindlessly ate your snacks.
“hungry?” you jumped, hand leaving your stomach to rest on your heart as you stared wide eyed at the sudden intruder. “jesus fucking christ bruce!” you whispered shouted, being mindful of your family who were no doubt fast asleep.
he laughed, walking over until he stood at your back—his hands now resting on your stomach as his face buried itself in the nape of your neck, kissing the exposed skin.
“you scared me” you muttered.
“you scared me” he repeated “not used to waking up without you in bed” he explained. you sighed, you had learned how to cope with the uncomfortable feeling of waking up in the middle of the night without bruce. you hated the fear of waking up and never seeing his face again.
but bruce always made sure every morning he was tucked by your side in one piece. bruised and battered yes, but in one piece nonetheless.
“well you have your son to blame for that” he smiled. bruce was scared when you weren’t next to him yet with the additional knowledge that you were currently carrying a piece of you both—bruce couldn’t bare losing either one of you.
“yeah? is he full now? can we go back to bed?” you let out a soft laugh, nodding your head. you both cleaned the kitchen quietly and by you both i mean bruce took everything out of your hand and handled it himself.
when he was done he placed both hands on your hips, leading you back to your shared room so you can both fall back asleep peacefully—especially since you both knew the other would be there when you woke up.
| Inspired by Nettles by Ethel Cain & epiphany by Taylor Swift |
Contents: War, Pseudocest (childhood friends raised together who married), Childbirth, Pregnancy, Death in Childbirth, PTSD, Trauma, Childhood Trauma, Toxic Relationship, Marriage, Possessive Behavior, toxic marriage, Skeletons In The Closet, Murder, Misogyny, Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood & Violence, Childhood Friends
A/N: Just as a heads up, I am unfamiliar with how the military system works, so I apologize for any inaccuracies! This is an au fic.
"Only 20 minutes to sleep but you dream of some epiphany,
just one single glimpse of relief to make some sense of what you've seen"
When the siren blares, Coriolanus is a little boy again, huddled up in a ball under the dining table.
Not twenty-three but a tender six years old, trying hard to be strong for his cousin Tigris and his best friend. He has to be strong for them. But he always fails when that thunderous rattle shakes the walls of their penthouse so violently, threatening to crumble them down.
Tigris is never afraid; she never cries even when the bombs rain down. She holds him close and tells him everything will be fine, but he is not so easily swayed by the lack of conviction in her tone. His best friend is huddling beside him, knees tucked to her chest as she stares off into space, so strangely detached from the situation. But at least she is not crying and causing a scene; that would be of no use to anyone. Upstairs, the Grandma’am is warbling the anthem at the top of her lungs — her small act of defiance against those district scum, to show them that they have not (and never would) submit. She has not an ounce of fear in her brittle body, not even bothering to hunker down unlike the rest of them.
She is not here to make that raucous sound anymore.
And he has no one to be strong for in here, all alone in the dining room.
All alone for now.
He knows any second now, his best friend wife will come looking for him.
Sure enough, he hears the frantic click of her heels as she descends the spiraling stairs. She’s searching all over for him, calling out his name. Her voice is faint — a distant muffled sound drowning somewhere in the recesses of his mind. She crouches and finds him huddled under the dining table. He must look so pathetic to her right now, when she is relying on him to be her protector. It is usually his cousin Tigris that calms them down in trying times like these, as she has such a way with words, but she’s not here now. So that duty has fallen upon him. “Coriolanus,” his wife manages, her hazel eyes widening with concern, but that look soon morphs into something imploring given the urgency of the situation. She’s looking at him as if he has all the answers to her questions, but he is in as much of a disarray as she is, taking deep breaths to calm himself. It does not work.
Annually, the Capitol conducts an air-raid drill so that its citizens are prepared unlike they were during the siege — so utterly blindsided when those first bombs dropped, not knowing what to do with themselves. Each citizen was assigned a shelter in proximity to their residence, but it was easier said than done to make it there in time when there were no prior drills, and District 5 had interfered with their power grid, effectively rendering their sirens as good as useless. There was never enough time to make it to the basement level of their apartment building which was designed to shelter half the block, so most of the time he was hunkered down under the dining table in the penthouse, waiting for the worst to come. Bomb time, he and Tigris liked to call it. The siege ended many years ago, and now a certain order has been established in light of the traumatic event that’d whittled the population of the Capitol down considerably. It spared not even the best and brightest of them.
When that siren blares, it is ingrained in Coriolanus, what he has to do. But this time he knows it is not a drill, so it’s different. It is easier said than done to move when he can hear the deafening sound of an explosion not far from their unit. It’s already too late and his ears are ringing from the impact. One, then another, it hits in succession. It always comes in waves.
He is utterly exhausted and a war is the last thing he needs to worry about right now. This is not how he envisioned how his twenties would pan out. Not with a flourish of achievements and accolades under his belt, but a bitter realization that he may not even live to see the end of them.
His wife’s behavior lately has done little to quell his festering anxiety. After a long day at work, he wants nothing more than to come home and spend the evening relaxing with her. She greets him with a face wrought with apprehension and it is no wonder why. Lately she has been glued to the couch, listening to the television and all the doom and gloom being spouted about the resurgence of a war. Somehow their evenings always end with them huddled up by the fireplace together, tuning in to the news, despite how much he wishes they could do something else. Not even Lucky Flickerman’s jokes manage to cheer him up.
Coriolanus had hoped that the worst of it was over, but it was getting rather hard to ignore the bitter reality surrounding him when he witnessed some Capitol men leave to join the frontlines as more of their soldiers fell. The fight was coming to them. At least he did not have to leave, he’d thought, attempting to view things through a different perspective. Yet a palpable dread filled him whenever he opened his mail box, as if he were wondering when it would be his turn to be picked next. Surely the Capitol would see his talents fit elsewhere. Perhaps they could sacrifice some of their lower-ranking Capitolites, but surely not someone as exceptional as him. That reassurance crumbled so fast when he thought of his father and how even someone as great as he succumbed to the war in that way. He is the son of a General.
Coriolanus had always hoped that someday he would grow up to be just like his father. When he was a boy, he’d always looked up at him, both in admiration and envy. Look at how imposing he is, his mere presence commanding the room no matter what he does. He’d stolen his jacket once and worn it, and all that he saw in the mirror was a boy, bright-eyed and naive, yet to be wrought by the world and all its challenges. The heavy jacket all but wore him, the sturdy fabric weighing down his narrow shoulders and his entire body. As he ran his fingers over the fine medals and stitching, he imagined himself tall and broad enough to fit in it. Someday, he thought. Someday he’d be just like him.
Now, his jacket is collecting dust in a wardrobe, in a room so sparse and all but empty. Lately when he is in the living room, he stares at that portrait on the wall that looks just like him. He just might fill his father’s shoes, but not quite in the way he hoped he would. He imagines himself like the great General Crassus Xanthos Snow, caught up in a trap in the trees in some faraway district. Carried home to his grieving family in a casket.
He can feel something shaking him, desperately now. The sweet scent of strawberries envelops him like a warm embrace. It comes in flashes, the point at which his life had devolved during the siege:
His father, leaving to join the frontline of battle.
Two blonde heads pressed together in a crown. Two girls utterly terrified, seeking refuge in the Snow’s foyer after those first bombs dropped. Little Tigris and Phoebe, orphaned within days of each other.
Later on during the siege — his mother’s blood-curdling wail just beyond the door while he waits for his little sister to be born. They cannot make it to the hospital, and thus, they are wholly unequipped to handle what he hears is a hemorrhage. That is why, instead of a midwife or a doctor, they have only the Grandma’am and Cook to help deliver. He rushes into the room long enough to glimpse the blood staining the sheets. There is so much of it. Tigris drags him out of the room he is forbidden to enter.
It is so, so quiet in the aftermath.
Unnaturally quiet.
His sister does not even cry.
He knows something has gone terribly awry when the Grandma’am emerges into the corridor, shell-shocked with blood on her once pristine white sleeve.
She cannot stop him from barging into that room, then, and that is when he sees his mother as pale as a ghost, all bled out. There is a box beside the bed that they will not let him open.
It is — was — his sister.
He glimpses a flash of a man in his militant uniform, tipping over his hat but months later to offer his condolences. His father has been killed by a rebel. The Grandma’am rests her hands on his shoulders and tells the boy who is but six years old that it is up to him to be the man of the house now, and make his family proud. She tells him —
“We have to go. Now!” His wife beseeches in a panicked tone that borders on a shriek. She drags him out from under the shelter of the dining table by his collar. That is all the clarity he needs to be present; with a shake of his head, he rushes to the pantry and fishes for two specific bags: their emergency rations. Then he waits by the door but she, for some reason, does not make haste. It dawns upon him why once he hears her calling out for her beloved pet. “Penny!” Her voice echoes throughout the penthouse and he pinches the bridge of his nose. While it would be nice to bring their cat, time is of the essence. This is literally a matter of life or death.
“Just leave her!” he snaps, raising his voice in a way he seldom does, but she is too enveloped in her endeavor to find her pet to be offended by that. She shoots him the nastiest scowl for a fleeting moment before clipping his shoulder on the way up the stairs, as if he is a monster for even suggesting they leave her behind. The cat is probably hiding somewhere, terrified by all the ruckus that can be heard from every which direction outside. Accompanying the sirens are the sounds of cars honking, and people and children screaming. It is a familiar cacophony from the past replaying in his mind, threatening to tear the fabric of time.
If he has any sense of self-preservation, he would abandon her at once since she is so adamant on not leaving until she has found her pet. Yet his feet are stubbornly rooted in place, and he thinks, his wife might be the death of him. Before he can spout something about that, she emerges at the top of the stairs with her pet safe and sound in her carrier. “Okay,” she manages, already out of breath, even though they have quite a bit of a way to run still. “Let’s go.”
Coriolanus drags her out of their apartment and down the stairs, as they have no time to wait for the elevator to free up. Even when it does, there is no guarantee that they both won’t plummet to their deaths if those cables give out. It is a long, long way to go on foot but she tries her best to keep up with him in her heels. Penny is yowling away in her carrier, all terrified, the poor thing — especially when once they reach the foot of the stairs, a loud bang can be heard. The force with which it rattles these walls is unmistakable, telling him exactly what the source of it is. His wife yelps, clinging to him and he seriously contemplates whether it would be faster to carry her or try to match his stride with her slower one. “It’s right around the corner, darling,” he reassures her, then glimpses enough of her face to discern she’s not all there. She’s probably not even listening to him. Her typical stress response. But he needs her here with him.
Soon the stairwell is flooded with their neighbors and crying children who are equally desperate to make it to safety. His wife, already so overstimulated, shoves Penny’s carrier towards his chest and kicks off her heels so that she can run faster. Now she’s barefoot holding her heels, and certainly much faster. There is no time for decorum in all of this madness.
They finally make it into the basement without being trampled in the process and it is replete with panicked citizens. He recognizes the faces of his neighbors and some of his friends who live on this side of the Corso, but to his horror, he does not see Tigris among them. Did she make it here in time? His first instinct is to abandon everything to search for her, but his wife would not know what to do if he left her to fend for herself. He has to think of her, too.
They rush to the back of the basement where a few bunk beds have been set up. Not nearly enough to seat everyone, but they make do with it. It is a sparse layout meant to shelter as much people as physically possible, without any regard for comfort. A cool fortress forged from thick slabs and steel.
His cousin has to be in here, somewhere, as this is her designated shelter. She moved out of the penthouse to the floor below him after he married Phoebe, wanting to give them some privacy (but in his opinion, it was a thinly veiled excuse for the real reason — their political disagreements whenever he discussed his studies under Gaul’s tutelage with such fervor. She does not approve of his recent position as a Gamemaker either, which in his opinion is quite hypocritical given he’d pulled some strings to land her a position as a stylist for The Games. But whatever). If she happened to not be home now, she could be anywhere in the Capitol. If not in another shelter, then buried under the rubble somewhere. He tries not to think of that possibility as it serves him no purpose.
When he senses his thoughts are starting to spiral again, he makes an effort to snap himself out of it.
There they find Festus Creed sitting on a bunk bed beside his wife Persephone and their daughter (who is currently screaming at the top of her lungs in light of another barrage of strikes that can be heard nearby). It shakes the walls of their fortress so violently. God. He hopes this will be over soon so they can return home, but he knows it’ll be a few hours of hunkering down and waiting for the worst to pass.
“It’s alright, sweetie. We’re safe in here,” Persephone reassures her daughter Penelope as she rocks her, but her words of comfort fall on deaf ears. Festus is resting his head against the cool slab wall, a terse smile fixed on his face as he attempts to stay in bright spirits for them despite it all.
“I suppose we will have to raincheck today’s luncheon,” Coriolanus begins coolly, attempting to match his friend’s casual veneer. But his tone falters a bit as he, of course, is still wondering about Tigris, as this is not a drill.
“What for? I’ve come prepared,” Festus jests in response, opening his bag of rations. Inside it, there are a few cans of preserves and sleeves of crackers that are probably stale now. It is certainly not the foie gras or filet mignon they were planning to dine on earlier. Every other month, they make an effort to meet up. They had plans to hit up one of the fanciest restaurants in the Capitol, but of course they were all forced to take a detour.
“Stale crackers and cold tomato soup. What a tempting offer,” Coriolanus quips before parking his wife next to Persephone and pushing her shoulders down to urge her to sit. Her knees stubbornly lock; it’s like she knows he’s going to leave her side as she does not relinquish his hand, holding it in a vice-like grip. But she inevitably yields, and he places Penny’s carrier on her lap. The tiny creature is gnawing at the bars of her enclosure, determined to break free. “Are you alright?” he whispers but his wife does not look at him; she does not respond in her all but catatonic state. So he tips her chin up, demanding her undivided attention. She blinks back into reality, appearing rather dumbfounded, but then manages a soft nod. All the confirmation he needs. “Good,” he rubs her shoulders in a poor attempt to soothe her. “Stay put — I’ll be just a moment. I’m going to go look for Tigris.”
She frets; she does not want him to leave but he must. “I’ll look after her,” Persephone mouths, to which he nods, and then he makes haste to find his cousin. He finds her sequestered away in some corner with her knees tucked to her chest, listening to Fabricia Whatnot who is spouting some doom and gloom at a mile a minute, which is of no use to anyone. Of course his cousin is so polite, refraining from telling her former employer to kindly shut up. She does not work for her now that she is a stylist for The Games, yet she still seems to think she’s under that woman’s thumb. Old habits die hard.
“Tigris.” Coriolanus sighs, a huge pressure lifting off his chest now that he sees she’s safe and sound. “There you are. I was worried you did not make it.” It’s quite strange how worried he is for her, considering they have been up in arms lately. But trying times like these, he supposes, remind him that Tigris is still his cousin, no matter how frustrating she can be with her sentimentality in other regards.
“It was a close call,” she says somberly, but then straightens up in alarm as if remembering something. “Where — where is Phoebe?” She may not be as warm with him as she was years ago, but she is ever the same when it comes to her sister-in-law. They are quite close, still.
“Sitting with the Creeds,” he responds. “Come join us.”
Tigris frets, not wanting to be rude so as to leave Fabricia behind, but he tells her, she has her son and her friends to keep her company. Thus she acquiesces and he drags her in tow, back to the side of the shelter where his wife and the Creeds are.
It feels like they are all stuck in there for hours as more time passes and it probably has been hours. Their only source of food is that insipid canned stuff which none of them particularly care for, so they dine on their stale crackers and carefully ration out their water instead. Phoebe leaves a bit of water in Penny’s cage for her to drink, but she tips the cup over, making a mess because she simply will not stop rolling around in there.
They huddle on their bunk beds together, attempting to listen to the radio but that is easier said than done when there are children who are loud as can be, surrounding them. It’s also quite warm in this room due to the small space all but compacting them to where the heat of their bodies and their breaths are all but suffocating. Not to mention it is late in May, and already quite warm as is.
“Is it over yet?” Persephone asks for what is probably the umpteenth time now, while Festus is busy doling out crackers to his cranky daughter. “Can we go back now?” There are colorful blocks all over the floor; she threw them around in light of another fit she just had.
“We should wait a bit longer,” Coriolanus advises. “We wouldn’t want a false alarm.” He has seen one too many times before, what happens to those who get up too early to leave, thinking it is safe, only for the next wave of bombs to wipe them out.
Phoebe, can hardly stomach those stale crackers she ate, it seems. She leans over, clamping a hand over her mouth as whatever she ate threatens to make a reappearance. “Darling,” he rests a hand on her shoulder and she shrugs it off, too overstimulated from it all.
“I don’t feel good,” she manages, looking frightfully pale and sweaty, and that could be from many things. One, her sheer nerves, as this is indeed a predicament they are in. Two, the lack of ventilation that can be observed because there are so damn many people packed in here. For a split second he imagines the building caving in on them, and if they are not already crushed by the impact, then they are all left there to suffocate. With no way out. He shoves that disturbing thought aside.
“Here — lie back.” Tigris clears off a spot for Phoebe on the bunk bed and shoos him off to sit with the Creeds. How rude. He forgives his cousin because she’s only trying to help. Though she rests her head on the pillow she has fluffed up, it does not help much. If at all. She squeezes her eyes shut and swallows.
“I might’ve eaten something bad,” she confesses between breaths. “I, I don’t know. I’ve been feeling queasy lately.”
“Oh?” Persephone perks up at that. “That could be many things. Do you think you might be…” That seems to capture Festus’s attention too. He regards the pair with a curious look which is long enough for his impatient toddler to snatch the last cracker from his hand.
“That… is a possibility,” Phoebe murmurs, and it is suddenly much stuffier in here. Much harder to breathe. Coriolanus thinks he might be feeling a bit sick too, and it’s not because of those stale crackers he ate. He should be relieved that his wife might be pregnant, given they have been trying for a child for quite some time now. She is in good health, as is he, but their recent struggle to conceive has been a cause for concern. Perhaps her stress is truly that profound, he considers, what with the climate of their surroundings recently. All she does is fret about the news, and he has never seen hazel eyes look so blue. He briefly considered cutting her off from the television in hopes of alleviating her stress until he realized that would not stop her from visiting a friend to watch their television. And he would rather keep her home where he knows she’s safe and sound. A thought scratches his mind, insistent like nails on a chalkboard:
Who would want to birth a child into a world like this?
Coriolanus had hoped that his children could grow up free of the burden of war and strife, where they could be raised without fearing for their lives at every turn. He had hoped for a world where they would not have to grow up so fast the way he did. He’d hoped for a world where tomorrow was a promise, not a question lingering above them. But those district scum, he thought bitterly, were determined to burn this world down with them. His father once said that people in the districts only drank water because it did not rain blood, and it seems he is right about that.
Would there be anything left when this was all over?
Phoebe has been acting rather strange lately.
Distant in a way she only is if there is something she’s hiding. He has seen this behavior in her before for matters more trivial like her frivolous spending habits, as he allows her to use his card whenever she shops, but he always tells her to be reasonable. Ever since he married her, it has been an unspoken rule that not a dime of her own would be spent.
Not that she has a dime of her own to waste.
The war had orphaned her at a young age just as it had Tigris. It left her without a roof over her head, then, and an inheritance — a small one — that his mother took interest in. Along with a little extra as the child of a slain soldier. They would never have taken her in otherwise, he imagined. Or would they have, anyway? His mother was known to be generous, almost to a fault, and she had a soft spot for the girl it seemed. She was once good friends with her mother and they’d been eager to set their children up on play dates (even though he could not stand the girl).
Coriolanus was not one to share his things and Phoebe had it in her mind from the very start that what was his was also hers. He was particular about the way he kept his things; he lined them up neatly only for her sticky hands to grab everything without any sense or care. Of course he complained to his mother about it, but she told him to be patient with her. She was just happy to have a friend. Friends were few and far between for that girl as she was so quiet — so hesitant to mingle with her peers despite her mother’s effort to integrate her into society.
Phoebe liked Coriolanus because he was quiet, like her, and he let her touch his belongings (granted she did not know he hated her touching them). He followed her around, rearranging his toys whenever she messed with the order of them. She was truly so oblivious that she was annoying him, and that was perhaps the most irritating thing about her. The fact she had not a bad bone in her body. Not an idea about anything.
Her inheritance was a pittance but it had all been signed over to him once he slipped that ring on her finger, tethering them together till death do they part. She did not hesitate to fork over everything — so devoted to him like that. He could’ve married someone better off with a pedigree of his caliber, whose father had deeper pockets in hindsight, but he already had connections and wealth at his fingertips thanks to his position as the Plinth heir. And though he would never admit it out loud, it seemed he had a soft spot for her. He did not even realize it until Urban Canville saw it fit to try and court her during their senior year at The Academy. She was so painfully oblivious as to his dubious nature, thus he warned her, men only want one thing. All men, except for him of course.
Then, after his blunder in The Games, he was exiled to Twelve. Cut off from the world he once knew. A cruel twist of fate he was powerless to, as Dean Highbottom had it out for him from the very start. Phoebe had promised to write to him, until those letters stopped coming. Perhaps they were lost in the mail or had yet to arrive, he’d presumed. Twelve was the lowest in priority as far as anything and everything went. That was his impression until his unceremonious return to the Capitol, when he found her all cozy with Urban Canville. Was she avoiding him this entire time?
Clearly she was, or else she would not have appeared so horrified to see him in the flesh. When he inquired about her before, Tigris had always referred to her with a strange air of dismissal, as if she’d been pressured to keep hush about something. Phoebe did not throw her arms around him and prattle on about how much she missed him like he had anticipated she would upon his return. And it was no wonder, given she’d moved on as if he were dead and gone. Her tryst with Urban Canville had spiraled into an official courtship — one he was determined to break apart. Not because he was fond of her or anything — he simply thought she deserved better than a man with a known temper and a track record for chasing skirts. She was none the wiser as to his efforts behind the scenes, and in the end, the man had broken it off with her.
He never bothered her again.
Coriolanus saw to it.
The poor thing had cried and confided in him, wondering what on earth she’d done to scare off the man when things were going so well between them, in her opinion. He was there to soothe her and pick up the broken pieces of her heart, in the meantime. She’d never loved the man, he was sure of it. Not like she loved him. Of course he had to help her realize that, and it had only taken years of careful cultivation.
A few years had passed since his return to the Capitol, wherein he’d secured his role as the Plinth heir and clawed his way up to the top. Under Gaul’s tutelage, he flourished, landing himself the shiny title of Gamemaker, but his efforts would not stop there. It was only the beginning. Soon he would be promoted to Head Gamemaker, he was sure, and after a while of that, he would begin his foray into politics. A steady race to the top, where in the end, the world would be his. The only thing he was missing, in the meantime, was a wife, as he would eventually need an heir.
He’d ensured over the past few years that Phoebe was entirely reliant on him. He felt it was his duty to take care of her since all her living relatives were deceased. Her entire world, as it stood, was him and Tigris, and that troubled her as the years passed. She’d been overcome with guilt, painting herself as some sort of leech, and thus, had directed her efforts into finding herself a suitor. Someone who could take care of her, so she would not be a burden to them anymore. It was awkward enough that she lived with him all while knowing he was courting other women. But none of them had ever captured his interest. Livia Cardew had gotten close, but he was swift to put an end to their courtship upon realizing she was a woman near impossible to tame. He needed a wife who was strong, yes, but pliant only to him.
Pliant in a way only she was.
Phoebe’s endeavor to find a husband had been fruitless. It was then that he proposed the idea of a match between them, which she was initially reluctant about, as they’d grown up together. Unorthodox marriages were not as frowned upon since the siege took its course, as the population of the Capitol had been whittled down considerably. That left them with a rather small pool to choose from (and well, marrying someone district was simply out of the question). He reminded her of that, then told her that no one would appreciate or care for her the way he had all these years. She interpreted his proposal as his way of showing pity towards her, never the sharpest tool in the shed. But that was fine. Though she was not innately clever, she was certainly obedient and eager to please. Thus, she acquiesced.
And the rest was history.
They’ve been married for almost a year now.
Usually, he does not have to pry for Phoebe to blurt out whatever is on her mind. Eventually she always comes to him with her concerns — it just takes a bit for her to work up to it. But she is certainly taking her sweet time now, so much so that he thinks she may never spit it out. Then he receives a letter in the mail, in opportune time, and there is a sinking dread in his chest when he spots the fancy gold seal on it. That means it is something official, addressed from the Capitol itself. Once, that gold seal held promise. It could’ve been an invitation to an event, an announcement, or an acknowledgement of an accolade. Now it is somewhat of a threat to any man in the Capitol.
He contemplates throwing it away as if that would erase its existence. But that will not erase a thing, and thus, he is left feeling that same palpable dread he has observed in his wife lately. The envelope remains buried under a pile of papers in his office until he has no choice but to acknowledge its weight.
A date. Coriolanus drags Phoebe out on a fancy date to a restaurant under the guise of restoring some normalcy in the midst of this chaos. They talk and talk, but it all feels like meaningless chatter to skirt around the point of whatever has been weighing on their minds.
She immediately clocks his apprehension, her hazel eyes softening with concern as the steak dish he normally has no trouble finishing has gone largely untouched. They’ve both been picking at their plates as if waiting for something that’ll never come. Then she excuses herself to use the restroom and returns appearing rather pale. They box their meals for later, and then. For a moment they just stare at each other as if asking, which one of us will say it first?
They blurt it out, at the same time:
“I’m pregnant.”
“I’ve been drafted.”
The clinking of glasses, scraping of forks, and idle chatter around them fade into something muffled in his head.
“Oh.” Phoebe swallows, so strangely detached to hear this news. She’s probably still processing what he said. No, she definitely is. Sure enough it clicks and he spots the familiar panic spreading across her face. Neither of them had expected for things to go this way. In an ideal world where he was not drafted for the war, this would be a cause for celebration. He would tell her to be quiet about it, until they are certain, before she can run off and tell all her friends about it. A rush of pride would have filled him at how far they’ve come, building a life together now.
But that illusion shatters, as there is not much to build on this precarious foundation.
This is not a cause for celebration. He will have no choice but to leave his wife alone for the entirety of her pregnancy, when she needs him most. Eventually he will return to her, but he will not get to hold their child in his arms. He will be delivered to them in a casket stamped with a plaque, just as his father was.
“That is… news,” Coriolanus responds delicately, not quite sure how to proceed. Should he attempt to stay in bright spirits for her sake? Or should he address the situation with the solemnity fit for it? What does she want to hear?
“I took several tests,” she informs him. “I have not bled for a while now.”
“Well, hopefully we’ll have our heir,” he says, tersely.
“Or we could have twins,” she counters in turn, as her mother, after all, was a twin. Somewhat. She absorbed her brother in the womb but hopefully that will not be the case here. “You’ll get your boy and I’ll get my girl.”
“That would be ideal.”
It is so, so quiet now, and she holds his hand across the table. Squeezes it so tight, like he will leave at any second now. “And you will be… gone. For how long?”
“For however long they need me. But I will come home to you as soon as I can. It will go by in a blink, I promise.” He loosens his tie so he can breathe better. “We will write to each other, and call.” He is not one to make empty promises, let alone lie, but she has so much on her plate already. Imparting more stress on her might be bad for the baby.
“Are you sure you can’t get out of it?” she frets. “Someone else can replace you. It doesn’t make any sense how—” how they would waste someone as exceptional as him like this? The Games are just around the corner too, and they sort of need Gamemakers for that. There are several of them, yes, but he is meant to become Head Gamemaker someday. Arguably more valuable than them all.
“I know.” He buries his head in his hands. Surely Gaul didn’t approve of them sending her prized protege to the chopping block. The only conclusion he can come to is one that makes him feel somewhat egotistical, but it is the only explanation that makes any damn sense. That someone out there, with a higher position of influence, has it out for him. A certain Felix Ravinstill, perhaps? Ever since graduating, he has had it in his mind that he will become the next President of Panem. Delusions of grandeur, he’d thought. Yes he was the grandnephew of the current President, but he still had to campaign for his position, and there would be an election. It would not be handed to him on a silver platter. Clearly he’d seen him as a threat to the future he coveted, and thus, had deemed it fit to whisper a word to the President, to have him cleanly disposed of. Being drafted for the war was a perfect excuse — that way they could write it off as him doing a duty of honor, only to succumb tragically on the battlefield.
He should have gotten rid of him sooner.
His luscious platinum curls are shorn off before he even has the chance to leave the Capitol.
He is shorn like a sheep and then, given just minutes to convene with his wife at the train station when that big day comes. The poor thing is distraught, clinging to him like this is the last time she may ever see him. And it very well may be.
“Don’t go,” she implores him as if he has a say in any of this. “Don’t leave me like this.” Don’t leave me to raise this child alone.
She will not truly be alone, he thinks. At least she has Tigris. His cousin is there to see him off now, despite it all, a somber expression on her face. Before they even reached the train station, he pulled her aside and told her, we need to prepare for the event where I may not come back. If something happens to me, will you take care of Phoebe? It was a formality of course. Since the beginning, Tigris has always looked out for them both. But she hugged him and reassured him she would, anyway. Still it did little to quell his festering anxiety.
“Everything will be fine,” Coriolanus tells her. We will write to each other. I will be home soon before you know it.” He truly hopes she won’t make a big scene here but it is already too late for that. A few somber stares from others who are also seeing off their loved ones are fixed on the pair. His wife, who is normally so careful about every little thing she says and does, looks most undignified, sobbing into his chest like this. Hopefully no one is judging them, as they are also enduring grief themselves. He holds her, his wife — his best friend — and kisses her like it is the last time he ever will.
“Remember, you are a mother now, darling. Be strong for us. For our child.” He presses a hand over her stomach and the small, barely noticeable bump on it that will soon grow. “Think of all the time I’ll have with you, when I’m back.”
It takes a great deal of effort to pry her off of him and she’s such a mess, mascara streaks staining her rosy cheeks. But she is a mother now, she reminds herself, and then she straightens up, wiping away her tears. She squares her shoulders and fixes a brave smile on her face, to see him off with grace. Before he leaves, he snaps the stem of a white rose and tucks it behind her ear. A white rose to match her cream dress.
Think of all the time I’ll have with you.
When I won’t wake up on my own.
Training in District Two is brutal. It is a quick and rigorous routine meant to whip him into shape and transform him into a soldier fit to serve on the front line.
Day in and day out, it is the same. Wake up, wash up, get dressed, eat and slave away under the grueling heat until they say it is over. At night, sleep only finds him because he is that exhausted from this repetitive routine. It is like muscle memory, all these drills, because unlike the other men here, he has done this before. He sees the Commander giving some lanky teenager (who is all but in tears) grief, all determined to whip him into shape, and it reminds him of a certain someone he knew from Twelve. Beanpole. There’s another recruit from the Capitol, all sunshine and smiles despite the situation thrust upon him. It vaguely reminds him of another Peacekeeper he once trained with. Smiley. He briefly wonders what they are up to in life now.
He ekes out a miserable existence here in this filthy district where he knows hardly anybody, counting each day as it drags on until he is finally relinquished to return home.
Each night is a reminder of how utterly alone he is when he cannot feel the warmth of Phoebe’s body beside him on the mattress. It does not dip with her weight; she does not cling to him in her sleep. When the air whispers, he likes to pretend it is her breathing in his ear, but the cool draft defies her warm presence. Coriolanus fishes out his personal effects on those nights when he is particularly homesick. In a small box, he keeps a few photos — vignettes of the few people he cares about:
There is a picture of his family on the day of the parade long ago, and he looks so regal in his purple velvet suit, holding his mother’s hand as she guides him down the marbled steps. There is another one his father never knows existed, of when he snuck into his parent’s bedroom later that night to steal his uniform jacket and try it on. Mother caught him red-handed, but instead of scolding him, she stole the opportunity to sneak a picture of him wearing it. It was their little secret — a polaroid stuffed into one of her scrapbooks until he unearthed it later along. The third picture is of him, Tigris, and Phoebe forced to smile for the camera during another one of their playdates arranged by their mothers. He is wearing the nastiest scowl on his face because of a certain girl having broken one of his figurines. The devil is right beside him, flashing the camera a toothy grin as if she’s so innocent, and Tigris is the only one posing elegantly beside her. There is a picture of him and his wife on their wedding day, exchanging vows, and another is of what was beneath her dress, meant for his eyes only.
At the very bottom of the box is a letter from his wife, stamped with a kiss in bright red lipstick, carrying the sweetness of strawberries. He inhales its comforting scent and tries to ignore the stench of earth and gunpowder surrounding him. Always, she tries her best to give him good news, and good news alone, but he has no doubt that deep down she is distraught that he cannot be there for her. His fingertips skim the spots on the letter that have blurred ink, as if she’d cried while writing all these nice things.
Coriolanus had never imagined he’d end up as a soldier again. It’s almost humorous, this cruel twist of fate. No matter how hard he tries to claw his way up, he is always dragged back down to the trenches. But by all things Snow, he will claw his way back up again. Until his last breath, he will fight for what is rightfully his.
He gets one call a week, which he uses to check up with his darling, but they are only allotted a few minutes to speak. It is never enough time to say what they want.
As the war takes its course, she gives him little snippets of her life as it continues without him.
Like how apparently her cat misses him. She tells him all the signs like how Penny has stolen his socks and collected them in a pile on her little bed on the floor just beside theirs. They are no doubt unwearable now, all riddled with tears and holes. Sometimes she bats at the door of his office and meows incessantly until his wife lets her in, so she can laze on his desk and soak in the sunlight. Some evenings she wanders around the penthouse and yowls as if searching for him, because he is never home in time for dinner anymore. While they dine, Penny likes to eat from her little dish on the floor too. But now she always hesitates to eat because there is one person still missing. Dinner is a family affair.
It is touching, quite. Absence makes the heart grow fonder it seems. He’d have thought the kitten would be overjoyed to have her owner all to herself now. Perhaps she curls up on his pillow not because she misses him but because she is eager to sleep on something cozier. But oh, she still looks for him. Even after months.
Phoebe sends him a letter a few months later, when her pregnancy has progressed. Despite how much she must be grieving, she looks so radiant and happy in the picture she sends him. In it, she dons a dress that accentuates her stomach so he can see how far along she is now. Of course there is a picture of her kitten, too, and he sees she has grown rather plump. He is utterly floored once he reads the letter, and then spots the next picture: an ultrasound with not one figure in it but two. “We’re having twins,” she informs him over the phone, ecstatic for a moment, and then her joy fades as they count down those seconds before they have to hang up. Time — he is always counting time. It is precious and there is little of it to spare.
They send him out onto the field, along with the rest of his comrades. Every day is a fight to reach the finish line, and he is determined not to end up like his father. He fights from tooth to nail and is fortunate enough to get by unscathed, though he is not spared from the mental scars of war, of course. Every time he sees a fallen soldier or an injured one carried into the infirmary on a stretcher, he is reminded of how fleeting his life is. How insignificant he is in the grand scheme of things, here. He is tired. So, so tired, but he keeps pushing on. It is the only thing he knows.
He’ll crawl home to her.
No grave can hold his body down.
As the months pass, Phoebe, for the most part, holds it together. Until there is a close call and she discovers about his broken arm over the phone. It’s just a broken arm, he insists, but he knows that is not the reason why she is beside herself. It is the thought of what could’ve happened, were he a second slower, in the wrong place at the wrong time. At least he is in one piece, he thinks, trying to scrub away the image in his mind of a man he once knew, who was breathing just days ago. Someone’s son, someone’s father. Some nights he barely has enough time to sleep and he dreams of some epiphany, just one single glimpse of relief to make some sense of what he’s seen.
Time passes slower in the flicker of the hospital light.
He stares at the polaroid of his wife’s stomach, impossibly round on her seventh month of pregnancy. It looks painful. Is she supposed to be this round, so soon? She tells him all about how her body aches, carrying their son and daughter. They like to make their presence known in there, as she says, it is almost like they are fighting when they kick and turn.
Coriolanus smiles; it seems they are thriving and in good health. But what little joy he feels is snuffed out by a smoldering dread at what it means, her being this far along into her pregnancy. He might not be there for her when she delivers their twins. Things are dying down here and there are talks about a relief, but they are just talks as far as he is concerned. Still, there is hope. An anxious energy filling the air here. Hopeful fathers, hopeful sons, yearning to be back home again.
She has a feeling the twins will come early. Apparently she did; she came a whole month early in her haste to greet the world. She also informs him that Persephone is pregnant with her second now, before going on and on about how nice it would be for their children to grow up together.
He allows himself to be lost in a reverie, for a moment.
That big military vehicle rolls down the Corso and Phoebe is filled with two emotions melding together into something unbearable. Anticipation and dread, simultaneously. She does not know why she is filled with the latter, given her husband is coming home today. Perhaps it is because she feels for those unfortunate souls who will not be heading to the train station to greet a loved one upon their return. Instead they will be delivered a coffin of whatever is left of their loved one. She tries not to think of how one of those vehicles might be filled with coffins.
He is coming home today. Coriolanus.
Phoebe had her maid clean every square inch of the penthouse to prepare it for his return. Finally, she has her maid back, along with some sense of normalcy. For a while it felt like society was crumbling as she had no hired help or even a cook, and all those nice shops she used to frequent had closed down. It seemed like a ghost town, with everyone hiding again, in their homes, waiting for those bombs to rain down. Rationing out portions again. An echo of the siege.
But they regained control.
For a while, she had to do everything herself. All the cooking and cleaning, but Ma Plinth was so generous, going above and beyond to help. She was adamant on not letting her lift a finger during pregnancy. Thus she helped her redecorate the penthouse today. And she’d even helped her decorate the nursery. They spent most of their time together, crocheting little blankets and stuffed animals for the twins. A small slice of normalcy for them. Stress baking and crafting. They had a lot in common it seemed.
Everything was prepared.
All that was missing was him.
Tigris takes her down to the train station where they are to wait for Coriolanus, but waiting is easier said than done when she has already been waiting for months. She instructs her to sit but she is far too stubborn to do so for long, despite her aching back and her heels protesting.
It feels like hours before the train finally lurches to a stop to let out passengers. Heroes decked in their uniforms. They all return with a different air to them, she notices. Utterly drained, with no light in their eyes. Husks of beings, some of them, and she can only imagine what they have all endured. A few of them are missing a limb or an eye, and some of them are in crutches. Slings. Some of them have no one to return to, no one to greet them. They simply walk down, out onto the street, but some of them are greeted with open arms by friends and family.
Touching, quite. It is sweet and all, but when would it be her turn? The pit in her stomach grows with each soldier that steps down that is not him. Coriolanus is certainly taking his sweet time making it home to her. Did something happen to him? Did he get into an accident on the way back? Did they forget him somewhere? Her mind spirals and spirals, and then —
Her breath catches when that last soldier steps down.
The twins kick, just as she hobbles onto her feet.
It’s him. Phoebe gasps and races for Coriolanus (as fast as she can with the twins and her impossibly round stomach weighing her down), before he even knows what hit him. He barely registers her presence before her arms encircle him in a suffocating hug. The force of the impact nearly topples him over but he holds his ground. She only eases up when she hears him wince, and then she’s reminded of his broken arm. His sling. She’s probably hurting him. So she gingerly eases up.
“My darling,” Coriolanus makes a move to attempt to sweep her into his arms and spin her like he usually does, but that is rather hard to do with one arm, so he abandons his effort. He looks utterly drained, like he has aged years, and it is no wonder. War can do that and much worse to a person.
“You look well,” he says, regarding her stomach almost gingerly once they pull away. This is the first time he has laid eyes on her in such a visibly pregnant state, so it is not surprising that he appears so shocked. She seizes his hand and carefully guides it to her stomach, an infectious smile spreading across her face. Her vision is blurring a bit but she is determined not to tear up; not after all that work she put into her makeup.
“The twins are excited to see you,” she beams proudly. “Hold it there for a moment. Maybe they will kick for you.”
It takes a moment until they do, and she assumes he feels it once his face brightens up. “It seems they are.”
“I cannot wait for them to come out. I am impossibly round,” she says, patting her stomach. She then guides him over to Tigris, who has been sitting on the bench the entire time, watching the moment unfold.
“Tigris,” Coriolanus nods in acknowledgement and she rises, greeting him with a hug and a long sigh.
“You made it back,” she says, and there is less warmth in her tone than she expected. She never calls him Coryo anymore, but she seems genuinely relieved that he made it back at least. Something has happened between them, but neither of them will tell her what, so she is left to wonder.
Anyway. They make it back to Tigris’ car and she drives them down to the Corso. The whole time, Phoebe prattles on about how she redecorated the place and how they have plans for an early dinner today. She has gone out of her way to invite the Creeds over. The Creeds and, well, the Vickers. And of course the Plinths will be there to greet them, too. Surely he would not mind a few extra people.
It is a lively dinner to say the least and Coriolanus is flustered to see Ma in tears. She envelops him in a great big hug, all but squeezing the air out of his lungs, greeting him like he is her son. And he is, all but in name. The Plinths took him under their wing ever since he returned to the Capitol in light of his time in the districts as a Peacekeeper, long ago. Their only son, Sejanus, had tragically passed, and as such, they’d appointed his best friend as their heir. This entire time, Ma was terrified of something happening to him, too. She’d already lost one son. To lose another, it would destroy her. There are some things you just can’t speak about.
Coriolanus is exhausted, trying to keep up with the conversation among his friends. Persephone goes on and on about the next little one she’s expecting, all while struggling to keep Penelope in her seat as she is far too preoccupied with trying to chase Penny around the dining table.
“Alright! Who wants dessert?” Phoebe clasps her hands together and stands. “Ma taught me how to bake an apple pie. I trust you’ll all find it edible. If not, then… don’t tell me,” she jokes, before her smile slowly bleeds into something horrified.
There is a strange, clear puddle on the floor where she’s standing.
It might be coming from her.
“Phoebe?” Ma slowly rises from her seat.
“I think…” Phoebe swallows and looks down at the ground again. That definitely came from her. Well, shit. Could the twins have picked a more inconvenient time to come?
She is somewhat grateful that the Vickers are here. A family full of doctors. Should anything happen, she’ll be in safe hands. Lysistrata’s mother spots the puddle on the ground, then rushes to her at once. After assessing her for a moment, they exchange a knowing look before she takes a deep breath and announces, without ceremony — “…her water broke. We should get her to the hospital now.”
Coriolanus drops his fork, abandoning the food on his plate.
“Congratulations Snow,” Festus pats his shoulder, the one that happens to be for his broken arm, and he winces. “You’re a father now.”
“The twins are not here yet,” he murmurs, and he looks a bit sick.
“But,” Phoebe frets, “I was hoping we could all enjoy dessert first. I went out of my way to—”
“We’ll eat it later,” Tigris cuts in. “The pie will not be going anywhere.”
Phoebe expects to recoil in agonizing pain immediately, but she feels surprisingly calm. It is just a bit of water.
This must be the calm before the storm.
Phoebe will not let him leave her side.
Not even to get a glass of water.
The panic does not kick in — in fact she is excited, until she’s sitting in that hospital bed, and she feels that first mild contraction. She grips Coriolanus’ arm like a vice and grits her teeth.
He instructs the nurse to give her something for her pain, and she slips something into her IV, which helps just a little. Doctor Corvane strolls in shortly after to check on her. They are waiting until she is dilated enough to give her an epidural — whatever that means.
“Three centimeters,” she says. “A little more to go and I’ll administer it.”
Then they wait.
Coriolanus takes in the white walls surrounding him and that sterile, sharp scent of antiseptic. The lights are bright, all but blinding him. He holds her hand as she squirms, gritting her teeth through those mild contractions. She is not screaming in agony like his mother did and he is grateful for that. Here she will be safe and fed whatever she needs to numb the pain.
“I’m going to place an epidural now,” Doctor Corvane begins gently, later on. “You will feel a little pinch and some pressure. It will help numb you.”
“Will it hurt…?” Phoebe squeezes his hand so tight he thinks she might break it.
“It’ll just be a pinch. Only for a second,” she says before cleaning and numbing her skin. Then he spots the anesthesiologist holding a needle behind her back so she cannot see it. Coriolanus glimpses the long needle and thinks he might faint. But he has to be strong for her, and so he squeezes her hand, calling for her attention. Her breath quickens, like she is about to hyperventilate. Even though she cannot see that needle, she must know what’s coming next. Persephone and Juno have probably traumatized her, telling her all about the initial process of childbirth.
“I’m scared,” she quivers. “I… I don’t like needles.”
“Look at me,” he says. “It’s just for a second. Be strong for your babies. When this is over, you’ll get to hold them.”
“Okay,” she blinks back the tears welling in her eyes and takes a deep breath, steeling her nerves. “Come on, let’s get it over with.” But they have to wait of course, until she calms down enough. Deep breaths, the doctor instructs her, just as the needle is inserted into her back. Coriolanus closes his eyes too, not wanting to see any of it. She lets out a cry of discomfort and squeezes his hand so tight it might break. But he grits through it. And then it is over, that quickly. They’d both expected worse.
“That’s it…?” Phoebe says, opening her eyes once the doctor pulls back.
“That’s it. Now we wait.”
Phoebe regards her reluctantly. She does not appear convinced she is in safe hands, thus the doctor reminds her, “You will be just fine. I have delivered dozens of healthy babies.”
“I cannot feel my legs,” Phoebe jests, trying to make light of her budding anxiety as they track her dilation. She cannot stand even a moment of silence as they wait. If she is not talking to him or the doctor, she is singing. Like a jukebox, whatever tune comes to mind.
Then it is time for her to push, after what feels like hours.
It seems like an eternity of waiting, of holding her hand and instructing her, until finally, there is a strange sound. And then a cry, from a powerful set of tiny lungs.
There is a whole team of people in here, just in case anything were to go wrong. So far, it hasn’t, and he is thankful for that. A surge of anticipation fills them both when they hear that first cry, and they see that squirming baby the doctor is holding.
“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Snow,” the doctor says, and Phoebe gasps, trying to get down, but the nurses instruct her to stay put. “It’s a healthy baby girl.”
“Oh,” she sighs in relief, all sweaty and tired. A right mess, but her work is far from over. “Can I hold her?”
“Let’s keep going,” the doctor says instead before handing the child off to the nurse. “We have one more.”
“But I want to hold her,” Phoebe insists, her brows furrowing in frustration. But she is still in labor and too exhausted to argue for much longer. Something about the interaction is off, and it has him straightening up in his seat, on edge.
His son is less determined to greet this world it seems. It takes longer and he hears something about a breech. “Is everything alright?” he queries; he cannot see much from here and it is not like his wife will relinquish his hand for a second to even allow that.
“Everything is fine. We’ll just have to turn the baby.”
Doctors are instructed to remain calm so that the patient is calm. So he does not know whether to believe the woman. He hates how powerless he feels, having to rely on another. What if she messes up? He is not a damn doctor, so he cannot possibly do a thing about it. But he at least made sure to pick the best doctor in the Capitol — second to the Vickers, who work exclusively for the President. He anxiously shifts in his seat, but he cannot sit still for long, until —
He hears a second cry. Less raucous than the first, who is still fussing as it all happens.
“I want to hold them,” Phoebe implores, so out of it. “Please…”
He does not like how the nurses are whispering amongst each other, like there is something he is not allowed to know. They regard him almost gingerly before murmuring something to the doctor that he cannot discern. What are they saying?
An unsettling feeling rises in him when his wife’s once iron-clad grip on his hand loosens, and she relinquishes him entirely. “I want to…” she doesn’t finish what she’s trying to say, too fatigued to even do that, and she slumps back on the pillow. He rises at once catches a glimpse of how much blood is staining the sheets, then. Surely that is not a normal amount of blood to lose.
One of the nurses rushes to his side and redirects him. “Sir,” she begins delicately, albeit a bit panicked, “We’re going to have you step outside for a bit. Just so we can work more efficiently.”
I think the fuck not, is what she wants to say, but instead he says, “Is something wrong? I would like to know why she’s bleeding that much.”
“Everything is under control,” she answers rather vaguely, and he fixes her with a murderous look that has her cringing back a little. He is normally much nicer to everyone, but these past few months have transformed him into some other creature. “She is just bleeding more than we expected.”
A little is understatement. He hears the fragmented voices of the doctor and the nurses in the background:
“Keep pressure—”
“We need pads. She’s losing a lot of blood—”
“Coryo,” he hears a weak voice calling for him. Phoebe extends her hand in an attempt to beckon him, then drops it, too exhausted to exert even that much effort. “Come back…”
The nurse is a mere slip of a woman so she is not able to stop him from returning to his wife’s side at once. “Darling,” he squeezes her hand, “Stay with me.”
“I’m so tired,” she manages drowsily, and she is slipping away, her hazel eyes fluttering as she tries to hard to refocus them. “They won’t let me hold them…”
“You will hold them soon. Just hang in there for me, love.” His vision is strangely blurry, and then there are hands on him. Stronger hands this time. Two nurses dragging him away, despite him telling them he wishes to stay with her. They won’t listen.
And then he is locked out of the room.
They’ve only allowed one guest inside the hospital room, and thus, Tigris has been waiting on the bench outside this entire time. “What’s going on?” She asks, her attention darting between him and the nurse (who explains very vaguely what is happening before she disappears at once).
“There has been… a complication,” he says, and Tigris hugs him. She attempts to pull him away from the door but he stands there like a stubborn boulder, pressing his ear against the door. All he can hear in there are feet shuffling, people talking frantically, and machines beeping. It all melds together into a cacophony.
“Come sit down,” Tigris pleads with him. “Let them do their job.”
“What if they’re incompetent?” he manages, so quietly it is hardly audible. “What if they mess up?”
This moment feels strangely familiar to him. When Tigris is pulling at his sleeve to stop him from barging into that room. But then he makes it past her, anyway, only to find her bled out on the sheets. All pale like a ghost. Still warm, but not for long.
He liked to believe his mother was too weak to pull through. Too weak for this world, and that was why it’d claimed her. But this would be different, he’d thought. At least his wife has a fighting chance in a hospital with all these people here to help her.
But what if it’s not enough? What more would it take to keep his family safe? There is nothing he loathes more than that feeling of being completely and utterly out of control.
Coriolanus blinks and feels a sudden wetness on his cheeks. Finally, he allows Tigris to pull him back and sit him down. He must look so pathetic to her right now. She brushes away his tears and then considers him for a moment, long enough for her icy exterior to slip, and it is replaced by a familiar warmth he has not seen in such a long time.
“They won’t,” she assures him.
“We can’t be sure,” he points out.
“You’re right. We can’t. But at least your twins are here, and in good health. You’re a father now.” She is trying to direct his attention away from her, he can see that.
“I barely got to see them,” he confesses.
“Just hang in there for a little longer,” she squeezes his hand.
Coriolanus does not know how long it has been until finally the doctor steps out. He expects to hear the worst — that his wife has tragically passed but instead she says, “All three of them are well. Your wife has lost a lot of blood but we have administered a transfusion. We’ll need to keep her in the hospital for a bit longer to monitor her, but she is stable for now. Would you both like to come in?”
The doctor does not have to ask them twice. They burst into the room where they find Phoebe sipping on something sugary they gave her. She cannot even hold the glass in her weakened state so a nurse holds the straw up to her lips.
“Oh. Hey there.” Phoebe manages a weak smile when she sees them both. Out of all the things she can say, she blurts out, “Can you tell them to bring me my damn kids already?” She does not care to manage her language despite the doctor being right there. But she does appear the slightest bit shocked to hear that; he is sure she’s used to hearing all sorts of colorful words being thrown at her in this profession.
A nurse hands one baby to Tigris, and holds the other one, as he does not want to risk holding his child with one good arm. Phoebe insists she can handle holding a baby, but they are not convinced since she can hardly hold a glass of juice now. A surge of pride fills him when he sees their tiny bundles of joy. And then he thinks, even if he had two good arms, he would still hesitate to hold them. They look so fragile. So tiny.
“Oh,” Phoebe’s face lights up when she sees their baby girl who has thin blonde curls, and hazel eyes with a dusting of blue if he squints hard. The carbon copy of her mother, except — “she has your nose, Coryo,” she gestures at their daughter’s pointy nose.
Tigris shows her the boy, and well, he looks just like a Snow. Just like him with his glacial blue eyes, only with his mother’s smaller nose. And they are both positively red, like tomatoes, the way newborn babies usually are. His daughter curls her little hand around his finger and she is so soft. Then she is crying at the top of her lungs and he has no earthly idea what he has done to upset her.
He looks to his wife and then the nurse rather helplessly.
“She has a strong set of lungs,” Tigris comments. “Who does it remind you of?” She regards him pointedly and he laughs.
“A Snow,” he quips. A Snow ought to have a powerful set of lungs so that they can be heard.
His son on the other hand, is more mellow it seems. He has not cried once since that one moment when he was born.
“Have you two decided what to name them yet?” Tigris asks, rocking the baby in her arms.
“Corrina for the girl and Cassius for the boy,” Coriolanus replies without missing a beat. It has been a long-standing tradition in his family for most Snow children to have a name beginning with a C.
“A fine choice,” Tigris agrees.
Fine names for two little snowflakes.
Phoebe had indirectly suggested breaking that tradition by naming their daughter Alice before, after a female lead from one of those silly tales she loved to read. But he was adamant on adhering to tradition. So much so that he considered naming their son Crassus, or even making him a junior, but those are big shoes to fill. Of course his heir would be expected to one day become just as great as them, if not greater. But that is something he’ll worry about later.
It is no secret to Phoebe that he has great plans for his future. For their future. He told her everything, way back when they were kids, about how he would do anything to claw his up to the top, where a Snow belonged. She regarded him so strangely, as if he were having delusions of grandeur, but was distracted when he promised her all sorts of things in return. As they dined on their watery bean soup and stale crackers, he told her that someday they would never have to eat this insipid stuff again. Her prettiest dress then was once part of a costume, as they’d sold nearly everything nice just to get by. If not that, it was sacrificed to the flames to keep them from freezing to death. But when she wore that dress, he promised her that one day he would buy her one made of the finest silk.
And what would you expect of me in return? She’d asked, entertaining him in the midst of what she interpreted was a fantasy. Not a promise.
Just your devotion, he’d said, and she did not understand what he meant then — unable to fathom that there was ever a place in his future for her. She liked to put herself down like that, but not anymore now that she is a Snow.
Now she has given him two beautiful children.
The nurse and Tigris take turns holding the twins, and as they do, he tries his best to stay grounded in the present. But it is rather hard to do so when he thinks of how fleeting this peace is. What will come next? Will he be exiled to some faraway district again?
He has to address a bigger problem now. A certain Ravinstill who has become quite the wrench in his plans. As he gazes at his tiny heir, he thinks of all the multitude of ways he can put an end to that problem, so that he can ensure his family is safe. And then there are other problems to consider. Ravinstill is not the only potential roadblock there.
He thinks of all the things he’ll have to do from here to secure his spot at the top. He has already gotten his hands dirty to get this far, and he has done unspeakable things. Things he never imagined himself capable of, but look where he is now. There is a sickness in him when he looks back at it all, but there is no place in this world for those who are weak. This world was an arena. Every day was a fight for survival, but by all things Snow, he would be the victor. Snow lands on top.
He looks at his wife and he wonders how on earth it is possible for someone to look so beautiful. Even though she is covered in sweat with her makeup all runny, she is breathtaking. She looks up at him, smiles at him like he is her world, and she has not a clue what all he has done for her. To protect that smile. And she never will know.
How would he do it? he thinks, as he dabs the sweat off her face with his kerchief. A staged accident? A vial of poison? His wife would be horrified if she knew what he was concocting in his mind, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
Hi! I'm trying to find a coriolanus x reader fic where coriolanus gets married to reader and reader is oblivious to dark side corio and obvi virgin. I think it has part 1 part 2, part 1 where her bag which was a gift from corio got stolen when she was on the streets but it was actually staged by him to show her the "dark side" and that she should rely only to him and part 2 is her getting devirginized😝🫣 Could anyone send me the link if you knew? That would be appreciated thanks🥺
Summary: A new young wife means the president of Panem only has one thing on his mind, an heir.
Kinks: Breeding kink, Creampie, Pregnancy kink ?
Rough.
That seemed to be the only way to properly describe Coriolanus Snow. Abrasive, sharp, deadly. The kind of man who dominates, demands every drop of sanity from his victims. Unfortunately, all of his evil is buried under a beautifully stoney face and charisma that could seduce bricks.
Your father was wealthy, a Capitol property owner that knew a thing or two about how to negotiate up in profit, living lavishly above most other Capitolites, that’s what brought Coriolanus in, if that was the shiny bronze attracting him to the surface, you were the gold layers down he struck. You were bright eyed, soft, beautiful. How could he not want you all to himself? So shapable, pliable into the perfect kiln ready doll of his own creation.
You couldn’t even hate yourself for falling as hard as you did, anyone would’ve. What started as innocent walks and lavish gifts tuned quickly into intimate dinners and promises whispered into the shell of your ear as you danced to some string quartet— his hand much too tight on your hip. Your father was eager to agree to the arrangement, your mother gushing over how the president was interested in you, your own heart lurching at the prospect of being picked. You were 18 after all, and 24 is a perfectly normal age for you to marry.
The engagment news swept bright the Capitol and tumbled down the slopes onto the districts like fire. Young aristocrat engaged to the president! Freshly 18 and already a bride? The high ranking women passed you in the street in envy, you relished in it. Slowly, Coriolanus’ attention became more constant. You were to be by his side all hours of the day, hand in his, hips flush, arms linked. Slowly, you obliged,
Even now your wedding was, as to be expected, a spectral. For months, a strange unease had been bubbling beneath your surface about your husband to be. You hadn’t seen your friends in months, your parents didn’t talk to you a whole bunch anymore, all you had was him. He loved it.
Your reception dress glittered elegantly, shining bright under the fluttering gaze of the chandelier. A mixture of absolute happiness at the idea of being the First Lady, which had not fully sunk, and the strange flight you feel when you see your husband. His arm, however was around iron clad to your figure the whole day, keeping it right where he wanted you.
Through everything you’d been prepared for in becoming his fiancee, his obsessed with having i you u with cold was one you should’ve but didn’t expect. Every baby he saw was something that could be yours, every pregnancy announcement made him even more jittery. Your body was young and ripe for him, and he’d be damned if he didn’t make sure of a future hair as fast as possible.
The only thing more powerful than a man was his lineaage.
“…You two are just so picky to have found each other, you’re perfect..” some older Capitol woman gushed about your relationship happily, looking down at the grip Coriolanus’ fingers made on the fabric of your dress. “You’ll be set for life” she beamed “I’m sure you’re just bursting at the seems.
You nod almost too stiffly, a plethora of emotions swirling around your brain, one was that definitely. But as time went on you started it not be able to breathe anymore, body on edge and skin on fire. Perhaps that was normal? Was that love? Coriolanus said it was, and you were too nervous to say anything counter “I’m just riveted.” You say elegantly, leaning into his body.
A low and happy growl bubbles from his chest, possessive, claiming.
The end of the parry comes sooner than you’re ready for, I’m a haze, you’re ushered to a private car with Coriolanus, every single citizen of the nation sending you off happily to your new life with your husband. The clapping drowned out any nerves temporarily, chilling your bones, but as people got farther away and it was just you and him? The nerves set your skin afire.
“You’re so beautiful..” he pulls you into his lap on the backseat. “My beautiful bride. You ready for what’s next? I expect obedience” he mumbles, thumb tracing your cheek in a subtle warning. He was about to take what he wanted. That’s all Coriolanus did, he took, and you were no exception.
The car ride feels much too long, your hands shaking as his penthouse enters your view. Before you can love, he picks you up and starts to strode inside impatiently. Your arms wrap around his neck and your body leans into his subconsciously. The lobby had been cleared in preparation, your souls alone in the whole building as he stepped into the elevator and clicked all the way up.
On the ride up, his lips found solace in your jaw, nibbling gently against your cheek and neck too. He was unable to control himself anymore.
Your body becomes his the moment his penthouse door opens. You feel the air shift from the stiff façade of the wedding to the primal want oozing from Coriolanus’ pores. Before you can take anything in, you’re being pushed down onto his your bed, a look you’ve never seen clouding his features. A single curl loose from his gel slick back hanging low over his cheekbone casts a shadow over his face. “You’re.. so.. fuck” he pushes up the fabric of your dress. “Up.” He suddenly stops himself.
Your eyes open, sitting up skeptically when he stands back. “Take it off, lemme see what’s under.” His greedy gaze takes in every fine detail of your body.
You oblige, as much as your senses wanted to reject him, your body was almost pulsing with a mirrored need for him. You unlace and drop the heavy corset, the skirt following impromptu. Under what was probably your 5th dress of the iight, your body was wrapped in expensive and delicate lace, gentle patterns that accentuated the curve and dip of your supple figure.
You see the visible shift in his attitude, he doesn’t hold back anymore. It almost scared you how turned on he was, launching at you full speed and folding your body in half before you can comprehend what’s going on.
“Just relax baby..” he finally murmurs “it’ll be so good, just let me in okay?” He lets his pants drop.
You can’t even see his cock, not until the tip is prodding at your sensitive hole “oh..!” You breathe in, legs soundly by your head as he pushes on your stomach.
“That’s it..” a rough finger finds your clit, starting to press on the nerve ending as your twitch. His cock pushes in, a rough, burning starch making your vision hazy. “Oh fuck.. oh yeah..” he groans, you can tell he’s trying to remain in control while also fucking you for the first time. “Oh you’re so ripe.. you’re gonna be so round with my heir”
It hurt, the sting became worse as Coriolanus got faster, your eyes flutter shut, jaw moving open and lower body jerking to compensate for the pain, the pleasure, and the size.
Beyond everything, his cock was impassive.
“Oh yes.. oh.. fuck!” He rolls your clit between his forefingers, relishing in the way your abdomen tightens and your eyes get hazy. “Gonna.. fill this womb..” he grunts out, bicep muscle straining against the bed “gonna have you..” round.. and.. stuffed!” He growls between thrusts.
All you can manage to mewl is a pathetic “Coriolanus..!l” as your first orgasm threatens your senses.
“Yeah? Gonna come? C’mon, you got it, take it baby, it’ll be the first of many..” he groans and keeps your legs open for him as much as possible.
Like a satisfying sneeze, your body lets go. Your orgasm is intense, almost shuttering. Your legs shake under the force of his penetrating cock and your bucking hips. Coriolanus moans loudly “squeezing me.. filthy bride.. so fucking dirty f’me” he huffs. “Just.. one.. fuck..!”
You feel him burry himself to the hilt, cumming as deep and hard as he can, filling up your womb as best he can. Your hand, almost asleep by how your body was contented, strokes his hair as he stays plugged into your hole.
“You can take one more, my bride..” he decides, giving you little time to adjust to his sensation.
One more turns onto about 3 more, soon cum was pooling down and you couldn’t feel your thighs anymore. Only when you were go glossy and fucked out your eyes were red, he finally let up on your body. “So fucking pretty.. my bride…” he pulls out with a wet pop, unceremoniously having a finger inside to keep you plugged “gotta make sure it takes.” He copes into your ear to nip any objections.
Your body was too limp to argue, you knew it was just the beginning. A few weeks later, a positive test would confirm that.
Hi! I'm trying to find a coriolanus x reader fic where coriolanus gets married to reader and reader is oblivious to dark side corio and obvi virgin. I think it has part 1 part 2, part 1 where her bag which was a gift from corio got stolen when she was on the streets but it was actually staged by him to show her the "dark side" and that she should rely only to him and part 2 is her getting devirginized😝🫣 Could anyone send me the link if you knew? That would be appreciated thanks🥺
𑣲. SO EXITIN — ᨳଓ satoru comfort fucking you after suguru just finished punishing you.
CONTENT WARNING rough sex. angry sex. bruising. hair pulling. marking. jealousy. poly rs. comfort sex. suguru is an asshole in here.
the fight was already beginning to spiral out of control when geto’s voice cut through the chaos, firm and unmistakably commanding as he gave you an order.
“stay back.”
you hesitated for only a moment, your eyes flickering toward him before narrowing in irritation.
of all things he could have told you, that was the one phrase guaranteed to piss you off.
you weren’t some helpless civilian who needed to be kept out of harm’s way, and you certainly didn’t need someone constantly deciding when you were capable of handling yourself.
you tightened your grip, scanning the battlefield as you weighed your options.
geto’s approach was safe enough, but it was slow, and you could already see the opening he hadn’t noticed yet.
then your gaze shifted toward satoru, and suddenly, the answer seemed obvious.
his method would be cleaner, quicker, and far less likely to leave either of you exposed.
so you ignored geto.
without another word, you moved exactly as satoru would have, slipping through the opening and striking from the angle you knew would work best.
it was reckless enough to make geto’s jaw tighten, but calculated enough that you knew you could pull it off.
“seriously?” geto called after you, clearly irritated.
you didn’t even bother looking back.
if he wanted you to stay behind while everyone else did the dangerous work, he was going to have to learn that you weren’t going to listen simply because he told you to.
and, much to geto’s irritation, it worked.
the threat was dealt with cleanly, the curse was exorcised before it could cause any serious damage, and despite the way you had completely disregarded his orders, no one walked away with anything worse than a few scratches.
the mission was a success, an undeniable one at that.
you lowered your weapon, breathing steadily as the tension finally began to leave your body, while geto stood a short distance away, staring at you with an expression that was becoming increasingly difficult to read.
because that was the part that made everything worse.
if you had gotten hurt, if your decision had gone wrong, if satoru’s method had nearly gotten someone killed, geto would have had every reason to lecture you.
he could have pointed out exactly where you went wrong and told you that this was precisely why you should have listened to him.
but you hadn’t, you had been right.
and geto hated that he couldn’t even argue with the outcome.
his eyes narrowed as he looked at you, his jaw tightening slightly while you gave him an almost innocent glance.
“what?” you asked, unable to resist the small edge of smugness in your voice, geto exhaled slowly through his nose. “nothing.”
but the way he said it made it painfully obvious that it was absolutely not nothing.
but what you didn’t know was that geto had no intention of letting this go, not here, not in the middle of a successful mission where he had no real argument to make against you.
he knew better than to start another fight while the three of you were still out in the field, so instead, he simply swallowed his irritation and kept quiet, already deciding that this conversation could wait until the three of you were home.
and you would soon find out that geto was much more patient when he was angry than you ever wanted him to be.
by the time the two of you finally made it home, you had almost convinced yourself that geto had simply decided to let the whole thing go.
satoru had been held back a little longer, leaving just the two of you to walk inside together, and for a brief moment, you thought the silence meant you were in the clear.
you were wrong.
the moment the door closed behind you, geto’s entire demeanor changed.
before you could even turn around properly, he stepped forward and pressed you back against the cold wooden door, his sudden movement catching you completely off guard.
you stared up at him, stunned by the intensity in his expression. “you really thought i was going to forget about what happened out there?”
one hand braced beside your head while the other claimed your jaw, fingers firm as they tipped your face upward.
“you ignored me. you decided satoru knew better. in front of everyone. on my order.” a short sharp exhale left him. “do you have any idea what that looked like?”
his thumb dug just under your chin, pressure steady enough to make your pulse jump.
he leaned closer until his mouth hovered at your ear, body locking you in place. “we share you. that was the deal. but sharing never meant you get to publicly side against me.”
his free hand dragged your jacket off one shoulder then the other before settling at your waist and hauling you forward so your hips met the hard line of him.
“you made me look secondary. you made me feel secondary. and i do not let that slide.”
geto’s mouth found the side of your throat, not soft kisses but deliberate claims, teeth scraping then biting down hard enough to pull a sharp sound from you.
the hand in your hair tightened, yanking your head back so he could mark lower, sucking a deep bruise just above your collarbone while his other hand worked your pants open with impatient precision.
the moment fabric gave way his fingers shoved between your legs, finding you already slick, and a low humorless sound left him against your skin.
“look at that,” he murmured, two fingers slamming into you without warning, curling deep and rough. “already soaked. was it the fight that did it or the knowledge of exactly how this would end once we got home?”
he worked the fingers in hard ruthless strokes, knuckles pressing, thumb circling your clit with mean pressure just shy of enough to tip you over. “you disobeyed me. you chose him. and now you take what i give until i decide you’ve remembered whose order you ignored.”
he pulled free with a wet sound, spun you with a bruising grip on your hip, and shoved you chest first into the door hard enough that the wood rattled.
the sound of his own clothes opening cut through the quiet, a heartbeat later the thick head of his cock dragged once through your folds, coating himself, before he slammed in to the hilt in one brutal thrust that knocked the air from your lungs and forced a broken cry out of you.
one hand braced beside your head again, the other locked on your hip hard enough to leave marks as he set a relentless punishing pace, every snap of his hips driving you forward against the door with wet filthy sounds.
“you don’t get to go soft on me now.” he growled against the back of your neck, teeth scraping the skin there before biting down again.
“you wanted to decide whose judgment mattered out there, fine. in here you take mine. every. fucking. inch.” his rhythm stayed deep and unforgiving, hips slamming hard enough that the door creaked with each thrust, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the entryway.
he reached up, fisted your hair again and pulled your head back so your spine arched, changing the angle so he could drive even deeper, cock dragging over that spot inside you with every rough stroke.
“next time the thought of ignoring me in front of him crosses your mind i want you to remember exactly how it feels when i remind you who you belong to just as much as you belong to him.”
his free hand slid around your hip, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight mean circles timed to the brutal pace of his thrusts until your legs started to shake and your breath came in short broken gasps.
he didn’t slow. if anything he fucked into you harder, using his grip on your hair to keep you arched and open for him, the wet sound of your cunt taking him over and over filling every pause between his words.
“come on my cock while i’m still angry with you.” he ordered, voice low and absolute, fingers working your clit faster.
“show me you understand. soak me while i’m still pissed. then maybe, maybe i’ll consider forgiving the fact that you made me watch you choose him.” he slammed in especially deep on the last word, grinding against you, refusing to ease up even as your walls started to flutter around him.
and with that he hauled you up as if you weighed nothing, carrying you straight to the bedroom while your body still trembled around the memory of him.
whatever unfolded behind that closed door stretched across hours, rough, relentless, he claimed you that it left marks and exhaustion tangled together, until the only sound left was your slowed breathing against the sheets.
hours later the front door opened. satoru stepped in, hair slightly mussed, a lazy smile already on his face as he spotted geto freshly showered and stretched out on the couch watching whatever flickered across the screen.
“hey,” he called, his eyes swept the room once, twice, then narrowed when they found no trace of you. “where’s our wife?”
geto didn’t look away from the television. “asleep.”
satoru’s eyebrow arched, he crossed the space slowly, dropping onto the arm of the couch. “she usually doesn’t pass out at this hour. what did you do to her?”
geto’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “reminded her whose orders matter when it counts.” he finally glanced over. “she’s fine. worn out. leave her.”
satoru hummed, unconvinced, already pushing off the couch. “yeah, no. i’m gonna check.” he headed down the hall without waiting for permission.
as he slipped inside the room met him with darkness and a lingering chill, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust before he finally found you buried under the blanket, only the top of your hair visible.
a soft apologetic pout pulled at his mouth as he crossed the space and sank down beside you with careful weight so the mattress barely dipped.
“aww, poor girl..” he murmured, voice barely above a breath, he reached for the edge of the covers intending to press a gentle kiss to your temple.
but the fabric peeled back to reveal a canvas of fresh bruises and dark hickeys blooming across your throat, collarbone, and the curve of one shoulder.
his hand froze mid air, brows drawing together as a low breath left him.
“that crazy bastard.” he muttered under his breath, the marks were deeper than usual, the kind of roughness that only surfaced when geto’s temper ran hot, most nights the three of you stayed far gentler with each other.
the shift in the mattress and the quiet sound of his voice pulled you from sleep.
your eyes blinked open, adjusting to the dim light, and the second they focused on him a soft smile curved his mouth.
“hey, beautiful.” you didn’t hesitate, the moment recognition settled you pushed up and all but climbed into his arms.
he caught you easily, gathering you against his chest in one smooth motion, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other settled warm and steady across the bare skin of your back, careful of every fresh bruise.
“are you okay?” he asked, voice low and close to your ear as his palm stroked slow circles over the unmarked parts of your back.
you only furrowed your brows against his shoulder, voice still rough from sleep and everything that came before.
“what took you so long?” a quiet huff of amusement left him, though the concern never fully left his eyes.
he shifted just enough to lean back against the headboard, pulling you fully into his lap so your bare legs draped over his thighs and your cheek rested against the warm solid plane of his chest.
“got held up with the higher-ups,” he murmured, fingers threading gently through your hair.
“by the time i got free and made it home, suguru was already on the couch looking far too pleased with himself.”
his thumb brushed the edge of a dark bruise on your throat, feather light. “i’ll deal with him later. right now i only care about you.”
he felt it then, the warm slickness seeping through the fabric of his jeans where your bare pussy rested against his thigh.
his gaze dropped, taking in the evidence, and a slow breath left him, you followed his eyes and immediately pouted, voice barely a whisper.
“m..sorry.”
a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. he tipped your chin up with two fingers and kissed you, he drew back his forehead rested against yours.
“don’t apologize for that,” he murmured against your mouth. “he didn’t even clean you up, huh?” satoru’s voice stayed soft “just finished and left you like this?”
he glanced down at you, waiting. you shook your head slowly.
“well… he went all in and then kissed me on the forehead after.” you admitted.
a quiet hum left him, one hand slid down your spine in a slow, soothing path while the other stayed cupped at the back of your neck. “of course he did.”
the words carried no real heat, only a knowing sort of resignation. “marks you within an inch of your life, fucks you until you can’t think, then leaves a gentle little kiss like that makes it all balanced.”
he shifted beneath you, adjusting so your slick heat pressed more firmly against the growing hardness trapped in his jeans.
“but you know…i really missed you..” you breathed out, pressing soft kisses along the sharp line of his jaw.
a low chuckle vibrated against your lips, “you missed me because he punished you?”
you shook your head quickly, “n..no! i really did miss you.”
satoru’s expression softened at the insistence. he caught your face between both hands, thumbs stroking over your cheeks as he leaned in and kissed you properly.
“i know, baby. i missed you too.” one hand slid down between your bodies, palm gliding over the bare skin of your stomach before settling between your thighs, fingers tracing lazily through the slick mess geto had left behind. “let me show you how much.”
he kept you cradled in his lap, legs draped over his, and simply explored with slow deliberate touches, two fingers gliding up and down your folds, gathering the wetness, spreading it, circling your clit with the lightest pressure that made your hips twitch.
every time you tried to push into his hand he eased off just enough to keep you wanting, a soft teasing smile playing at his mouth.
“so sensitive already,” he murmured against your temple, voice warm and full of quiet praise.
“look at you, still dripping from him yet opening up so sweetly for me, my good girl. always so responsive… even after he was rough with you.”
his fingers slipped inside with no resistance, curling gently, stroking that soft spot with lazy precision while his thumb kept up the feather light circles. “feel how easily you take me? you’re doing so well already.”
he kissed the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the fading edge of a bruise on your throat, each press of his lips soft and lingering as if he could rewrite every mark with tenderness.
“i hate seeing you hurt like this,” he admitted between kisses, “but fuck if you don’t look beautiful all marked up and still so needy for more. my perfect girl… taking everything he gave you.”
slowly he shifted, laying you back against the pillows with careful hands, stripping his own shirt and jeans without ever fully leaving your space.
when he settled between your thighs he didn’t thrust in right away.
instead he rubbed the thick head of his cock through your soaked folds, coating himself, teasing your entrance with shallow presses that never quite gave you what you wanted.
every time your hips lifted he pulled back just enough, chuckling softly at the frustrated little sound you made.
“patience, beautiful,” he soothed, leaning down to kiss you deep and slow while one hand stroked your side, your breast, the curve of your waist like he was memorizing you all over again.
he nuzzled your jaw, voice dropping into that low affectionate tease. “you’re so wet for me already, my sweet girl. always so eager to be filled, aren’t you?”
when he finally sank into you it was inch by careful inch, giving you time to feel every stretch, every pulse of him.
a long low groan left his chest once he bottomed out, forehead resting against yours. “there we go… fuck, you feel perfect.” he stayed still for a moment, just breathing with you, hands roaming gently over every unmarked patch of skin he could find, praising you between soft kisses.
“my good girl. my beautiful girl… letting me take care of you.”
only then did he begin to move slow, deep rolls of his hips that never turned rough, each thrust full, angled to drag against the places that made your breath catch.
one hand stayed laced with yours against the pillow while the other slipped between you again, rubbing gentle steady circles over your clit in time with his rhythm.
“my perfect wife. let me hear you, baby. let me know how good it feels when i’m gentle with you.”
what happens when your assigned to shadow your industry idol and ex-boyfriend's current lover?
Fashion Designer ! Suguru Geto x Intern / Student ! Reader x Ex-Boyfriend ! Model ! Satoru Gojo
word count: 1.9K
header border thing by @/saradika-graphics
art by: @/lacampanule on twt
PREVIOUS: THREE
CW: no cheating. poly. fem!reader. miscommunication. breakups, depression, anxiety, insecurity and self deprecation. a little graphic? fainting, starving, workaholicism, etc.
cw by chapter. some may consider this bordering infidelity? Improper workplace etiquette. jealousy. sorry if theres grammar mistakes its been a long few days. EVERYONE is OVERLY insecure
—————-—————-—————-—————-—————-
As Satoru and Suguru left your view, you let yourself finally drown in all the thought’s that Satoru’s tsunami of a presence dawned on you.
You remember the day he broke it off from with you vividly. It was your sophomore year of college, and you were both back at home as it was nearing winter break; you’d think that now that exams were over you would have more time together, apparently not. It was around this time, a little earlier actually, that Satoru had been growing in fame.
You chalked up his lack of dedication to your relationship to the pressure of work and school piling up on him, but when it was the third date he’d missed because of a last minute gig or appearance he had to make, your rose colored glasses could only stay pink for so long. Still, you decided you’d hold it out just for him. What was that one saying? Through health and through sickness, through the ups and the lows…however it went, it resonated with you. One day, he’d make it far enough so that time would no longer be just a luxury for him, and for you too.
Oh how wrong you had been.
As you swirled the drink in your cup, you noticed your then boyfriend’s figure walking through the restaurant doors and solemnly approaching you. Your face lit up, only to be dimmed by his own expression.
“Satoru, did it not go—”
Before you could finish, the words that came out of his mouth cut your words, and your heart off.
“Y/N, I think—no, we have to break this off.”
You didn’t say “what,” nor did you ask if he was joking; because you knew Satoru Gojo would never take your feelings as a humorous pass-time. Yet, you stared at him, confused. Your mind reeled, trying to recount any and all of the moments that could have possibly led up to this very moment. Before you could drown yourself further in your silent journey down memory lane, Satoru’s pale hands rested above yours.
“Y/N.” his voice remained gentle. Never, ever, has Satoru raised his voice at you. Not once.
“I-”
“It’s not your fault, and it’s not because of you…”
You held your breath, upset that despite all the moments you’d shared, he still fed you the cliché breakup speech any man with a beating heart could come up with.
“I just…I have a dream and…that dream just isn’t—…feasible with an active love life and—.” Oh. There it is. You were in the way. His future was so grand that a small thing like you had no place in it. You were too small to hold his grand presence that, if you tried you’d both fall and he’d crack.
You withdrew your hands, his mouth parted while his fingers instinctively curled around the air in which your hands once were.
“Satoru that’s enough.” You didn’t want to hear anymore. You wouldn’t be living a lie if you didn’t have a truth to delude yourself away from.
His eyes wavered, upset that you wouldn’t even let him hold the rest of what time you had together in his own hands., but he supposed that’s what he deserved; and what he’d have to get used to from now on.
“I…want us to still be friends. Please.”
Please don’t leave your heart in my hands and walk away with it; I won’t know what to do with it. — Toru
Don’t walk far away with mine either, please.
You finally looked him, his eyes melting after finally being graced with the presence of your own.
“Of course, ‘Ru.” you had said it with the softest smile, the warmest gaze, in such a way that made Satoru felt like he wasn’t really breaking away from you, but rather taking a stretch that would let him grow as grand as possible.
—————-
The same couldn’t be said for you.
You were not being stretched, nor were you being broken off; you were taken and strangled by the feelings you once shared with the star-kissed man; feelings that have been returned straight to your bare hands, burned by the heat of the stars.
You tried to hold true to your promise, you really did, but when you saw Satoru’s stories, filled with his ever-bright smiles: a testament to the success that really did follow your absence, you just couldn’t take it anymore. He would check in here and there, as if trying to hold together a vase he knocked over himself before it could break. Now, every time you saw his profile your mouth was filled with a bitter taste.
One day, you deactivated your account, so that hen Satoru would ask around everyone would say the same thing. He assumed it was just a social media break.
When you re-opened your account, you blocked him, and before he could figure that out, you changed your entire profile.
To Satoru Gojo, Y/N L/N was a thief, and a liar.
He tried to reach out to you, only to be blocked everywhere. Hell, he even tried Pinned Interests DMs only to be blocked there too.
There, he’d done it. He lost his girlfriend, and then he lost his best friend too. Sure, he gets it. Most breakups go this way., but most breakups don’t make promises like that either. Most breakups don’t have honeyed eyes that hold you close. Most breakups ended in screaming matches, spilled drinks, or cold walkouts. You didn’t have that. He swallowed the ball in his throat, accepting his karma.
His heart hammered in his body, panic seizing him at the thought of you disappearing form his life forever. He felt bile climb up his throat while the rest of his body stuttered.
—————-
You hadn’t fared well after the breakup. You became insecure, a social recluse. Satoru’s words rung throughout your mind. “Not feasible…”
Everyday you felt small next to everyone, a belief that each step towards them was a tug backwards towards you for them. You stopped reaching out, you spent birthdays alone. You only went out if asked to, but stopped planning those of your own unless to reciprocate.
You felt as though you were releasing a dozen beautiful birds from a cage, but now you were all alone.
Mornings were spent staring at your wall. You busied yourself with classes, deciding you may as well become someone that doesn’t hold others back. Meals were skipped, believing that the hunger was a testament to your hard work—proof that you weren’t a weight to yourself, nor to others.
Nights could get scary, as everyone slept your thoughts found refuge. So, you threw yourself into work during those hours until exhaustion. At least then you could sleep without the little voices dancing in your mind before you could rest.
It took months, to unlearn all of this. And, you weren’t fully there yet. Sometimes it came back, but not as much as before. You were proud, for making it as far as you did; you were happy about it and that’s all that mattered to you.
—————-
When Satoru had seen you again, he felt as though the heavens had given him a chance. Yet, when he saw the fear spread along your face, he countered himself with the belief that it was perhaps hell instead and was laughing in his face.
Still, an opportunity was an opportunity and he never missed the chance to take one up. After all, that’s how he rose to where he is today.
—————-
It wasn’t long before your lunch break ended and you were walking back into the studio a little earlier than your mentor himself. Before he came back, you stored the file you had carefully placed away into your bag.
As you waited on the stool next to his desk, Suguru Geto was briskly walking through the long hall of the studio. Satoru, much to his dismay, had to once again retreat to his packed schedule and parted from Suguru.
In these brief moments of solitude, Suguru was doing something that would probably tickle an HR employee’s nightmares. Carefully, he had typed your name into Instagraham as though typing it too fast would draw your non-existent attention, and there it was. Your face had popped up as one of the first few options, a small “follows you” tag next to your name above a brief list of shared mutuals.
As he clicked it, he was disappointed by the locked symbol where your posts would’ve been. He clicked his tongue and rolled his lilac eyes, shoving his phone back into his pockets before he stepped foot back into his studio.
There you were, soft cheek resting on your hand as he rested you elbow on the island in front of you, occupied by your phone.
Suguru really didn’t know what to do with you. Sometimes, he wanted to use those muscles of his to scare you off, but Grandma Geto taught him better than that. Other times, he wanted to hold you in them. Sometimes, he wanted to swap his usual loungewear that he wore to the studio for designer slacks and cashmere sweaters as if to show you how you could never compete with him. Other times, he wanted to dress you up in the designer, wondering which fabrics would look best on you.
Like that, the first two weeks of your internship had passed. One day, Suguru would ruffle your hair and pinch your cheeks; others, you’d catch him glaring at you as he made subtle comments about him and Satoru.
One particular day, his words had been the wrong ones and sent you into a doozy. A flashback of your previous episodes surging back into you. He didn’t mean to, he really didn’t know.
“For most models, I always designed with my own hand and eye in mind. But, for Satoru it was different. With him, I designed with his soul, his body, everything. Truthfully, it felt as though we’d held hands sewn our souls together.”
You could only think about how you weren’t able to do the same—how much lesser you were and probably always will be.
His words meant no harm. Any other person would see it as the average person reminiscing their lover, but his words churned in your stomach, made the weight of your bones feel heavier than they were—dragging you deeper and deeper into the ground.
You were usually stronger than this; and the words shouldn’t have meant what they did to you, but your day had already started off rough and every little thing felt like a needle pricking you—drawing your blood agonizingly.
As you walked through the studio in your daze the weight finally dragged off of you—what’s usually your favorite part of letting go can easily become your least when your not in the safety of your couch or bed. As your heart beat reached the peak of the rollercoaster before it dropped, your legs shook and there you went.
Black clouded your vision as a ring danced in your ears, bracing for impact you were caught by a pair of warm arms. Blinking through your vision you could make out widened purple eyes, furrowed sleek eyebrows, and a curtain black silky hair shielding you from the outside world.
tysm to everyone for all their patience this past week. Sorry if this chapter’s a little underwhelming, but I wanted to elaborate on their past a bit more before I continue. Might even do sugu and toru only cameos as well, what do you guys think? I love digging into character psychology. I’ll try to get chapter 5 up soon!
yesterday, you and bruce had an argument. nothing major, just a slight one. and today he was apologizing to you— in his own way
“bruce! slow— fuuuuck, slow down!”
you’ll be damned if he slowed down. your mind was dizzy from bruce’s mouth practically leeched on your cunt, his tongue lapping your clit at a pace that made breathless gasps of his name leave your gaped lips, almost seeing stars in your vision.
his large arms were hooked under your legs and pulled you closer, making sure you didn’t move an inch and that your legs were still spread while he got to work
“im so sorry for the other day” bruce murmured, his tongue not stopping for a second and way too focused on how good you tasted. “wasn’t in my right mind, mm”
he moaned a low sound of pleasure from how good you tasted, burying his face in between your legs more and applying more pressure with both his tongue and the tip of his nose. that sent a buzz through your body, a moan immediately leaving your lips before you could control yourself
bruce’s blabbers didn’t stop and in fact, only grew with each second of suffocating his face in your pussy, apologizing while talking about how good you tasted at the same time.
and all your efforts of trying to at least be stubborn all went down the drain the moment your orgasm washed into his mouth, so intense it had you arching your back more to his mouth.
even as you soaked his chin and mouth, bruce didn't stop for a second and licked every drop of your mess with a victory smirk hiding between your legs
damn you, bruce wayne
—————————————————————————
and now back to your daily programmmm (ill admit my brain blanked when i was writing this)
A Protocore sends you and Sylus three years into the future, where you end up crammed in a closet learning things you were never meant to know.🩷🩷
Caleb's part here Xavier's part here Zayne part here
CW: Smut. P in V. Oral. 🔞MDNI🔞
You were not thinking about it. You were not staring at your ceiling thinking about the N109 Zone or the man who ran it. That was not what was happening. What was happening was that you were resting. Quietly. In your own apartment, which you had every right to be in, doing absolutely nothing that involved Sylus in any way whatsoever.
Work had filled most of your time this week. Back to back missions, three cases that bled into each other, a Thursday briefing that ate the entire day. The Association had kept you moving and moving was good. Moving meant you weren't sitting still long enough to think about things you should not be thinking about.
The problem was tonight there was nothing to move toward.
You'd slowed down. Today's mission had seen to that —a clean operation until it wasn't, until you'd caught the edge of something you'd moved a second too late to avoid and ended up limping through the debrief trying to look unbothered. The Association medic had looked at your leg, told you to rest it, and now you were on your couch. Leg up. Thinking.
You'd worked with Sylus enough times to understand how your arrangement functioned, he had access to things the Association didn't and in exchange you'd give him information he found useful. You showed up. He had what you needed. You left. Repeat.
That part made sense.
What didn't was the rest of it. The part where two weeks of silence felt different now. He was the most wanted name on the Association's list and you were a Deepspace Hunter. The math on that was simple.
So no, you did not miss Sylus.
Your leg throbbed. You shifted your weight and stared at the ceiling again, trying to have an internal conversation about professional conduct and the importance of clear boundaries and then your phone lit up.
You grabbed it so fast you nearly put your elbow through the side table.
Sylus: I heard your mission went sideways. How's the leg?
You: How did you...you know what. Never mind.
Sylus: Mephisto was nearby.
You: You sent your bird to check on me?
Sylus: Mephisto goes where he likes.
You: 🙄🙄
Sylus: He said you were limping.
You: Tell Mephisto to mind his own business.
Sylus: He'll be devastated.
You: Good.
Sylus: I have something that might interest you. Have you ever seen a white Protocore?
You: White Protocores don't exist. Whatever you have is a fake.
Sylus: The seller pulled it from an anomalous Wanderer outside the N109 zone.
You sat with that for a moment.
Sylus: Come see it yourself. You'll want to.
The color alone was impossible by every known framework for protocore classification. Which meant either the seller was running an extremely convincing con, or something had come out of that wanderer that nobody had a category for yet.
Your feet were already on the floor.
You: Don't let anyone touch it. Give me 20 min.
Sylus: No need to rush, kitten. Look out your window.
You crossed the room in four steps and pulled the curtain back an inch.
Black car at the curb. No-parking sign directly above it, ignored completely. Sylus leaned against the driver's side door looking up at exactly the moment you looked down.
He raised his phone.
Sylus: Five minutes. Or I decide the leg is worse than you're letting on and leave.
You let the curtain fall.
"Not a chance," you said, to nobody.
You changed fast —jeans, jacket, hair up, sidearm checked —and ran down the stairs in a time your leg was going to remind you about tomorrow. The night air outside hit you cool and sharp.
Sylus hadn't moved from the car. He looked at you coming through the door, down the steps toward him and said nothing until you were close enough to hear.
"You ran down the stairs?"
"I want to see that Protocore."
"Of course." His mouth curved and there it was, the look that sat underneath the smirk, the one you'd filed away and kept finding again. "That's the only reason."
"It is"
"Then why are you still standing here instead of getting in the car."
You pulled the passenger door open yourself before he could do it, which seemed to amuse him. The interior smelled like expensive leather and him.
He slid in beside you, started the engine— the sound of it vibrating through the seat— and pulled away from the curb without looking at the road for the first two seconds because he was still looking at you.
"My people investigated as much as they could." He shifted gears, smooth and unhurried. "Which is why I need someone who knows what a forgery looks like at that level."
"But you also have people for that"
"I have people for a lot of things." He glanced over. Red eyes catching the streetlight for just a second. "None of them are you."
You looked out the window " Is that a compliment?"
"I didn't say it was."
The N109 Zone came up around you, neon and dark in equal measure, a place that operated on entirely different rules than Linkon City. You'd been here more times than your Association file strictly reflected. You knew the streets. You knew the hierarchy. You knew which doors opened for which names. All thanks to the man sitting in the driver's seat.
You had no idea what a white Protocore was. You had no idea what tonight was going to become but you had a feeling you were about to find out.
His office, you knew this place better than your own.
The reinforced doors. The security overrides, which ones were decoys and which ones actually mattered. The hidden safes, three of them, one behind a painting ugly enough to be forgettable on purpose. You'd learned all of it slowly, standing close enough and quiet enough that he forgot you were paying attention.
The White Protocore sat inside a glass tube at the center of his desk, and you hadn't moved in two minutes.
It looked like the others at first. Same crystalline structure, same geometry. But every other Protocore carried color, blue, gold, pink, red, green and purple. This one just a faint pulse, soft milky light spilling across the dark wood. Strange and uncategorizable.
Sylus wasn't looking at the protocore, he was watching you. His eyes were tracing the curve of your jaw, the focus on your expression. In his world of cutthroat deals and rare power, you were his white protocore.
The back of your neck went warm but you kept your eyes on the protocore.
"Can I touch it?"
A low sound from his chest. Not quite a laugh. "I don't recall ever saying no to you, sweetie."
His fingers worked the glass tube open and lifted the protocore into his palm.
You reached for it.
Your fingers brushed his skin and the protocore sat between your hands for a single second and then —
No warning. Just white light swallowing the desk and the dark walls. Then the wind hit, not from outside but from inside the protocore, like a vacuum pulling in with a force that emptied your lungs before you could inhale. The sound of it was scary, like space tearing apart. The air collapsed into that small white light in your hands, the floor dropped away and you were falling without falling.
The first thing that came back was pressure.
Arms locked across your chest and shoulders, tight enough your ribs couldn't move. Something solid at your back. You tried to breathe. Couldn't. Tried again.
"Sy" Barely a whisper. "Can't— brea—"
His arms dropped instantly.
He was on his feet before you inhaled, one fluid motion, hand going to his gun, eyes sweeping the room. No targets. His hand dropped, but his shoulders stayed coiled, still reading the space.
You sat up. Pulled air in slowly until your chest stopped aching.
"Where are we?"
He didn't answer. Still looking.
You looked too.
Dark wood, heavy draping, expensive things chosen for use as much as looks. It felt like his place at first glance.
In the corner was a record player, vinyl turning silently, needle down, producing nothing. Beside it a bookshelf climbed straight to the ceiling, a ladder running the whole length on a track.
On the low table in front of the couch sat two glasses of wine. One half empty. Whoever had been drinking had stepped away expecting to come right back.
You stood slowly.
Sylus had crossed to the far side of the room. His head was angled down at something on the shelf.
You crossed after him, boots loud on the floor.
"Sylus."
He didn't turn.
You came up beside him, followed his eyeline, and stopped.
A photograph. You in your Hunter uniform with a different insignia of a rank you didn't hold yet, holding a trophy. Your smile in the photo was wide open and unguarded, a version of happy you didn't wear on your face very often.
There was a small engraved plaque at the bottom of the frame.
Hunter of the Year — November 2051.
You picked up a magazine beside it.
Your face on the cover. Same uniform, same trophy, same smile. Hunter of the Year in bold letters across the top. Small print in the corner, neat and impossible.
November 2051.
You set it down carefully.
Behind you, Sylus had already moved to the mahogany desk near the windows. Papers shifted. Folders opened and closed. His hands stayed busy and his face gave nothing.
"Sylus." You kept your voice steady. "Look at me."
He didn't.
You crossed to the desk and placedd your hand flat over the document he was holding.
"Three years," he was staring at nothing in particular, whatever was running behind his eyes not making it to his face.
You looked at the half empty glass. The record player still turning in silence. A coat hanging by the door.
"Sylus."
"I see it."
"That's your coat."
"This is one of my safehouses"
"Since when do you keep pictures of the Association Hunters? Last I checked you called us glorified errand runners."
A slow smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth "I've got a taste for beautiful art, sweetie, and maybe I like having a permanent reminder of my favorite headache."
"I'm not your—"
"Someone's coming." his eyes sharpened, hand closing around your wrist.
"Who—"
"This way." He was already pulling you toward a closet.
He yanked the door open expecting to see his weapons.
There were no rifles or guns, just stacked piles of the same magazine you saw earlier, floor to ceiling, your face on every cover, hundreds of them.
"Do you also collect magazines?" you asked, fighting to keep your voice down as he shoved you into the tiny space and squeezed in after you, pulling the door shut. "This is a lot of me for one closet"
"If you keep talking you're going to get us both caught."
You bit down on a laugh and then it died in your throat completely.
The door clicked open and Sylus stepped into the room.
You gasped, turning on instinct to check whether he had somehow warped himself out there with his Evol, but he hadn't moved an inch.
Future Sylus's hair was a mess, like he'd run his hands over it more than once, and a bit longer than you were used to. His shirt was wrinkled, streaked faintly with mud, stretched tight across shoulders that looked broader than the ones currently pressed beside you in the dark. There was more color in his face too, like time had put some weather on him. He paced the length of the room like a caged animal, fists clenching and releasing at his sides. He stopped mid stride, head turning like he'd caught a sound in the room, inside Sylus's hand shot out, closing around your wrist as one finger came up to his lips, a silent order to stay quiet.
Then the door opened again, and future you walked in.
She looked pissed. Shirt torn at the shoulder, soot and dirt ground into the fabric, but her eyes were lit up with anger.
She was you, there was no doubt about that, but she was different. There was more color to her face too and her body was softer in some places, sturdier in others.
"You had no right, Sylus!" She slammed the door behind her "I can still fight! I had that under control!"
"You almost got killed" Sylus didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. Whatever was in his tone was cold enough to make the room feel smaller.
"That's a fucking lie and you know it!" She crossed the space between them fast, jabbing a finger into his chest. "I'm not some damsel for you to decide when I fight and when I don't!"
Beside you Sylus dipped his head, lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Different year. Same feisty kitten." His breath felt warm against your neck.
"Shut up, Sylus. Shut up" you hissed, elbowing him in the ribs. He huffed out a quiet laugh like you'd done him a favor.
Outside, the fight kept climbing.
"You think you can pull me off a fight and take me wherever you want?" her voice bounced off the ceiling. "I'm a Hunter, Sylus. I'm not joining Onychinus. Not now, not ever, no matter how many times you bring it up."
"You've made that perfectly clear."
"It's my job, Sy"
"Not anymore, it isn't."
"You don't get to make that call for me!"
He didn't answer with words. He started walking her back instead, one slow step for every one she gave up without notice, until her spine hit the ladder bolted to the bookshelf.
She was out of room. He planted a hand on either side of her head against the wooden rungs, boxing her in.
"Are you sure about that, sweetie?" Not a question so much as a challenge.
"We don't even know ye— get out of my space!"
"Make me."
Their faces were a breath apart now, close enough that the argument had stopped sounding like an argument. Through the door you felt the air on the other side change, something thick and charged, like the silence that comes right before either a fight or something worse. Your face went hot just watching it, the line between the two of them hating each other and wanting each other collapsing.
"I hate you"
"Good," he murmured so close to her lips. "You can hate me all you want, Mrs. Qin. You're still wearing my ring."
He closed the distance, hand curling around the back of her neck, and kissed her like it was the only thing he had left to say.
Beside you Sylus went completely still.
Future you made a sound against his lips that started as surprise and turned into a moan, her hands coming up to grip his shirt before she dropped them and grabbed him instead.
You turned to look at Sylus, his eyes dropped to yours and a slow smile moved across his mouth and your stomach went with it.
His shirt hit the floor first, hers followed.
Future Sylus lifted her off the floor and settled her onto a rung of the ladder. She grabbed the rung above her head to steady herself and he stepped back just far enough to look at her, taking his time with it while she sat there catching her breath.
Then he reached for her boots.
He pulled the first one off, fingers working the laces without looking down, eyes on her face the whole time. The second followed. He set his hands on her knees and dragged them up her thighs and she made a small sound before he'd even done anything.
His mouth found her collarbone. Moved down. The thin lace of her bra was still on and he put his lips over it anyway, tongue pressing through the fabric against her nipple, and her head went back against the ladder. He bit down through the fabric, and the sound she made was immediate.
You pressed your hand to your mouth.
He did it again on the other side, slower, and her knuckles went white on the rung above her while her hips moved forward looking for something that wasn't there yet.
He kissed down her sternum. The soft skin below her ribs. His mouth dragged across her stomach and she was already breathing in pieces by the time his hands moved to her pants. He worked them down her legs and off, then dropped to his knees.
You made a small sound against your hand.
He was now on his knees between her thighs, hands finding the backs of them, hooking her legs one at a time over his shoulders. The muscles in his arms and neck shifted with the motion and he settled her weight there easily, like he'd done it before. Because in three years he had. Many times. You could tell by how she exhaled when her legs landed on his shoulders— relief. Her whole body recognizing what was coming.
He looked up at her.
Hands spread across her inner thighs, holding them open, red eyes on her face, waiting.
She looked down at him.
Her chest was moving fast. Her lip caught between her teeth. She held his gaze for one long second and then, quietly, barely enough to hear—
"Please."
His fingers found her thong and pulled it to the side.
One hand went to his hair, pulling him in, the other stayed above her head. Her nipples were hard against the wet lace.
Every sound came through clearly. His mouth on her wet pussy. Her breathing. Your face burned. Other things burned. You pressed your thighs together and it didn't help because the sounds didn't stop.
You turned to look at him again.
His right eye burned red in the dark closet. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that wasn't steady.
"Sy—"
"Don't stop." Future you's voice came through the door, breathless. "Fuck, Sy...just like that."
Your face went hotter and you faced forward again.
Sylus exhaled against your hair. His hand was still on your wrist. Neither of you had moved it.
He made a sound against her and the sounds that followed were louder and wetter.
Your fingers found the front of his jacket and held on.
"Is this affecting you?" he asked, right against your ear.
"Shut up."
Then her voice again, completely gone, nothing held back. "Yes — baby, my clit, suck on it — fuck yes—"
His hand tightened on your wrist. Hard.
"Sylus." Your voice came out dry. Broken in the middle. Not what you'd intended at all.
"I know," he said.
Future you screamed his name. The closet pressed in from all sides.
"We need to leave"
"Yes," he agreed, but neither of you moved.
Her thighs locked around his shoulders and shook. He stayed until the last tremor left her. Then he stood, chest glistening, and his hands dropped to the button of his trousers.
Popped it open. Pushed the fabric down his thighs.
The outline of his cock through the fabric of his underwear made your throat close. The tip already wet, a dark circle spreading through the cotton, and his fingers found the waistband—
A large hand came down over your eyes.
"Hey—" You grabbed his wrist. His fingers didn't move.
"If you want a show," his voice low at your ear, "you only have to ask."
"Move your hand." You twisted your head. His palm stayed exactly where it was.
Dark behind it.
Then the sounds hit again.
Slap.
Slap.
Slap.
Skin against skin. Her voice breaking between each impact, the sounds coming in waves that your brain immediately started filling in visuals for and that was so much worse than if he'd just let you look.
"You're burning up," he said against your ear, not in concern but in pure mockery.
Your thighs pressed together hard. "I swear to god—"
His fingers spread open.
She was still on the ladder. Legs locked around his waist, both of them flushed, sweat catching the light. He had one hand on her hair, holding her close to his face, their mouths almost touching, breathing the same air while his hips rolled forward in deep slow drives that shook her whole body. He was saying something to her, too low to carry, but whatever it was kept fracturing her expression every time he said it.
Then his voice came through clearly.
"Look at me." Steady, even over everything else. "Tell me who you belong to."
Her tongue dragged across his upper lip. "Yours—" Her head dropped back. "Ah— yours, Sy, I'm yours—"
Your underwear felt damp and your clit was pulsing with a persistence you were doing your very best to ignore.
"Do you really think," Sylus whispered against your temple, "it takes us three whole years to get here?"
"I don't—"
Future Sylus pulled back, his tongue dragged slow up her throat while she panted against his shoulder. "You taste different today."
"Because you're—" she gasped, "—you're driving me insane—"
"That's not it." He pushed forward, one deep thrust that tore a cry out of her "You shouldn't be taking field hits right now." A beat. "Not when you're carrying my child."
The closet went cold.
Your jaw dropped. Hers did too.
Pregnant.
The argument. Him yanking her off the mission. All of it clicked into place at once. She was carrying his baby. In three years, you'd be carrying his kid.
Your knees went out from under you.
Your foot caught on something hard as you stumbled back. A stack of magazines toppled with the movement, and everything blurred, sound, vision, all of it going soft at the edges.
"—watch—"
Crimson light cracked through the dark. Sylus's Evol flared, and every falling magazine froze mid air.
The energy didn't stay contained. It rolled out through the closet door and everything on the other side went dead silent.
The sounds stopped. All of them. What replaced the noise had weight to it.
Sylus's eyes were locked on the door. Jaw tight. Not a muscle moving.
"Pathetic," future Sylus said, clear, not a trace of what he'd been doing thirty seconds earlier, "a top tier Hunter and the leader of Onychinus, hiding like toddlers playing hide and seek."
Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.
"Sylus?" Future you, breathless, confused. "Who are you talking—"
"I know you're in there." He sounded almost bored. "You're both breathing like horny teenagers."
Beside you, Sylus exhaled through his nose and reached out to push the door open. "I could say the same"
He stepped out first, glanced down at his sleeve, and flicked off a piece of lint that probably wasn't there. Then he reached back, hooked an arm around your waist, and pulled you out with him. You stumbled onto the polished floor, face burning hot enough to set the room on fire.
Future Sylus had future you pulled against him, her bra strap slipping off one shoulder, hair a wreck, and she was staring between the two of you with her mouth hanging open.
"Is that—" Her eyes went from you to the Sylus standing next to you and back again. "Are we— are they—"
Sylus looked at his future self. Future Sylus looked right back.
Three seconds of silence passed between them, and somehow it felt like an entire conversation.
"You look good," Sylus said.
"And you are interrupting," future Sylus said, arm tightening around future you.
You stopped watching the two of them and scanned the room instead.
There. The White Protocore, sitting beside the wine bottle, pulsing soft in the low light.
You moved before anyone could stop you, crossed the room, and closed your hand around it.
Sylus was right behind you. His hand landed over yours, the stone was caught between your palms again, warm and humming under your skin. He tossed one last glance over his shoulder at his future self and smirked.
White swallowed everything. The floor vanished, and then thud.
The familiar light of his office in the N109 Zone.
You were flat on your back, staring at the ceiling, just breathing.
The Protocore rolled out of your hand and knocked against the leg of his desk before it dissolved into dust.
Sylus sat up, forearm braced on a raised knee, and looked down at you, smirk already back in place. His gaze dropped to your mouth, your throat, the way your chest was still heaving.
"So," he said, leaning over you with one hand braced on the floor beside your head. "A baby."
You threw an arm over your face. "I will shoot you again."
"I'm just thinking ahead." His fingers found a strand of your hair "Sounds like we've got a lot of work to do in the next three years, Miss hunter."
The night had been particularly calm. You had been sitting on your balcony, pensive, for most of the night. In your meditative state, you had watched the full moon and noticed that the city had been uncharacteristically quiet. Your legs had begun to hurt after all that time, and you forced your body to walk to bed. At this time, you were grateful for having a balcony attached to your room.
Lying there in the dark, your mind was blank as you looked at the ceiling. You had left the door of your balcony open, and the curtains danced as the night air blew into them quietly. If your eyes had been closed and your senses a little less perceptive, you would not have noticed the shadow that rose from the door. You rose from your bed hurriedly, preparing for a fight. A voice erupts from the corner of your room.
"Y/N."
You instantly recognized The Batman's voice. Anger sparked, your body tensed as the emotion bubbled up inside you.
"You've been ignoring my calls ", the vigilante continues.
"I have," you say, gritting your teeth.
You had missed three of his calls in two weeks. In any other relationship, this would hardly mean anytime, but for The Batman, anyone should count themselves lucky to even get a single call. In your previous pondering, you had tried to imagine what he had been up to when he called you. The first call probably happened when The Bat was coming back on patrol, early in the morning, hoping to catch you as you woke up. The second was most definitely at a gala, as you knew an auction was taking place at Wayne Manor to restore a district ravaged by a rogue incident. The third had been just a few hours ago, in the early hours of the night. This attempt had left you clueless, as Bruce never called when Batman was on duty.
"You haven't contacted me."
"I hope you're getting somewhere with this. I'm not here to play detectives."
"You've been reckless on your missions."
"Ah!", you exclaim, chocked of his audacity. "You're unbelievable. I have never been reckless. You of all people should know that. You're just angry you're not there to tell me what to do."
His face twitches in frustration as he steps away from the moonlight. The shadows of your room darken his features.
"Is that what this is about? You want to lecture me about me being controlling?"
He sounds almost dismissive. You fume, internally cursing his condescension. Refusing to give in to his enraging interrogation tactics, you take a second to collect yourself.
"I am done with your bullshit, Bruce."
You straighten your back. Eyes glowing and chest puffed up, you glare into his eyes.
"Get out of my house."
Of course, he does not move at all. When he speaks again, he seems to have changed his strategy. His voice has softened.
"Why are you mad at me, Y/N. "
You were not stupid; you knew that he would never leave without getting an answer from you. You fumed, angry at his intrusion into your personal space and demanding tone. You felt trapped and mad at having to explain yourself to him. You stayed still and quiet.
"What did I do, Y/N?", he repeats.
"Fuck you. Get out. I am tired, Bruce."
Your tears are building up in your eyes. The storm inside of you feels uncontrollable, but your exasperation pushes you to speak.
" I know how important this all is to you", you say, gesturing to the outside world. "It's important to me too, I think you forget that. You act like you have to pick between this city and me. One or the other. This is not true. I don't know if you believe that because of your distorted self-sacrificial sense of duty or if you just don't care about me enough. Whatever it is, I don't care, I am done, Bruce."
Only for a second, you feel relieved of the weight on your chest, and your anger falls a little. Unfortunately for you, the emotional vulnerability makes you queasy. You wrap your arms around your chest and look away. Beat, you let yourself cry.
His face stays almost emotionless, but a slight downward crease on his mouth indicates a new, unrecognizable emotion. His gaze follows the tear running down your cheek. Staying close, he seems to gather his thoughts as he removes his right glove. Once he is done, his left hand hesitantly reaches your chin, and his bare hand wipes the tear away.
"I am sorry I’ve hurt you, my love.”
The vulnerability seems to come from a great effort, but it is not sufficient to soothe you. You stay quiet, sadness and hurt still painted over your features.
" Bruce... That’s just not enough.”
He swallows, his gloved hand caressing your chin while the other cups the crook of your neck, fingers extending to tangle between the locks of your hair.
" I know. I am trying. I've been busy. Distant. For that, I am sorry."
You lower your gaze. You had always known that the man standing before you was a man of action, not words. You understood and respected this fault in him, but tonight, this grace could not be extended any longer. If Bruce wanted to win you back, he had to work for it.
You tilt your head into his hand, encouraging his apology. As you look up at him, you realize the power you hold over him. His eyes are fixated on you, and his lips are held tightly shut. He waits for your next move. You bat your lashes.
"I need you more than you know, Y/N."
His walls are starting to come undone as your begin sadness and anger shift into something different. You back down, knees pressed together on the bed, hands behind you. Assuming this submissive position, your gaze is steady and confident, almost provocative. Your calm has come; it is his turn to do the work.
"Then what will you do, Batman?"
He exhales quickly; his chest is tight. He looks away in an attempt to stay collected, but the tightness of his pants gives him away. When he looks at you again, his eyes are dark. Within a matter of seconds, the hands that stroke your face began to shift. His hand pinches your chin, forcing you to look at him. A small grin forms on his face.
"Have I neglected my girl?"
A finger roughly caresses your lower lip and forces it open before he kisses you. His tongue penetrates your mouth in hungry and possessive motions. His gloved hand lets go of your chin to slither under your nightgown to grab your breast. The feel of the leather against your nipples turns you on, and you hold yourself from moaning in his mouth. You reach out to put your arms around him, an act that makes you realize that he is still in his uniform. He seemingly realizes at the same time, as he unhappily pulls himself away from you to remove his cowl. He grabs the back of his mask and, with one hand, yanks it off, letting it fall to the floor. His dark hair is messy and sweaty. His face is handsome, rough and hard, a small cut glows red on his upper cheek. You lean back to admire his stature as he removes his cape.
You chuckle playfully. " You could have kept everything on, you know?"
He growls, still looking away, as you crawl on your hands and knees towards him to help him undress.
“I’ll fuck you with the mask on another time, sweetheart.”
Your pussy clenches at his words, making you quiet as you undo his belt. You do your best to ignore the massive bulge in his pants. You religiously watch him pull off his shirt. His large torso is decorated by his defined abs and wide pecs. His large, muscular arms flex, exposing pulsing veins. You bite your swollen lips as Bruce pulls the rest of his gear away. Now, Bruce Wayne stands proudly in front of you, his massive, hard dick finally uncovered. His eyes are now set on you.
"Your turn."
He doesn't leave you a second to process his words as his hands sneak around you, pulling your gown off your body. Once you are exposed, he grabs your ass to lift you over his thigh as he sits down on the bed. The contact of his thigh against your pussy makes you shiver. You feel a hand, pulling your hair, holding the back of your head steadily. His right hand tightens around your neck, making you press down on him. You close your eyes and press your lips together to hold in a moan. He chuckles darkly.
"You like that, huh?"
You look away, and a blush stains your cheek. Your chest feels tight, and you refuse to respond to his taunts. He pushes his thigh to glide it along your underwear. You make a struggling, almost wounded sound as you press your lips together.
" If you ever hold yourself back from me again, I'll make sure they hear you in Metropolis."
You shakily nod your head, squeezing your thighs around his.
"Good girl", he praises.
Your head is buzzing, and your heart is pumping. You allow him to move you around like a rag doll. He flips you on your stomach.
Cheek squished to the sheets, your hair messily lies around you, and your body lies flat on the bed. You hear the sheets rustle as Bruce mounts you. His thick thighs squeeze yours, and his weight crushes you. He grabs your arms and secures them behind you with one hand. You sing out a moan as you feel him drag the tip of his cock up and down your underwear. Your sounds are intoxicating for Bruce; he pulls your hair to you to meet his icy blue eyes. The look on you undone beneath him, makes his cock twitch. He leans in and sloppily kisses your mouth before his deep voice tickles your ear.
" Unless you tell me you can't handle it, I'm going to fuck you right here, right now."
This time, you cannot hold back the moan, you pull against his hand tangled in your hair in an attempt to kiss him once more. Your attempt fails as you are unable to break free from his grip. His tone lowers, and he whispers.
" Use that pretty mouth."
His praise sends an electric shock in your body. You grind your ass against his thickness and answer slowly.
"Please, Bruce... fuck me."
Bruce doesn't wait any longer; he lets go of your arms to rip your underwear. His forceful movement makes your body bounce, and you hear the seams of your panties tear. Bruce throws your destroyed panties in front of you; he wants you to know what he's about to do to you. You gasp quietly, blushing. He is too focused on your glistening pussy to pay attention to your display of shyness. He slips a finger inside you. It's big and rough, and the position you are in makes you feel tighter than usual. You moan and close your eyes. He pumps in and out of you, your slick coating his finger. Much to your demise, he removes his finger and spreads your juices along the length of his dick with long strokes of his hand.
“That’s all you get.”
He aligns himself with your entrance and buries himself in you tortuously slowly. He hums in pleasure, feeling your tight walls around him. Your insides burn, and you cry out, clawing at the bedsheets. He places his hands on your wrists, holding them in place, and grinds into you. The stroke is hard and rough, and you whimper.
"Are you ok, sweet?" he asks.
You weakly nod, your face clenched from the experienced sensations. He moves backwards. Bruce exhales deeply.
“Oh god.”
You hear a quiet chuckle behind you. He fucks into you sharply. You didn't expect it. The whimpers you let out make him grunt. He rocks back and forth. His cock is long and reaches parts of you that feel divine. Still fucking into you, he lies down on you, the pressure of his manly body feels exhilarating. He places his arm around your neck, slightly choking you, but also allowing you to lay your head on his forearm. You relax into his embrace, crying out in a pathetic voice. He sloppily kissed your collarbone. The feeling of him inside you consumes you like a fire; you clench a little bit more with each stroke. Bruce's head falls a little, and he groans into your shoulder.
"Fuck, baby."
You feel yourself contract, and your chest is pounding. Feeling you get closer to the edge, Bruce's eyes fixate on you, watching your face tense up in pure pleasure. Your limbs turn to mush, and you plead submissively.
"Oh.... please,please,please,please,pl-"
This unlocks something twisted in the Dark Knight's chest. Bruce bites your neck and fucks into you savagely. Your orgasm comes instantly. Your face contorts as you scream out, your fingers grabbing onto the bedsheets.
"That's it, baby. So fucking good."
You shake and fight against him, overwhelmed by pleasure. Bruce slows down, allowing you to ride out your orgasm. As it slowly fades, you close your eyes and feel your legs twitching from the intensity. Bruce lets go of your hands and pushes himself out, your pussy gliding off his cock. You whimper quietly, and Bruce kisses your bruised neck. He sits next to you, his back supported by your large pillows, and he gently pulls you into his arms. With your head now on his chest, his controlled breathing grounds you as he soothingly rubs your back. You listen to the sound of cars from outside and feel the cool breeze emanating from the window on your naked body. You enjoy the peace as Bruce allows you to recover.
Suddenly, a thought hits you. Your body jerks up, startling Bruce out of his peaceful state.
" You didn't finish!"
You look at him with wide eyes, embarrassed by this late realization. His worried expression loosens, and he shuffles discreetly in an attempt to hide his erection.
"It's to show you how sorry I am, honey", he says, laughing.
You stay silent, unsure of what to do. He doesn't let you think too long as he continues, more seriously, his voice gruffy but steady.
"I am, Y/N. I am so sorry," he says, "I am so... afraid of losing you."
You listen, and your heart pounds in your chest. You're unsure if his penis or the serious discussion worries you more. Your mind settles on the latter. You want to forgive him on the spot and kiss him until the morning, but you restrain yourself painfully. Placing a hand on his cheek, you lean towards him to put your forehead on his. His blue eyes look into yours, and you both savor the intimacy for only a second. You clear your throat, and when you speak, your voice sounds like a prayer.
"People are there for you, Bruce. Dick, Cass, Tim, Steph, Duke... Jason and Damian, when they want to..."
You laugh a little. A smile, rare, usually reserved for his children, draws itself on Bruce's face. You admire his face and continue speaking.
"I'm there for you, but I need you to be there for me, to talk to me. You can't push me away and come back to me only when it feels safe. "
When you quiet down, Bruce runs his index down pensively from your shoulder down your arm. He stays quiet, unreadable, while he plays with your hair. After a comfortable silence, he answers you.
"Whatever you need me to do, I'll do it."
When his eyes meet yours again, you can almost touch the veneration he has for you. His eyes almost look through you, and you feel so close to him. You take a deep breath in, satisfied with his answer. The conversation is done, and you feel lighter. You pull back and tilt your head seductively and mischievously eye his muscular body.
"Whatever I want?" you purr out.
Bruce snickers at your answer, content with the conclusion of the discussion.
"Oh, you dirty girl", he playfully mumbles.
He grabs you, lifting you over him, so you're able to straddle his waist comfortably.
"You can tell me whatever you want, but only when I'm done with you."
You shake a little in anticipation, feeling your pussy warm up again.
"And I doubt you'll be able to say anything, once I'm done with you."
summary: you miss bruce while he’s away on business, so you send him a little reminder of what’s waiting for him at home.
tags: sexting, sending nudes, teasing, dirty talk, phone/video call sex, mutual masturbation, needy!bruce, soft dom!reader, no y/n
wc: 2.1k
a/n: dedicating this one to @bat2nsignia, the biggest bruce freak i know 😛 ily, and i hope you like it!
Bruce's phone vibrates against the conference table while Lucius leads the latest in a series of investor meetings. Your name lights up the screen, and he knows he shouldn't check it. Lucius is counting on his input before Wayne Enterprises moves forward with any agreements, so he should be paying attention. But he's only human.
You: missing you
He types back quickly under the table.
Bruce: I miss you too. I should be home tomorrow night.
He sets the phone back down and tries to refocus, but immediately reaches for it when it buzzes again.
You: [Attachment: 1 photo]
He opens it casually, expecting a photo of whatever you've been up to—a meal, a new purchase, something mundane.
What he gets instead makes his breath catch.
You're curled up in his bed with the sheets pooled around your waist, wearing one of his dress shirts. The top buttons are undone, revealing enough skin for him to know there's nothing underneath.
Bruce: You're going to be the death of me.
You: and what a way to go that would be ;)
You: wanted you to see what you're missing
You: how's your meeting going?
He adjusts himself under the table, grateful that every investor in the room is focused on the presentation.
Bruce: It was going fine.
You: was?
He needs to stop responding. He has twenty people around him. This is wildly inappropriate.
And yet...
Bruce: Send me another.
The three dots appear immediately. You were waiting for him to ask.
You: what do you want to see?
Bruce: You know what I want.
You: i really don't... you'll have to be more specific
His jaw tightens. Of course you're going to make him spell it out.
Bruce: Less shirt. More you.
You: that's better
You: give me a minute
That minute feels like an eternity. Bruce has stopped registering what Lucius is saying altogether, his mind stuck on you: bare legs tangled in the sheets, your body warm and soft on his side of the bed.
His phone buzzes.
You: [Attachment: 1 photo]
The shirt is completely unbuttoned now, falling open to reveal your bare chest. Your free hand rests low on your stomach, fingertips grazing the waistband of your black lace underwear where it peeks out above the sheets. Bruce has to physically stop himself from making a sound.
Bruce: Fuck.
You: that good?
Bruce: Don’t be so pleased with yourself.
You: can't help it <3
Bruce: Clearly.
You: tell me what you’re thinking about right now
Bruce glances down at the increasingly uncomfortable fit of his pants.
Bruce: What do you think?
You: i think i want you to say it
Bruce: You. In our bed. No clothes.
You: what else?
Bruce: Your hand. Where mine should be.
You: just where mine is?
He swallows. He's still painfully aware of where he is, even if that awareness has done very little to restrain him.
Bruce: Not just there. Everywhere.
The typing indicator appears, disappears, then appears again.
You: i wish you were here
Bruce: Tomorrow night. I promise.
You: that’s so far away though
Bruce: I know.
You: i can't stop thinking about you
His pulse quickens.
Bruce: Yeah?
You: mhm. especially about the morning before you left...
You: what you did to me before your flight
He remembers. He'd woken you up with his mouth between your legs and made you come twice before he'd even properly kissed you good morning. You'd barely been able to walk him to the car.
You: i've been trying to recreate it but it's not the same :(
Picturing you alone in bed, touching yourself and chasing the same release he’d given you, makes him shift in his seat again.
You: want to help?
Bruce: I'm still in this meeting.
You: so leave.
Bruce starts typing out a response, something about how he can’t simply walk out in the middle of—
You: [Attachment: 1 photo]
In this one, the shirt's gone entirely. The phone's angled down over your body as you lie back against the pillows with your free hand slipped between your legs. The black lace he glimpsed earlier is fully visible now, darkened enough at the center to make his mouth go dry.
“Mr. Wayne?”
Bruce’s head snaps up. Every person at the table is looking at him.
The investor seated across the room gestures to the figures displayed on the screen. "Your thoughts?"
Bruce clears his throat, schooling his expression into something neutral. "I trust Lucius's judgment on this. I agree with his assessment."
Lucius raises an eyebrow but says nothing. The investors appear satisfied and return their attention back to the presentation.
Bruce looks back down at his phone.
Bruce: You need to stop.
You: do you really want me to stop?
He hesitates, but only for a second.
Bruce: No.
You: then don’t tell me to stop
You: tell me what you want instead
Bruce: More.
You: more what?
Bruce: Everything. I want to see everything.
You: ask nicely.
A breathless laugh nearly escapes him. You really have no intention of making this easy for him.
Bruce: Please show me.
Then, just to indulge you, he adds:
Bruce: I need to see you.
For a while, there's no response. Then his phone buzzes again.
You: [Attachment: 1 video]
He stares at the thumbnail. He could watch it on silent. No one would know. His thumb moves toward the play button—
You: don't you dare watch that on mute.
He freezes.
You: i want you to hear every second of it
You: so i suggest you find somewhere private
Before he can respond, his phone begins to vibrate with a call and your name fills the screen beneath the FaceTime icon.
The responsible choice is obvious: decline the call, pocket his phone, and give Lucius the attention he promised. Instead, he's already standing.
"Excuse me," he says, moving toward the door. "I need to take this."
Lucius glances from the phone in Bruce’s hand to his face, but Bruce doesn't wait for him to comment.
The hallway outside the conference room is mercifully empty. He finds an unoccupied office several doors down, steps inside, and locks the door behind him. Only then does he accept the call.
You appear on the screen with flushed cheeks, and your whole expression brightens with a smile when you see him. Somehow, that affects Bruce more than any of the pictures.
"Hi," you say.
The sound of your voice only makes it worse, sharpening his longing into an ache that feels almost painful.
"Hi." His own voice comes out rougher than intended.
"Did you watch the video?"
"Not yet. Someone told me to find somewhere private first."
Your smile widens. "Smart man. Watch it now."
Bruce props his phone against the desk and opens the video. It lasts no more than fifteen seconds, but it's devastating. You're on your back with your hand between your legs, touching yourself slowly, almost teasingly. The quiet sighs and whimpering moans that slip from your lips go straight through him.
When the video ends, the call returns to full screen. You watch him expectantly. "Liked that?"
"You have no idea what you're doing to me."
"I have some idea." Your gaze moves deliberately down his body. "Are you hard?"
"Yes."
"Show me."
Bruce exhales through his nose. “This is reckless, even for you.”
"You locked the door, didn't you?"
He glances toward it. "Yes."
“Then I think we both know you’re going to show me.”
A beat passes. Then his hand moves to his belt, and the sharp breath you take makes every risk worthwhile.
"There you go," you murmur as your own hand slips beneath your panties.
Bruce unzips his pants, finally relieving some of the pressure that has been building since that first photograph. When he wraps his hand around himself, your soft moan comes through the speaker.
"Fuck," he groans as his head falls back against the wall. "I miss you."
"I miss you too." Your breathing has already begun to quicken. "Tell me what you’d be doing if you were here."
“I’d put you on your knees first.” His hand moves in steady strokes, eyes fixed on the screen as you touch yourself. "Watch you look up at me with those pretty eyes while you take me into your mouth. Hear the way you gag when I pull your hair and push deeper."
Your hand moves faster. “And?”
“Then I’d have you beneath me in that bed. Taste you until you couldn’t remember why sending those pictures seemed like a good idea.” His voice drops lower. “Your legs around my shoulders while you try to stay quiet even though we both know you can’t.”
“Bruce…”
"Then I'd be inside you, feeling you squeeze around me." His grip tightens. "Listening to the way you say my name when you're close."
A shaky breath leaves you as your hips jerk upward. “Keep talking, please.”
"I'd take my time with you." His voice breaks on a moan. "Spend the entire night making sure you remember exactly what I do to you."
"God, Bruce, I'm close." You're visibly unraveling now, right on the edge, thighs trembling around your wrist.
"I know, sweetheart. Let me see. Let me hear you."
"Only if you come with me," you gasp out. "Please, Bruce. Together."
His hand moves faster, matching your rhythm through the screen. “Together,” he promises, the word coming out strained.
"I wish you were here, wish I could feel you."
"You will. Soon." His breathing is ragged now, everything building to that breaking point. "Look at me."
Your eyes find the camera, glazed and desperate. That nearly finishes him on its own.
"Please—I can't—"
"Now, sweetheart. Come for me now."
You break at the same moment he does. Your breathless cry of his name blends with his rough groan of yours through the phone. He watches you arch and shudder, aching to feel you clenching around him instead of his hand, the frustration of the distance somehow making it even more intense.
For a long moment, there's just the sound of both of you breathing, trying to come back down.
“Well,” you say eventually, a satisfied smile spreading across your face. “I think that was significantly more interesting than your meeting.”
Bruce huffs out a laugh as he reaches for a tissue and begins putting himself back together. "You're trouble."
"You like me when I'm trouble."
"I do." He picks up the phone and looks at you properly. You're glowing, hair tangled across the pillow, completely beautiful. "I really do miss you."
Your expression softens. "I miss you too." You pull the sheet over yourself. “Do you really have to stay until tomorrow?”
Bruce glances at the time. The current meeting is nearly over, and everything on tomorrow’s schedule can be handled remotely. “I’m moving my flight up.”
Your eyebrows lift. “Bruce, I was only complaining. You don’t actually have to do that.”
“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair, then smooths it back into place. “Everything tomorrow can be handled over video. I want to be home tonight.”
A smile slowly spreads across your face. "I love you."
"I love you too."
Bruce looks toward the locked door. "I should get back before Lucius comes looking for me."
"Do you think he knows?"
"Lucius knows everything."
"Wonderful. Love that for us."
"Would you like me to apologize to him on your behalf?"
You laugh softly, settling back against the pillows, and the sound makes him wish he was already home.
"So, see you tonight?" you ask.
"See you tonight."
"And when you get here?"
His gaze darkens. "You already know."
"I want to hear you say it again."
"Goodbye."
"Bruce!"
He ends the call while you're still laughing.
It takes him another minute to compose himself. He straightens his shirt and tie, checking his reflection in the darkened office window until he once again resembles a somewhat respectable man.
When he returns to the conference room, Lucius pauses only briefly before continuing the presentation. Bruce settles into his chair and opens the documents in front of him.
Lucius finishes explaining the next set of projections before addressing him. "Everything handled?"
"Yes."
Lucius studies him for a moment. "Good."
Bruce knows that tone. He ignores it.
“I’m returning to Gotham tonight,” he says. “I’ll join tomorrow’s meetings by video.”
“Of course. I’ll make the arrangements.”
No smirk. No teasing comment. Somehow, Lucius’s professionalism is worse.
Bruce's phone vibrates one final time.
You: can't wait to see you, baby <3
He makes himself wait to respond, and by the time he does, he's seated inside the Wayne Enterprises jet.
Peter Parker who takes the inhibitor off for one night because the constant suppression is driving him insane.
Peter Parker who doesn’t even make it to the bedroom. The second the device hits the floor he’s on you—mouth on your throat, hands already yanking your clothes open, organic webs shooting out to pin your wrists above your head against the wall.
Peter Parker who growls when you gasp, like the sound alone is too much. Who bites down on the soft spot under your jaw hard enough to leave a mark and then licks over it like he’s apologizing and claiming you at the same time.
Peter Parker who spreads your legs with his knee and shoves two fingers into you without warning, curling them deep, watching your face the whole time with those black-edged eyes. “Fuck—sorry, I just—need to feel you open for me.” Then he adds a third finger and doesn’t look sorry at all.
Peter Parker who fucks into you the second you’re wet enough, one hard thrust that steals your breath. Who keeps one hand fisted in your hair and the other gripping your thigh so tight the webs start sticking to your skin. Who mutters broken little apologies against your mouth between every snap of his hips—“sorry, sorry, I can’t stop, you feel too good, I’m sorry—” and then drives in deeper anyway.
Peter Parker who doesn’t pull out when he comes. Who stays buried to the hilt and keeps grinding through it until you’re shaking and oversensitive and leaking around him. Who finally looks at you with something almost scared in his eyes and whispers, “I took it off. Just for tonight. Just for you.”
Peter Parker who still doesn’t put the inhibitor back on after. Who carries you to the bed, webs your ankles open, and starts all over again—slower this time, but no less rough. Who fills you a second time and then a third, until the sheets are a mess and your thighs are shiny and he’s finally quiet against your neck, breathing like a man who just remembered how to be human.
Peter Parker who leaves the device on the floor until morning. And when you wake up sore and marked and still full of him, he looks at you like he’s already thinking about taking it off again.
A/N: This is completely random, but I can't shake off the feeling that he's a predator, lmao :D
Nanami’s wife had a big teeny tiny obsession with sundresses. In fact, over a quarter of your wardrobe was occupied with sundresses hung meticulously in colour order along the railing. You looked so happy in them, eyes creasing as you smiled with glee.
It drove Nanami absolutely crazy.
Of course he loved the dresses and he loved seeing you happy even more, but the way the material hugged your chest and hips, the way it flowed beautifully around your lower half and swayed in slow motion whenever you moved had him going insane. He felt his cock hardening whenever you walked out of the bedroom and the self control he had to teach himself was becoming unbearable.
“Kento? Are you okay?”
His head snapped up to your eyes instantly, reaching for your hand and kissing your knuckles gently. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’m fine.”
“You seem distracted,” you add on.
“Just… work stuff,” he lied, trying to avoid eye contact with your yellow sundress, little blue flowers printed over it.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Your adorable concerned expression had Nanami staring down at his lap, counting to ten in his head to try and prevent all the blood rushing to his groin. His jaw tightened painfully.
“I’m okay, darling. Thank you for offering.”
You wouldn’t let up though, unable to move on from the conversation because of how weird your husband was acting. You squeezed his hand gently from across the dining table. “Kenny, are-“
You pause mid sentence when he groans, eyes squeezing shut. With a curious mind, you lean down to look under the table and notice the large bulge forming in his work trousers.
You can’t help but burst out into giggles.
Nanami stares at you like you’re personally offending him.
“Love, it’s not nice to laugh.”
“Aww, you’re so cute, Ken! Why didn’t you just tell me?” One foot outstretches to press against his groin under the table, eliciting another low moan.
“Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he grits out.
“Hm? How do you mean?”
“I didn’t-“ His breaths becomes shorter. “-want to make you feel sexualised in your dress.”
You beam. “So you like them that much, huh?”
He groans again when you rub over his hardened cock slowly. “Don’t tease, darling. You know I love them, and you.”
“Oh, I know. Now I wanna see just how much you love them.”
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