I long for a love that may not exist.
This little corner will be home to many ocs and the media I fell in love with along the way. The listed fandoms and interests aren't all inclusive and I'm open to writing for more things and characters when asked if the vibe is right. :9 I'm open to getting into and learning new things so don't let my fandom list scare you.
This blog is nsfw and will contain noncon and dubcon, so all minors, kindly see yourselves out.
I'm a work-in-progress. (◍•ᴗ•◍)❤
little tidbits: mostly GxB but GxG friendly, all Darlings/readers are female and will be addressed with she/her pronouns. Darlings may be read as multiracial/black in some instances.
the heart wants what the heart wants...
♡ exophilia
♡ myths + legends
♡ anime + manga
♡ comics + graphic novels
♡ video games
♡ movies + shows
we don't get down like that 'round here:
𝙓 bimbo!reader
𝙓 ddlg / infantilization / age play
𝙓 cheating
𝙓 dbf and stepdad
𝙓 omegaverse
𝙓 minors (all characters I write are 19+)
abby saja x reader | nsfw | there’s something about the new neighbor that abby can’t get out of his head and he’s not about to deprive himself of the first thing he’s wanted in a long time
By the second day without a sign of the neighbor, Abby volunteers to make a snack run, one more of the strange rituals they've gotten used to, up here. None of them ask Jinu where the money comes from, they just blow it on the endless amounts of human food they haven't been able to try in centuries. Even the whole production of walking colorful aisles, picking out whatever catches their eye is entertaining most of the time, but today Jinu's nowhere to be found, Romance was too busy choosing a new drama to watch and Baby was a half puddle on the floor, trying out new designs on Mystery's nails.
So, Abby offered, and he's not gonna pretend it wasn't because he's fucking restless. Sick to the bone of keeping aware of every shift in the building, craving even a glimpse of the neighbor, or the sound of her heartbeat from her apartment.
She's simply not there, which is worse than whatever he could've expected after that night.
Gwi-ma loves to dig in the wound, too. It chatters on, loud in her absence, something or other about him being too stupid to not to overplay his hand. There's a thought Abby let's glide through his awareness without much pause, though, a dangerous notion he hides as well as he can from the demon king: that the voice is significantly quieter when she's around.
Abby focuses on the drink he's bought instead, for mental background noise, he's decided he likes the fizzy energy drinks over iced coffee. If he's gonna have to blend in, he's gonna indulge in his artificial fruit flavors; peach, this one is supposed to be, were the label to be believed. It works, as a very distracting train of thought, so much so that he doesn't really notice the familiar figure in the elevator until he's halfway in. And then, the first thing he sees is a bright drop of red on white sneakers.
Horse blood. Abby'd recognize the scent everywhere, has seen the hilarious reaction goblins have to it enough times that he chuckles involuntarily. Then he follows his line of sight from toe to thigh to face and the lift doors are closing behind him and the very human he's been thinking about.
There's something unspoken in her stance, the way she steps further in to accommodate his size, nodding at him like it's all the greeting they need. The pieces click in a second, late nights and vague injuries, paired with the heightened perception and the neighbor's laidback disposition when faced with the strangeness that surrounds all five of them.
Shaman.
He would've never guessed, shamans tend to come in packs, in his experience; most have apprentices or are apprentices themselves, operating so one always has someone else's back. It explains the bruises, he figures, if the neighbor is out there alone. The thought sits weird in his chest, heavy in the pit of his stomach, hot like rage.
"I thought you'd moved out." The tone Abby chooses is casual, bordering on overly friendly. Because, in the end, he knows her quite intimately, doesn't he?
He gets a smile in response so lopsided that he wants to consume it, keep it in his mouth so he can memorize the texture and the taste.
"You've been watching," she outright grins this time, all teeth. Human, but sharp enough to catch a hold of him.
"Have I?"
It'a bluff he wants her to call him out on. But the neighbor simply glances at her shoe, at the way he doesn't flinch about it, nods like she's cataloguing this moment for later.
"Has anyone told you you have really pretty eyes?" Her question lingers for a second longer than it probably should, long enough for Abby to fish a convenience store napkin out of his pocket. He bends in the small space, crowds her against the corner, using those eyes she likes to hold her in place while he swipes off the red from her sneaker. "Gold really suits you."
Abby doesn't exactly freeze, but he does pause, looking up at her as if they're not stuck together in a moving box, on a ride that can't last more than the next few moments. It's quiet in his head, dead silent, so he does one more thing Jinu would probably bite his head off for. Patterns flicker over his skin, crawl up his neck in a flash of purple; her gaze close on their heels.
"You're a messenger—"
"It took you long enough to realize it, shaman."
It's a thing of beauty to see her face shift from surprise to confusion, to offense. Her brow furrows, not the kind of resentment of the hunters at his very existence; more like the expression Jinu makes when Abby ribs him on his lyrics.
"All of you up in the penthouse?" she sounds annoyed the way one gets at a friend, looks at him without fear. "No wonder I've done seven cleansings just this week. I have a hairline crack on a rib, you know? Someone's dead relative threw me into a tombstone."
His hand closes into a fist around the napkin as he resists the impulse to spread his palm over her side, keep it as a barrier between her heart and the world. The basest part of his nature claims her as his, now that he's had a taste of her. His to keep, his to feast. For as long as he likes, without Gwi-ma's intervention.
"At least business is booming."
"Someone just paid me in dirt."
The shaman takes a step towards him, close enough to bump the toes of her shoes against his, so he can see the burlap sack tucked behind her and the laugh that comes out of him is mostly a rattle in his chest. His awareness narrows to the softness of her breath brushing against his throat, to the sudden point of fangs against his tongue. The elevator dings, though, like a horn in his mind, and the neighbor retreats with a sigh.
"This is me," she moves, but Abby's faster, darting his hand past her to hold on to the sack of dirt.
"I'll get this to your place, it's heavy right?"
…
The bag doesn’t weigh a thing, in fact, Abby has to resist the temptation to throw it over his shoulder, and the neighbor while he’s at it. He behaves though, walks down the hall like he’s not obsessed with draping an arm over her shoulder and pulling her back into him. He drops his shoes and the dirt just inside her door, the giant bag of snacks that still hangs from his elbow, on her kitchen table. And he stands there trying very hard not to look like a dog waiting for a cut of meat.
“You seem very relaxed about the demon thing.” Abby watches her shed layers, uncovering the sweet, vulnerable line of her neck, her arms.
“There’s usually not a lot for me to do, once one of you decides to show up. All me and my sweet rice can do is distract you.”
“We are hungry beasts.”
Another knowing smile is sent his way, as she finally stops, facing him across the expanse of five or six steps from one end of the table to the other. Behind her, a dark hallway calls to him, the concentrated energy of her beating like a drum against his chest, making his control on this non-threatening form slip by increments.
"There's nothing to do about us, even when we show up in your bed?" He edges forward, his body inching closer, like he's trying to appease a prey on the edge of bolting. But his shaman doesn't move.
Her posture is relaxed, eyes dark on his. And he doesn't see a meal —hasn't for a while, he has to admit—, he sees a wild thing recognizing another.
"I wanted you in my bed," it's a simple confession, no frills and disarming as all hell. "Still do."
The first real taste of her is not exactly as he imagined. He expected the smoke, the fruit sweetness; not the surprise of a deeper current of something grounded, woodsy. Electric like her lips moving against his, a burst of laughter against his mouth that turns him into nothing more than flesh and talons. There's no strategy in following into her bedroom, no plan beyond getting her out of her clothes; his own shirt lays abandoned at the door and he seriously considers shredding his jeans, before her smart hands make quick work of buttons and zipper.
He doesn't know when the kiss ended, but he moves to rectify it immediately, stumbling onto the bed on top of her with the razor points of his claws holding her trusting throat. Her fingers find his hips, the plane of his stomach, and the sound she makes is shameless, keening satisfaction.
"Please," begging isn't surrender for her, that's clear when it falls out of her so easily; smiling through it and sneaking her touch under the waistband of his underwear.
That he does rip off, which makes her giggle, bright and airy and unexpected. Then she's back working his cock, skin on skin now, weighing him in her palm and muttering nonsense into the silence of her room. It's a kind of contact Abby hasn't had for so long that he groans an inhuman noise. He feels drunk on her, her energy dripping off his tongue like honey when he licks her nipples into peaks. Forced to realize the kind of dangerous game he's caught himself in. The insidious thought that he will never want to give this up that dictates a melody in the back of his mind.
His tip catches on her entrance then, guided, welcomed, so he shoves with his hips until he's bottomed out and his shaman's halfway off the other end of the bed. Fuck, it's easy, even if it knocks a curse loose from her.
"Filling me so right," her good humor holds as she scrambles to cling to his shoulders, sweaty strands of hair framing her smile.
"Taking me so well."
He shoots back, finds his rhythm. One that turns her grin into little hiccups and bullies her into an orgasm he feels before she can even warn him, tightening around him and dragging him along with her. Coming all over himself is not the same by far; here he makes the apartment lights flicker for a second, goosebumps rising almost painful on his skin and drinking in deep from what seems like endless reserves of her soul.
"Told you gold looks good on you."
The neighbor reels him back, cupping his cheeks in her hands. She doesn't flinch at the dull purple of him, just kisses him again, pulls him down onto the pillows with her 'till he loses track of time.
"for the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, and breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; and the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, and their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!" - lord byron
abby saja x reader | nsfw | there’s something about the new neighbor that abby can’t get out of his head and he’s not about to deprive himself of the first thing he’s wanted in a long time
there’s a human on the roof, which might not be all that strange, he supposes —Abby, this new name he’s still trying to get used too—, humans like to toe the line of their own destruction regularly. he even has vague images floating about, somewhere where his soul used to be, of doing the same. but there is not supposed to be a human in this one particular roof, since Jinu apparently secured the top floor for them to navigate this world and the human-ish bodies it requires with some degree of security.
she’s like every other human, except there’s smoke rising from her, mystifying for a second before Abby recognizes the scent of tobacco in the air.
Oh, Abby thinks, naughty.
at least she does look a little apologetic when she turns, having finished her cigarette, and spots him standing there, half silhouetted against the night sky.
“sorry, you’re one of the new tenants, right?” her voice is hushed, momentarily husky from the smoke, “we’ve been using the roof as shared space since the penthouse was unoccupied, but i’ll get out of your hair now”
the reaction is unusual, Abby’s experience in this world has been either admiration or wariness, the rejection inherent in knowing what he is, so this sort of detached politeness makes him look closer. he even leans in, edging his body into the closest light, in case the problem is that she hasn’t taken the whole picture in properly.
“i’m the only one who comes up here, anyway”
it doesn’t work in the way he expects, but he does get a smile out of her, slow and crooked before she bows politely and heads past the private elevator for the emergency roof access
Abby watches her retreating with vague curiosity, until Gwi-ma's voice slithers into his mind, just loud enough to be heard over the tapping of her sneakers on the asphalt
'Not charming enough for her, huh? It was bound to happen someday, I mean there's not much to offer beyond muscles'
"What?" the neighbor stops dead in her tracks, looking at him like she can see the fire burning behind him. And Abby might be used to Gwi-ma to the point that pretending to be unbothered as he whispers in his ear is second nature, but he stills at the acknowledgement in her eyes, stands up straight under her scrutiny
"Hm?" he answers in the end, non-committal as he can manage
"Sorry," her mobile face shifts into a frown, though her posture remains relaxed, "I thought you'd said something—"
"I— You can keep coming up to smoke, if you want."
the words are halfway out of his mouth by the time he scolds himself to keep quiet, and his slip up is rewarded with a surprised laugh under her breath
"I'll take you up on that, I'm not exactly built to ever kick a bad habit."
she doesn't explain herself further, just lets the door creak shut behind her, leaving Abby rooted to the spot in a silence that's almost disconcerting
...
the neighbor is a weird one, it becomes more and more obvious with each encounter
doors opening at three or four in the morning, mysterious bruises seen only in passing, that one time Jinu forced them to use the entrance cause they ran into her getting out of a cab out front, and the clean script that spelled hospital on a folder as big as her torso
it’s not like Abby wants to notice her, she just gets really hard to ignore once he pinpoints her energy in the building. when she’s close and he focuses on her, he can hear her singing under her breath in the terrace she uses as a garden, can feel the goosebumps racing down her back when she steps into a warm shower, feeding an ache he thought was long dead.
he wants to touch, to have a little taste
seduction has been a hunting strategy for centuries, a game of temptation where he remains firmly out of reach, faraway from the actual sting of desire. so it’s a bit unexpected to feel this body’s uncompromising demand for release
more than once he’s had to reacquaint himself with an orgasm, physical, solid, muscles tight until he’s spilling over his own stomach with the smooth expanse of the neighbor’s skin in his mind’s eye
then he feels her one night, laying in bed, because they might not need to sleep but the alternative is dying of boredom. and this night the neighbor is home early, deep in her human routine. familiar and predictable, except for the sweet sound bubbling up into Abby’s awareness, the rustling of sheets, a gasp, the easy slide of her hand between her legs.
he settles in deeper, turns to press his face into the pillow with a smile, and she’s delightful. he can see her, vulnerable as she is now, her body naked and warm, arched as if she’s welcoming him when he moves through the layers of reality between them
claiming each moan for himself is easier here, his back against her ceiling and golden eyes shining from the darkest corner of the room. there’s a beautiful change in pitch, too, needier like she feels the pressure he brings into the space. Abby edges closer, it’s way better to actually take her in, how she moves, instead of the phantom image of it in his mind
for me he thinks, though he knows it’s a lie he tells himself, he’s a shadow here, she can’t know beyond maybe a chill in her bones.
her fingers pick up speed, hips canting against the mattress, almost there. then she opens her eyes, catches his, magnet pulled, and comes with a single word that has him retreating back to his bed, heart pounding
(My lovely readers who've stuck around for some reason.)
(Me, despite it all.)
ᴡʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ɢᴏᴏᴅ?
How are you? I've been living in a constant state of anxiety for like...years? But growth really is a choice and I'm choosing it.
ꜱʜᴜᴛᴛᴇʀʙᴜɢ?
I could ｎｅｖｅｒ leave the horny little arachnid hanging! Tom Holland and Tom Holland's Peter Parker are 2 of some of the only good white boys, so Shutterbug part 2 has to happen.
𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓮 𝓒𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓭𝔂 𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓵𝔂 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓪𝓼 𝓙𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓮 𝓜𝓬𝓒𝓻𝓮𝓮?
Darling still has a date with him and he won't take kindly to being stood up.
Ｒｅｐｌａｃｅｄ!ＭＣ?
I hate the game with a passion, but my spirit may never know peace if I don't write Diavolo eating MC out.
Peter tried to steady his pounding heart as you snuggled up closer to him. Your arms wrapped around his waist lazily as you were beginning to drift in and out of sleep. The blanket draped across your shoulders was dropping, allowing his fingers to graze your skin almost innocently.
You were having a Tolkien marathon at his condo and strewn across his couch—and nearly in his lap—you were totally at peace. You spent nearly every other day at Peter’s place, sleepovers were something you never batted an eyelash at because it was Peter and you were starting to realize that being near him was the happiest place you could be. Your best friend.
If only you knew what you did to him.
The sun had set hours earlier and you were nearing the middle of The Twin Towers when it dawned on you, “Damn, these movies are long.” You murmured.
Peter chuckled, “Getting sleepy?”
“No. Absolutely not.” You drawled as you fought sleep. You tried to sit up straight but now Peter’s hand was rubbing up and down your arm and you were finding little reason to get up at all. You were so sleepy you didn’t consider how out of character this was.
Peter’s breath hitched as he felt you relax against him. ‘She trusts me. Don’t be nervous, dude, there’s nothing to worry about. Ask her.’ The pounding in his heart was anticipation as he cleared his throat.
“Y/n.”
“Yes, darling?” You hummed and his resolve almost broke, the things you did to him.
“There’s something I want to a-ask y-you…” the stutter caught your attention and now you were sitting up and pulling away to better see him. ‘Pl-please, don’t do that cause if you do, I can’t think.’
“What’s the matter, Peter?” The concern was clear across your face.
“W-well, I’ve been meaning t-to for some time, but didn’t kn-know how to ask. I mean! Ned says he can’t channel his inner Naomi anymore and MJ says if I ask her again, she’ll shove my camera up my—”
“Peter. Breathe.”
Your hands were on his shoulders and like that, your mysterious power you were completely naïve to was working on him and easing his anxieties.
“Y/n, would you model for me?”
This time you froze.
Did you really have to think about it? You were nervous even though you felt you shouldn’t be. Peter was your closest friend and after all he did for you this was your chance to do something for him. You didn’t think as you said, “Of course.”
Sweet Dreams are Made of This ✧a lewd Peter Parker imagine✧
Peter’s entire body shuddered when the tip of his cock sheathed itself inside of you. The warmth was incomparable. Unlike anything! The way he felt, being connected to you this way was a religious experience and he wasn’t even inside yet.
“Y/n. Y/n. Y/n.” He moaned your name to himself like a prayer as he steadily rocked his hips. Trying so hard to burn this memory into his brain. He never wanted to forget. Let this be the last memory that flashes through his mind when he dies, please.
The shallow mewls that fell from your lips wracked him with more shivers and he leaned forward to press his sweat slick forehead to your own, chocolate curls brushing your brow.
“Y/n look at me. Look at me, baby.” Your eyes previously squeezed shut opened to blink up at him. So close, everything was so close, but there was no where else you wanted to be.
“A-are—” a moan cut him off. He’s trying so hard to hold back. So hard to keep his hips still and from thrusting into you down to the hilt until the only thing that matters to you is him. Every instinct is screaming for him to ravage you now until neither of you can move or pull yourselves apart, but this has to be perfect.
This is your moment together.
“Are you ready?” For me. For This. For what we’re going to do, something I’ll never let you turn back from.
A trembling hand moves to cup your cheek, warm against his calloused palm. The other hand sneaks low to caress your throbbing sex and the sharp buck you involuntarily give has his eyes almost rolling to the back of his skull.
Your hand cups his, you’re shivering beneath him and so ready he can almost taste it.
Your other hand brushes his aside to gently touch the point where you two connect. His length flushes, he’s so aware of everything. He doesn’t want to miss a thing. “Please…” Breathy and weak for him, but the same spark he loves ignites in your eyes.
“Hurry, please.” Another gasp, “I want you, Peter.”
That’s all he needs before he takes your hands in his, clasping tightly, bracing you when one deep thrust shatters any boundary between friends and soulmates that may have been between you.
You cry out, walls fluttering around his cock and he only allows himself to enjoy it for a second before he’s clumsily working a steady pace. So, dedicated to making you climax beneath him.
“This is perfect, Y/n. You’re perfect.” A thrust that makes your vision burn white. “Perfect for me.”
“Don’t we fit perfectly together?” He’s bucking erratically, driving into you so deep you think you might break. “I knew it was meant to be. I knew it would feel good, but this is…It feels like I’ve lived my entire life to share this with you.”
An expert roll of his hips has your toes curling, raising you higher and higher to the peak.
Chest to chest, as close as two people could be, but still not as close as he wanted yet this would have to do.
“How does it feel, Y/n? Me making love to you? I love you so much. I want you to know. Can you feel it? All of my love. It’s spilling over.”
He doesn’t take a moment to breathe, everything colliding in his mind and thoughts barely coherent, but he needs you to know. Even just a fraction.
Moans blend with hiccups as water droplets splash onto your cheeks. He’s crying. He doesn’t know when he started, but his love truly is spilling over. He’s had to contain it for so long and now he can finally show you.
“P-Peter?” A sharp gasp when he hits the perfect spot inside you that has you melting around him, and you reach up and pull him to your embrace. Hips still rocking into you with reverie.
Fingers comb his matted locks and your blown pupils meet his teary gaze.
“I love you, Peter.”
“Y-You r-really—” You feel his cock throb inside so clearly that you know you’re close.
“I love you. Only you.”
“I love y-you, Y/n. All of this—everything that I do is all for you…”
God, you’re clenching around him deliciously, but he can’t yet. You have to take the fall first and he’ll follow after.
“Then kiss me.”
Lips touch surprisingly gentle like the first time. One hand splays over your hip to pull you as close as close can be, he’s going to make you see stars. The other returns to stimulate your clit.
Every gasp and moan he swallows greedily as if this is truly what he lives for.
When you cum he follows soon after.
Peter’s eyes open to see his dark ceiling. Sweat and a sticky fluid coat his chest and his legs are tingled in the thin bed sheets. His body trembles from aftershocks of pleasure, phantom touches from you keeping him blissed, but he knows this pleasure is nothing compared to what it must be like with you.
What time was it now? Probably too late to call while he rubs another one out. What were you doing? Was it too much to hope you were dreaming of him?
He reached for the Kleenex to wipe off while the other hand still clutched your panties like a talisman.
They had been your favorite pair once but had disappeared. Peter personally considered them a lucky pair because you wore them the first time you had met.
“I’m sure nothing beats the real thing…Wait, for me, Y/n.”
TW: Implied Non/Con, Implied Dub/Con, Kidnapping, Prolonged Captivity, Social Isolation, Stalking, Obsessive Behavior, and No Actual Incest, But Boy If Those Freaks Aren't Trying. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
If it’d only been Bruce, you might’ve been able to live with it.
You didn’t love him, but you could imagine a world where you tried to. Most of it was circumstance; as upset as you were about the whole kidnapping thing, it wasn’t exactly a Herculean feat to endear yourself to the idea of being a handsome vigilante millionaire’s stay-at-home captive-spouse. You had no room in your heart for the stoic, reclusive, untouchable Bruce Wayne, but you could remember the adoration you’d once held for your masked hometown hero, the pride that’d once given you the force of will to all-but carry a half-conscious man in a torn cowl and a familiar suit into your apartment and lie to the cops when they came knocking. If the conditions had been different, if he’d spent a little more time as something more intimate than a stranger and a little less damning than a captor, then maybe, you could convince yourself to love him. Or, convince yourself to try, at least.
But, the conditions weren’t different, and you’d never quite had the time you would’ve needed to align Bruce Wayne with his more heroic alter ego. It’d been doomed from the start – Icarus jumping from his tower, already knowing his wings were destined to fall apart.
That aside, though, there was the more glaring issue: all his fucking kids.
Calling them kids might’ve been too generous, actually. Only Damian and Duke were younger than eighteen, and as far as you were concerned, they were your saving graces – Duke for meeting the bare minimum requirements for human decency and Damian for adamantly denying you were anything but an unwanted burden on his father. The rest were more-or-less adults, as little as you wanted to acknowledge the nonexistent age-gap between you and your gaggle of stepchildren. They were grown. They should’ve known better.
Tim, for example. He had to be… what? Nineteen? It wasn’t the pinnacle of maturity, sure, but he should’ve known you’d be able to hear your own sheets rustling through the bedroom door, should’ve assumed that you’d know he’d know Bruce would be out on patrol until sunrise. He should’ve known to wait until you were in another wing of the sprawling Wayne estate, somewhere far away from the master bedroom, or better yet, skipped rummaging through your things entirely. You knew better than to dream, though.
The door was still shut, but what was happening behind it and who was responsible were both foregone conclusions. It was Tim, because of course it was Tim, and he going through your meager possessions, because what else would he wait until Bruce was gone to do? Cringing, you rested your shoulder against the steady wood and knocked gingerly. “…Drake? Are you in there?”
Immediately, the rustling stopped. You went on. “I think Bruce is out, if you need him. Is there something you’re trying to find?”
It was a good out. An easy out. Thankfully, he was smart enough to take the bait. A few seconds later, the door cracked, a disheveled Tim emerging with a dark blush spread over his pale cheeks and his hands shoved conspicuously deep into the pockets of his hoodie. It was a struggle not to roll your eyes. He couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d come out with his dick still in his hand.
Your cheeks ached as you put on your dozenth unstrained, unworried, everything’s-fine-because-why-wouldn’t-it-be smile of the day and moved aside to let him out. “I’ll let him know you were looking for him when he gets home,” you assured, like you couldn’t see the way his bright eyes were fixed to the carpeting. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help. You all are just so heroic – it’s still a little hard to believe I’m a part of this at all.”
“You’re perfect,” he muttered, and you pretended not to hear him, cocking your head to the side. When he corrected himself, his voice was a bit louder, a bit clearer. “Don’t worry, I… I found what I was looking for. You don’t have to bother Bruce.”
“Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He’s so proud of you and your siblings, after all – it’s practically all he talks about.” A lie, but a fair one to tell. There was no reason Tim should have to know Bruce spent the majority of your time alone with his teeth buried somewhere in your neck, muttering paranoid fantasies about how many different ways you could be killed, mutilated, or otherwise indisposed by the members of his rouges gallery. “Honestly, sometimes, it’s hard not to feel like I’ve been here for years, rather than just a couple of months.”
You only realized your mistake when those bright eyes shot to you, suddenly wide and blown out with desperation. A hand darted towards you, and you stumbled out of the way, but not quickly enough to avoid Tim’s vice-grip on your forearm, to spare yourself the feeling of something cold and wet sinking into your sleeve. “You’re leaving?” The words seemed to slur together, spilling out too quickly to be restrained or refined. “You can’t leave. Bruce won’t be able to handle it, and Steph, she’ll—I mean, security-wise, we won’t be able to make sure you’re—”
Internally, you were keeping up a steady mantra of ‘Thisissogrossthisissogrossthisissogross.’
Externally, by some miracle, your smile never wavered, only growing sweeter as you cut him off with a chirping laugh. “I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, and then, after a slight lapse, “Would you mind letting go of me? It’s—uh, it’s kind of starting to hurt.”
As if on a switch, he let go of you entirely, pulling away as abruptly as he lashed out. There was a mumbled ‘I’m sorry’, and he made a swift retreat, disappearing around the next corner before you could so much as think about bringing up Bruce, again. You watched him go, only letting your expression fall once you were sure he was out of sight.
Without further caution, you slipped into your bedroom, glazing over the mess of pulled-out drawers, overturned clothes and scattered dirty laundry in favor of falling into bed, rolling onto your chest, and screaming into your pillow as loudly and for as long as your lungs would allow.
~
You tried your best never to be alone. It was a little draining, to be honest – having to keep a running chart in the back of your mind of who you could trust and who you couldn’t, constantly trying to guess whether it’d be safer to be alone with someone or if you were better off taking your chances on your own – but you’d learned your lesson the first time you’d fallen asleep in the Wayne’s at-home movie theater and woken up to Cassandra spread over you like a human weighted blanket, staring unblinkingly at your face and playing half-consciously with your hair. You tried not to leave yourself unguarded, after that.
Alfred was your first choice, Barbra your second, with Bruce as a distant third. Sometimes, you could get away with loitering near Damian (something you hated nearly as much as he did – you could only stand to be addressed as his father’s “jezebel lover” so many times), but Bruce was at one of Damian’s school events, leaving them both conveniently unavailable, and Alfred would be locked inside of his underground shooting range for another hour and a half, an activity you knew better than to interrupt. Meaning, you were on your own.
Meaning, you’d picked a very bad time to need something to drink.
The kitchen was deathly quiet, but you still made an effort to keep your head on a swivel as you made your way carefully to a corner cabinet, like stepping on the wrong tile would trigger a pit trap, or a flurry of arrows, or one of another million terrible things you hadn’t thought were possible before Bruce dedicated himself so entirely to proving you wrong. Mentally, you reviewed your haphazardly assembled schedule as you fumbled with the wood paneling and reached for a mug from the highest shelf. Tim was definitely out, touring local colleges on Bruce’s behest, Step was supposed to be in class, and Dick—
Your fingertips made contact with cool ceramic half a second before another, larger palm wrapped around yours, a broad chest pressing into your back as your mug was stolen out of your hand. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.
And Dick was on bed rest with three broken ribs. Right. Of course.
You really shouldn’t have bothered leaving your room at all. Suddenly, dehydration didn’t sound like such a bad way to go.
“Let me get that, baby bird.” You cringed at the petname, but nodded, letting Dick confiscate your mug and with it, your ability to make a swift exit from a conversation you’d rather not have. “Green tea, right? I know it’s your favorite.”
“On the mark as always, Dick.” There was just enough enthusiasm in your voice to overshadow the despair. You waited until you heard the muted click of an electric kettle before turning around and settling against the counter. “I wish you wouldn’t dote on me, though. I already feel useless enough as it is.”
“Don’t sweat it, I’ve been going stir-crazy all week.” He flashed you a quick smile – tooth and beaming – before pulling open the silverware drawer and rummaging through it, like Alfred would keep his teabags with his cutlery. He was topless, wearing the same pair of black sweatpants he must’ve slept in. He didn’t plan to go out, clearly, and it wasn’t like you had much of an alternative. “This is just the basics, too. For a while there, I had your breakfast, lunch, and midnight snack preferences memorized.”
You forced yourself to smile, albeit, not as brightly as him. “…did you, now?”
“Mhm. B had us running in-person surveillance before he finally bit the bullet and brought you home, and—” He cut himself off with a sudden laugh, shaking his head. “And, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that part. Oops.”
Mercifully, the kettle whistled before you could start to consider the implications, and you reached behind you, fishing two bags out of a teacup-shaped jar. It was easy enough to edge him out of the way, but not having to worry about pretending he’d ever made himself a cup of tea meant he could devote more of his energy to talking, so you still managed to lose, in the end. “He’s stingier with the surveillance footage, now. I’ve never seen him so jealous.”
“He can definitely be a little overprotective.”
You tried to keep your tone even, polite, but Dick was like his siblings – quick to action and slow to take a hint. A hand curled around the counter next to you, and you dumped an extra spoonful of sugar into the darkening water. “It’s just us in the manor, right?”
Another spoonful, just to be safe. “I think Alfred is—”
“Out for the day. Wayne Enterprise emergency – I let him know as soon as he finished down in the range.” In your peripheral, you watched his other hand come to rest on your opposite side, caging you in. “I wouldn’t mind the company, if you were starting to get lonely.”
Another spoonful. It’d be too sweet to drink, but anything not to have to look at him. “I’m afraid wouldn’t be a lot of fun, Grayson. Honestly, I was just planning on getting a little sle—”
“That’s perfect,” he cut in, too eager to wait his turn. “I’m a great cuddler.”
You curled your hand around your mug, hoping the warmth would be enough to ground you. Instead, it only burnt your palm, and for a second, you could imagine a world where your teeth weren’t buried in the plush of your cheek, where you didn’t have to remind yourself that turning around and splashing boiling-hot water on an all-but superhero’s face wasn’t a good idea. For a second, you genuinely considered it.
And then, a sound not totally dissimilar to thunder filled the kitchen; loud enough to leave your ears ringing and your adrenaline spiked. You flinched into yourself, but it only took a moment for fear to shift to relief as you noticed the bullet lodged into the wood less than an inch from your head. Your expression lit up just as Dick’s fell.
Without waiting for him to let you go, you slipped away – sprinting across the kitchen and throwing yourself into Jason’s – brave, bold, beautiful Jason – chest. He caught you one hand and finished re-holstering his handgun with the other, laughing as you hugged him as tightly as you could manage. Dick huffed, playful offense failing to mask real agitation, and you felt Jason brace against you. “Jerk off and shut the fuck up, Oedipus.”
Dick’s smile turned uneasy. “It’s good to see you too, man.”
“I didn’t come here for you,” he snapped, as short-tempered with his siblings as you wished you could be. He looked down, holding you that much tighter. “How’s my best girl holding up?”
“I’m just fine, Jason. I do think we have to have a talk about how you treat your brother, though.” You glanced over your shoulder to Dick. “A little privacy? You really ought to be staying off your feet, too.”
Reluctantly, Dick slinked out of the kitchen, hesitant to go but eager to nurse his wounds. You only went on once you were sure he was gone.
“It’s been awful. I found another hidden camera in my bedroom, and I think Tim’s tapping my—”
“I’ll do a sweep.”
He let you go, but you caught his arm. “Please, I know it’s important, but—” You cut yourself off, swallowing. It was irrational – the way you let your guard down so quickly around Jason. The mask never slipped around anyone else, whether you were afraid of them or they were one of your rare, precious exceptions. Jason existed outside of the Wayne family, though, outside of Bruce’s corrupting influence. He wasn’t going to hurt you. More importantly, he wasn’t going to let anyone else hurt you, either.
“But I really don’t want to think about that, right now,” you finished. “Just… just for a little while, alright? I don’t want to constantly feel like I’m walking on eggshells, at least not while you’re here.”
Jason stood strong for all of three seconds. With the fourth, he sighed, buckled, and shook his head, his exasperation brimming with affection. “How long until Bruce gets home?”
“Six more hours. He’s not due to check-in for another three.”
“I’ve got my bike out front. How do you think he’d feel about a joy ride?”
And just like that, you lit up. “It’d give him a heart attack.”
Jason pulled you close, kissing the top of your head.
“Perfect.”
~
Unfortunately, Jason’s visits were few and far between. You had to find ways of fending for yourself, in the downtime.
“I miss the city.”
Bruce glanced over his shoulder, gaze flickering over you before returning to the buttons of his dress-shirt. You sunk that much deeper into the mess of sheets and pillows, taking some small amount of solace in the way the cool silk felt against your warm skin.
(Sex wasn’t something Bruce came to you for often, but when he did, you gave it to him willingly, albeit with no more enthusiasm than was absolutely necessary. You rarely enjoyed it and always regretted everything you did or said during the act, but it was better than the alternative. Part of you trusted him, trusted Batman, enough to believe that he’d take your refusal for what it was, that you wouldn’t have to say anything more than ‘no’. The remaining overwhelming majority was able to look around you, to remember the way he’d held you down as he forced a needle stocked with medical-grade sedatives into your throat, and recognize that your opinion probably didn’t mean very much to him. Still, you couldn’t let things get that bad. Even if you had to surrender every other facet of your being, you couldn’t let things get that bad.)
“You hated the city. You said your landlord was a tyrant and that even the criminals were living paycheck-to-paycheck.” And then, after a second of thought, “And that there were more rats in Gotham than people.”
“Well, he was, they are, and you know I love animals.” You pushed yourself up, keeping a sheet bunched against your chest as you slumped against the headboard. “I was tired and overworked – you could see that. But, things would be different if I was staying with, say, my wealthy trillionaire boyfriend in one of the penthouse apartments that I know he has because his youngest son got in trouble for bragging about them in school last week?”
Bringing up his kids was a dirty tactic – the fastest way to get Bruce’s undivided attention. This time, when his eyes shifted in your direction, they stayed there, and he made his way back to your side of the bed. He collapsed next to you and, with no resistance on your end, pulled you into his lap. He didn’t seem to care whether or not his immaculately tailored, freshly pressed suit was creased in the process, but you did your best not to squirm. “You want to leave the manor?”
The first half of a frown tugged at the corner of your lips. “That’s not what I—”
“Elevated pulse, avoidant eye-contact,” he muttered. “Something’s bothering you.”
It wasn’t a question. He wasn’t wrong, either, but still. You would’ve preferred to be asked.
“…it’s your family,” you admitted, feigning guilt. “They’re all—” Horny, depressed, creepy little orphans. “—great kids, but it’s just been so much so quickly, and I think it… I think it might’ve been too much too quickly. For them and for me.”
“They adore you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Dick was close to moving back in when I decided it was too dangerous to leave you to your own devices.”
You melted into his chest, sighing. Reflexively, he curled around you – a good thing, if a bit claustrophobic. Bruce liked feeling like a shield between you and harm, between you and the world he couldn’t control. Hopefully, eventually, he’d realize he had more to shield you from than greedy landlords and villains who always seemed to be just out of sight. “It’s not that easy. It’s just been such a rocky adjustment period, and…” You curled your hand around his wrist and squeezed, hoping the force would be enough to communicate what you couldn’t put a word to. “I’m really afraid something bad might happen, Bruce.”
For a moment, he seemed to consider it. There was a kiss to your shoulder, solemn and lingering, then another to your cheek, more fleeting. “I’ll talk to them. They’ll give you space, if they’re told to.”
If he told them to. You doubted you held much authority, here. “And the apartment in the city? On the highest floor, tall enough to see from Gotham to New York?”
Bruce smiled, and your heart soared.
Then, he started talking, and it crashed back down, dying upon impact. “Once I know it’s safe for you, sweetheart.”
There was another kiss, this one to the nape of your neck, then another, lower down on your spine. A calloused hand slipped underneath the sheet still hugged against your chest, and you allowed it to.
Honestly, it would’ve been kinder if he’d cut you into pieces and fed you to the wolves himself.
~
You made a run for it as soon as the arguing started.
Arguing, not yelling – the distinction was minor, but significant. Yelling would’ve meant an injury, or a mission gone wrong, or something else that signaled a sudden complication that couldn’t be smoothed over with sugar-sweet sentimentality or orders issues with an ice-cold strictness. Yelling would’ve meant Bruce didn’t mind letting you overhear, which usually meant you didn’t need to be involved. Arguing, all hushed whispers and hissed explanations and vague warnings, was different. Arguing meant, more often than not, that they were arguing about you.
It was Tim’s fault, as far as you could tell. Barbara had been the one to find the conspicuously encrypted file on one of Dick’s civilian devices, the one to mention it to Stephanie as a point of concern who went to Tim within the hour, but it was still his fault. He’d gotten Bruce involved, let his need for approval tip the tenuously balanced scales that kept his family whole and you safe. He’d talked them all into waiting until Dick was close enough to confront in-person, stopping by for his weekly equipment pick-up and check-in. He was the reason you’d gotten close enough to hear something about ‘pictures’ and ‘inappropriate use of reconnaissance material’ before fleeing to the mansion’s foyer – the only part of the house you could be sure wasn’t occupied. If you were lucky, you’d only be there for half an hour or so, enough time for them to compromise on some non-solution and return to your carefully maintained status quo. If you weren’t, you’d spend the early hours of the morning—
Something small but forceful hit the nearest window, shortly followed by another projectile, then another. The glass was too thick and the world outside too dark to make anything out, but you didn’t need to see anything to know who’d come to your rescue.
Jason.
You rushed to the door, then hesitated. Jason would only get a slap on the wrist for luring you out of the estate, and Bruce could never bring himself to be that strict with you, but now might’ve been a bad time. Tensions were already running high. Your little disappearing act wouldn’t—
A sudden rush of footsteps clattering through the ceiling from the floor above you, hushed voices raised just to the point of audibility. None of it was entirely coherent, but Dick’s came the closest. You managed to make out a half-choked “If you’d just let me—” before someone cut him off.
With your better judgement reduced to buzzing static, you pried open the closer of a pair of huge, mahogany doors and slipped out of the estate entirely.
Of course, Jason was waiting outside, a small stock of pebbles still in his left hand and, of course, you threw yourself at him, letting him catch and spin you twice before setting you back onto your feet with an airy laugh. A pitch-black sports car was waiting at the end of the driveway, the engine purring loudly enough to drown the rest of the world out. “Rough night?”
“You have no fucking idea,” you muttered, breathless. “I don’t care where we go, just get me out of here.”
There was a reason Jason was your favorite. There was no argument, no prying, just his arm around your waist as he herded you into the passenger seat. Fifteen minutes and a little over fifty miles later, the mansion was little more than a dull glow on the horizon, and you could pretend you’d stopped thinking about Bruce entirely.
There was no effort to make conversation, as bad as you felt about pulling Jason into your prolonged tryst with self-pity. Instead, you sunk into the leather of his seat and fixed your gaze on the passing landscape, clinging to any detail you were able to latch onto as it flew by. It was possible, between the subways and boarded-over windows and perpetually overcast skies, to go days without seeing the sun in Gotham. Still, your life had felt brighter there than it ever did in Bruce’s estate.
Jason turned down a road you didn’t recognize, and you managed to find your voice. “Are we going into the city?”
“Even better.” He flashed you a smile, the engine purring as he accelerated. “You’ll like it, I promise. Just sit tight.”
As if you had much of a choice.
Road gave way to forest, forest to empty plains, and empty plains to the dilapidated remains of what you could only label as a long-abandoned amusement park – like Disney World if there’d been some terrible, possibly nuclear accident followed by twenty or so years of absolute neglect. Jason’s car glided past the rusted remains of an iron gate, past the corpses of rides buckled under their own weight, and came to a stop in front of a paint-stripped merry-go-round almost entirely sheeted be vines and weeds and overgrowth. You let out a low whistle as he threw the gear shift into park and, for the first time in any vehicle you’d ever shared with him, pulled his keys out of the ignition. He’d always left the engine running while visiting the mansion, but then again, you’d always been pretty eager to make a hasty escape, too.
“I love it, Jason. I’ve always wanted to get tetanus from a broken down carnival.”
“A fair, actually,” he corrected, slipping his keys into his jacket pocket. Like he expected you to try and steal them while his back was turned, or something. “My parents used to take me here, before I met B. There weren’t a lot of Ferris wheels after that.”
There was a short lapse, the sound of lips moving against teeth. You made the mistake of humming, of glancing over to him, of leaving yourself open for another question, and Jason, as nice as he was, was more than happy to take advantage of you. “So, when did you and B start…”
He trailed off, drumming his fingers against the wheel. You filled in the rest with a breathy chuckle. “When did I start sleeping with your dad?”
He jabbed an elbow into your side. “First of all, you can admit you’re fucking him or call him my dad, but you’ve gotta pick one.” You opened your mouth, already ready to spit out some dumb joke about what Bruce would’ve preferred to be called, but Jason cut in, sniping your stupid joke out of the air. “Secondly, answer the question. I get enough of your diversions back at home.”
“Being a buzzkill must run in family,” you sighed, but gave in quickly enough. “It happened once before the whole kidnapping thing, when he was staying at my apartment and sleeping off a broken leg. I hadn’t even seen him without his mask on at that point, but I figured it was a sign – destiny, or something.” You did your best to smile, slumping against the door. “It was dumb. He gave me a couple weeks after bringing me to the estate, mostly because of the crying and stuff, but things started up again pretty quickly.”
“Do you… like it?”
“Do you like asking about your dad’s sex life?” He flinched back, and laughing, you went on. “I guess I don’t care. There’s not a lot else to do.” You swallowed. “Would it matter if I didn’t?”
For someone with so many questions, he didn’t leave a lot of time for yours, the hypocrite. Moving on swiftly, he asked, “And the others, have they…?”
“No.” And then, after a beat, “Not yet.”
He seemed to relax, at that. His back was still straight, his shoulders still squared, but his grip on the wheel loosened, his jaw unclenching ever so slightly. You tried the handle – locked. Obviously. As if you’d ever get that lucky.
His voice was soft, sweet. The kind of tone you’d use on a child, or an animal, or a doll. “This would probably be easier in the backseat, right?”
“Let me out.”
“So you can go where,baby? It’s just us out here.” He laughed, resting a hand on your thigh. You slammed your shoulder into the door. It didn’t budge. “Hey, hey, this doesn’t need to get rough. I’m not going to be like Dick. The others – they’ll do it wrong, treat you like a cut of meat they have to get to before anybody else. I just need to make sure you get out of this in one piece.”
Nails embedded in leather, body crammed as far from him as you could force it be. You weren’t hyperventilating, but only because you’d stopped breathing entirely. “Let me out, Jason.”
“I love the way you say my name. It’s pretty, and delicate – just like you.” He sighed, shook his head. “I know you don’t get it, but I’m just trying to take care of you, like you’ve been taking care of me for the past few—”
“Stop acting like I’m your mom.” A sob fractured the final syllable, another bubbling up from deep in your chest a moment later. Your body was beyond the point of rationality, but the soft, preservational part of your mind wasn’t so beyond the point of seeking refuge. There was a way out of this, as ghoulish as it seemed. You couldn’t stop it from happening, but you could make it better. You’d regret it in an hour, when it came time to explain yourself to Bruce, but what happened in an hour didn’t matter, not if you couldn’t survive the next few minutes.
You might’ve done it, too – or, you might’ve tried, at least. You wanted to. You planned to. And yet, when you opened your mouth, there was only one thing you could seem to say. “I don’t want to do this, Jason.”
His nails bit into your thigh, his smile easing at the corners. For a second, you almost thought he’d pull away. For a second, you almost thought he’d sigh, straighten back up, and admit this was all part of some cruel, unfunny joke that the two of you would remember fondly, later on.
Then, he laughed and leaned forward, lips brushing against the top of your head. You felt him speak before you heard his voice, but the cloying reverberation alone was enough to tell you that you would’ve been better off never saying anything at all.
worthless speculations (a loving family, an unpalatable desire drabble)
ft. yandere superfam x gn! neglected spouse reader x yandere batfam
reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.
— masterlist ! ; related post !
all it took was a candid shot of the resident, widowed journalist who's not-so subtly hiding his affair with the infamous spouse of bruce wayne to spark immediately rumors.
for weeks, it seems, the table has once been turned on bruce as you've found yourself the center of attention, spending time with your new family, with the very man who has come to save you months ago from the cruel hands of the paparazzi.
it started with the first picture, which quickly blew up into many photographs in such a short span.
one of a simple date, where some stranger, a fan of you, saw you at a park, having a cute picnic with both clark and jon. at first, most would assume that clark's probably just a close cousin of yours, with just a kid you're babysitting, right?
wrong. the proximity you have with the unknown man is too intimate. someone's got a close shot, and through the lenses, you wouldn't even need a damn interpreter to just see how his palms are rested against your thighs, massaging occasionally without thought nor pattern, as if it's been a natural habit of his; or how in another shot, he handfeeds you the sandwich, then takes a bite in the same spot you have bitten. he doesn't take a napkin to wipe away the remaining condiment on your lips, and—
oh!
he licks at his thumb then quickly brings his lips near yours, closing the space in between with a peck that draws out too long to be even considered remotely platonic.
a kiss packed with longing and desire.
his tongue sneakily swipes at the remaining cream on the side of your tongue. your nose crinkles and you swat his face away, but you don't look disgusted, don't even pull away as you softly swipe away the strands of hair framing his glasses.
some commentor mentions how warm your face looked, another replies with just how your fingers quickly made their way to fiddle with the man's arm in another candid photo.
the child beside you, meanwhile, makes a grossed face, cringing at the obvious romance— then he clings to you, slapping his dad (?) away from you. his hands are wrapped around your waist, and click!
it looks like the kid's looking up at you with puppy eyes, mumbling something whilst you laugh and ruffle his hair. another spectator managed to capture a video.
then a lipreader on twitter made out the words the kid is saying. he's begging for ice cream, he says with a pout, neapolitan, he says, and that he made sure to eat all the vegetables in his sandwich. then he grins when you giggle at him and whip your head to the man beside you who replies with:
"oh, sweetie, don't fall for his lies; he just sneaked junked food last night to his bedroom."
the kid, who's now famously referred to as jon, your precious little baby, as you love to call him — and since the internet is so obsessed with drama, a lot of people were smart enough to piece the puzzle together, the man you're with is clark kent — sticks his tongue out his father, then stubbornly crosses his arm yet just as quickly return to his begging.
the person recording hidden behind the bush had to do a double take, their hands shook when the audio recording picked up your faint whispers, and they were sure to gods that you referred to yourself as... as clark's spouse?!
and did jon just call you his parent?
you're brave— no, scratch that, the people you're with are even braver.
it's like they're making it obvious that you've been claimed into another family; that you oh-so easily estranged yourself from the wayne's to live a mundane, yet peaceful, loving life with the kent's just to escape the constant torment of living under an empty roof.
but still, to be that obvious is a dangerous move, isn't it?
to show up in public, unannounced, in matching trio outfits, sometimes even appearing with another unknown figure who always has shades on, to a crowd of people who take pictures of you every moment is such an iconic, yet ruining admission that you've basically (and rightfully) had an affair with no shame.
after all, who would ever think of cheating on a billionaire, one of the most famous, too!? that's basically asking for a divorce, which leads to losing all your assets. most socialites who marry into old money families are aware that even if your partner cheats, you'll still be strong enough to bear through the pain, but god are you brave for making another scene just some days after, in a cinema no less without a care in the world if the people around you watched your barely disguised pda.
well, you aren't most socialites to begin with, you've only ever married for convenience.
even when news stations were going haywire for the rumors, when so many commentators on tiktok, podcasts on twitch and youtube have you as their main topic of the week— your little family is nonchalant about everything.
it was the number one trending tag, the only headline every person focused on.
and the best (or worst in your case) part of it all, is that this was all perfectly curated by your own affair partner.
a little handholding, soft touches and caresses on your cheeks, muscled palms resting comfortably on your shoulders, and jon's tiny hands latching onto your body, nuzzling on the expanse of your stomach whilst his head tilts up to look at you with the widest puppy eyes, asking you to buy him more sweets with his freckled smiled and toothy grin— it creates this immaculate opportunity for passerby's with enough knowledge about the wayne's messy relationship status to immediately catch on to the infamous face of bruce's poor, naive spouse now in a date.
and it's not even the first date you were all caught together.
who wouldn't whip their phone out faster than the well-known speedsters to conspicuously take shots of your seemingly happy and satisfied composure?
unlike with all the moments where you are with bruce, pictures of your uncomfortable hold on his shoulders, the stares from a distance never directed at you from galas, or the way your hands quickly unwrap from his the moment your magazine pictures are finished— you look refreshed, downright gleaming brighter than the sun that could even make some senile, grumpy man smile.
your small fanbase grows quickly: people never knew just how gorgeous you are not until they see your lips quirked up, mischievously peppering the unknown child with kisses, then standing on your tippy toes next to the hulking figure beside you to give him a gentle peck on the lips.
in your current place at the farmer's market, you are glowing like a ray of sunshine, never before had the crowd ever seen you without a strained smile, never seen your eager eyes at your affair partner's sweet surprises, never seen you so willing to pick up your child and pepper his face with kisses all over his face at yet another cheesy joke he concocted.
and it's perfectly become a topic of gossip for the citizens of gotham and metropolis on the seemingly new, and unexpected affair of one of the richest man in the world's spouse.
well, if they could even call you bruce's spouse, not when his eyes are always elsewhere. not when there's been dozens of news highlighting the gossips about bruce's past affairs.
and right now, it seems you're not even wearing the diamond encrusted ring on your finger anymore. the longer you are exposed to the public, the more people notice the lack of bedazzled jewelry, or even notice
and instead, you sport a simple silver promise band on your left hand, which somehow gleams brighter than your previous ring. you wore more casual clothes, sometimes match color schemes with your little family. most of the time, you wear your affair partner's huge jackets and let it drape across your body.
others say your lazy efforts, your carelessness compared to your rigid styles before felt more befitting for you— and you are... cuter whenever they see you beside clark to assist him with his office work with a matching messenger bag hanging off your shoulders.
some people were so invested in your relationship, a close-up zoom in on clark's wallet revealed a picture of your family with the addition of ma and pa kent in his wallet's clear frame. his fond smile while looking at the photo made fangirls swoon.
and with you always trying to reach atop the nest you call his hair, always ruffling it to fix the mess, people began seeing you two as the couple goals, an embodiment of what years of love looked like despite only being together for months in their; people are unaware of how long your affair has been.
never knew clark has set his sights on you since the day of your marriage with bruce.
but it's alright if people only see the surface level of his devotion to you—
because at least his beloved is thriving.
and at least their support, their obsession over your relationship with him helps in tying you even closer to him—
without your complaints, without your hesitation.
because you love him, and he loves you. jon and even conner has warmed up to you. they all love you, and no amount of material compensation bruce throws at you can amount to the dedication and patience clark has burnt off for years to scoop you in his arms at your lowest moments.
just like a true superhero does.
he loves seeing you as the best version of yourself everyday, and you only do so because you're with him and the people who actually love you, only them.
some people who bumped shoulders with you every time you dropped jon off to school said you even smelled even less intense, like you didn't feel the need to bathe in expensive perfumes anymore. you are softer now, more homely and buzzed with a familial joy none has ever seen or felt in you before.
unlike last time, you're more confident in greetings. reducing your appearances in galas lessened your eyebags. you were the epitome of new beginnings, a symbol for citizens that maybe second chances aren't too scare in the first place.
people whisper that you've probably divorced bruce, or that your previous husband doesn't give a damn about your affair.
a person occasionally tweets questions regarding your affair, if bruce is aware about the entire thing, if it hurts his ego, or if he doesn't care at all. his fanbase still loves him, obviously. they still see him as their beloved problematic playboy, but it's concerning how others sweep your affair under the rug with every new gala published, or how news about his children sometimes overthrows the current gossip of the day about you.
of course, the media feeds off the drama like bottom feeders. there's a resurgence of even more theories regarding your complicated relationships. one person even briefly mentioned what a coincidence it is that the dick grayson is found to be eating at an adjacent restaurant beside the one you and clark were found out.
there was a trending tweet once, one that highlighted the strangeness of your previous children's sudden frequent appearances in metropolis too.
others argue it's just an overreaction, but nobody ever denied that claim itself.
some people are anticipating bruce's reaction to the tweet, too. would he stay silent, would he grovel at your feet, or is this some sort of competition between these two?
there's a conspiracy that bruce is letting all the drama simmer down, that this may be a publicity stunt. a smaller fanbase that liked your complex relationship with the man wanted you both to return together, many argue that you look better off with him— clark feels the urge to find each and every individual who's stated this if not for your current laughs in the kitchen with jon distracting him from darkening thoughts at every annoying theory.
though most of the time, thankfully, others defend your actions and clark's, even stating that it's right that the once silent and solitary spouse of bruce deserves at least decent treatment; because from all the gathered news you before, it's always just you who fusses over bruce's children like a worried hen, it's always you who adjusts and kisses your husband's ties with a fond, yet tired smile.
and some miss those softer moments they've seen on screen, even bruce himself finds his fingers dangling on his past ties in his office, unknowingly reminiscing on the warm lips that once held the same tie. and the hot dinner left cold and diverse snacks untouched always left beside his desk, and your worried coo every night he stayed up late, and...
and just how much of a perfect spouse you actually are.
it's only when it's too late, when you're too deep into your romance with clark that he finally discovers how much he misses you, your concerned whispers, your frustrated quirk of the eyebrows that you hide from him every time he rejects your advancement, your constant presence in his life until it felt like it was never there, the way you weaved yourself so easily into his life and slipped away just as quickly because of his stupidity.
in a moment of weakness one evening, when restlessness and the yearning for your soft touch urged him once more, bruce finally gained the courage to confront all the rage about you—
he tells himself it's out of curiosity, just that.
nothing else, but god, the sight of you with someone else for once hurts more than intended.
it punches him even more in the gut once he realizes that you're with his coworker, his teammate, his trusted friend who displays himself as the perfect puzzle piece beside you in every article. you don't wear your old ring, don't even wear a single piece of clothing in your old wardrobe full of luxury items.
you're different, but you're still you... just better off without him, without his children, without alfred or the comfort and protection of the manor.
alluring as you've always been, but you shine even brighter now, draped in gentle sunlight that dims in comparison to you.
and the longer he stares at your pictures, at your smile, the way your cheeks would slot so perfectly between his palms, and your hair that he knows he'd soon love to bury his nose in—
the easier it is for his hands to make its way to his contacts, ready to call alfred and his children—
and he finds himself concocting a plan faster than the need for rest swept away from his thoughts when he sees your silver band, the same design he found one day on clark's fingers after a mission.
of course, bruce is aware that he has to deal with the consequences of his actions, that his idiocracy led him at a stalemate where he's aware that your chances of returning to him is a measly zero—
but heaven forbid him, for he's still bruce. he's no lesser than the cunning, strategic vigilante he's known to be.
he'll always be one step ahead, and rummaging through the records on his desks reveals no sign of divorce papers, no legal precautions taken for custody and no angry relative of yours (who only sold you off to him to earn their share of profit) angrily contacting him.
it'll be one hell of a night, but it doesn't matter.
why?
the headline and content for the next day on a newspaper for the gotham news—?
"y/n wayne, spouse of famous philanthropist, billionaire bruce wayne found back in the arms of their old flame—?"
"there's been newer speculations, of y/n's supposed ex-husband and their children finally reconciling with each after after months of rumors regarding whether their divorce is real or not."
"—and after some investigations and a statement from the husband, bruce wayne, himself; it was finally confirmed that their divorce, was in fact, never legally processed— because, as it turns out, it was never filed at all."
a/n: that took a dark turn HAHAHAH you guys think this will be something cutesy? NO! this is my late april fool's attempt at fluff bec i love drama. please comment about what you think about this and let me hope to god this gains interaction </33 i like writing affectionate scenes with a tinge of insanity scattered in between.
also hive minds and parasocial relationships are seriously creepy to think about. that's why i tend to not often disclose personal things relating to me because of how easy it is to track someone and their life down 😭 this has been sitting on my drafts for a long time and i nearly forgot about it until someone reminded me to write for this series soo... transitioning pov's is genuinely such a struggle btw, ugh ☠️ hope u guys enjoyed this bec this is by far the hardest drabble to write.
A lot of people genuinely do hate or dismiss romance novels because they think all sexual frankness in fiction is immoral and harmful, or because they think women (and only women) are too stupid to know fiction from reality, or because they think it’s gross and laughable for women (especially ones they don’t consider fuckable) to have sexual desires, or because they automatically assume that anything popular with women is inferior, or because they only care about fiction being formulaic or light entertainment when it’s something women like. This doesn’t mean that every romance novel is great and deep and progressive, but these people aren’t coming from a good place with their criticism and they don’t deserve a pass.
