what could possibly be hotter than waking up in bed being bracketed by two, hulking men, eager for your attention. that’s what lazy mornings with bruce wayne and clark kent would look like.
being lifted with ease onto clark’s lap where his morning wood presses at the soft fabric of his sweats. a quick adjustment of his thighs slide you further down so your clit catches his hard on. being sleepy still and bruce coming up from behind you to rub your clit, encouraging you to grind and soak clark with your arousal.
the man behind you, places open mouthed kisses down your pulse as he’s tugging at your shorts, “take em’ off. let him feel you taking what you need.”
clark stiffens beneath at bruce’s words, eager to feel your heat directly on him as you dry hump yourself into an orgasm. “n-need these off,” he’d whine pathetically, pulling the waistband of his sweats down. feeling you twitch on him, without any barriers, it felt so potent that his hands snap to your hips. sliding up your torso to cup around your clothed tits.
big beefy boyfriend Bruce Wayne who knows you don't like the paparazzi taking pictures of you when you're out bc you just don't like how they twist the look on your face into disdain and so when a big crowd of paparazzi start flooding around him he wraps his arm over you shoulder and presses you into his chest he then presses his hand over your face, splaying his fingers to cover as much of it as possible so now your face is covered by his big hand and your body is pressed into his side and he knows you can't see so he leads you to the car and the gently pushes you into the car first so his wide shoulders can cover you before he gets in and slams the door on the paparazzi only then Gotham starts to think Bruce is a manhandler and likes to throw his partner around in the bedroom
CW: Voyeurism, cucking, orgasm denial, spit-roasting, Eiffel Tower position, exhibitionism risk, dp, multiple orgasms, belly bulge, creampie , you’re their lil fleshlight, > fem! reader (has a pussy + fem pronouns), fingering, overstimulation , bicep biting, teasing, male whimpering, dry humping, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, talking you through it, hair pulling, bruce and clark are described as big, creampies,
The Watchtower was supposed to be empty at this hour. Zeta tubes were locked. The league had cleared out after a briefing that ran long. You knew Clark was still here—he'd messaged you, said to meet him in the observation wing.
But the observation wing was dark when you arrived. And the main corridor was not empty.
You stopped dead at the intersection.
Bruce had Clark pressed against the reinforced glass of the panoramic viewing deck, his hand fisted in Clark's hair, his mouth locked onto Clark's throat. Clark's head was thrown back, eyes closed, a low groan rumbling from his chest.
Neither of them had heard you.
You shouldn't watch. You should turn around, go back to your quarters, pretend you saw nothing. But your feet wouldn't move. Your thighs pressed together. Your cunt throbbed.
Bruce's other hand was inside Clark's suit. You could see the bulge of his forearm working, the way Clark's hips bucked forward. The Man of Steel—the invincible, untouchable alien—was whimpering.
"Please," Clark gasped. "Bruce—"
"Not yet." Bruce's voice was gravel, pure command. "You don't get to come until I say so."
You bit your lip. A small sound escaped.
Both heads snapped toward you.
Clark's pupils were blown wide. His suit was half-open, his cock—fuck, it was huge, slick and straining, the tip already wet—visible through the gap. Bruce's hand still held him. Neither moved.
Then Bruce smiled.
It wasn't a kind smile.
"Well," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Looks like we have a witness."
Clark's breathing was ragged. "Bruce..."
"Ssh." Bruce released Clark's hair and turned fully toward you, crossing the space in three long strides. He stopped inches from you, so close you could smell the leather of his suit, the sweat on his skin. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Not—not long."
"Heard anything good?"
You swallowed. "Everything."
Bruce's hand came up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His thumb pressed against your lower lip, pushing into your mouth. You sucked without thinking.
"Good girl." He withdrew his thumb, slick with your saliva, and turned back to Clark. "Looks like your little pet wants to play."
Clark approached slowly. His suit was still open, his cock jutting out, precum beading at the tip. He stopped behind you, chest to your back, and his large hands settled on your hips.
"You want this?" Clark murmured against your ear. "Want to be our secret? Stuffed full while the whole league sleeps two floors up?"
"Yes."
Bruce's eyes burned. "Then strip."
They took you on the viewing deck. Right against the glass. Any passing ship, any league member wandering the wrong corridor, would see everything.
Clark had you bent over the observation console, your hands gripping the edge, while Bruce knelt behind you. His fingers were inside you—two, then three, stretching you open, curling against that spot that made your vision white.
"So wet," Bruce muttered. "She's been watching longer than she admits."
"Let me taste her." Clark's voice was desperate. "Bruce, please."
Bruce pulled his fingers out, brought them to Clark's mouth. Clark licked them clean, moaning at your taste.
Then Clark was between your legs, his tongue flat against your cunt, lapping at the wetness Bruce had left behind. You cried out, your knees buckling, but Bruce held you up.
"Quiet," Bruce warned, his hand clamping over your mouth. "You want to wake up the league? Want Hawkgirl to walk in and see Superman eating you out?"
You shook your head frantically. But the thought—being caught, being seen—only made you wetter.
Clark's tongue worked you expertly, circling your clit, dipping inside, fucking you with his mouth while Bruce twisted your nipples. You were so close, so fucking close—
"Not yet." Clark pulled away, his chin glistening. "I want to feel you first."
He lifted you like you weighed nothing, settling you onto the cold metal of the console. Bruce positioned himself behind Clark, his hands on Clark's hips.
"Eiffel Tower," Bruce said. "She takes both of us. One in her mouth, one in her cunt. You pick."
Clark's eyes met yours. "I want her mouth first."
He stepped forward, his cock brushing your lips. You opened, and he pushed in—thick and heavy, the taste of your own arousal on his skin. He filled your throat, and you gagged, tears springing to your eyes.
"Breathe through your nose," Clark said, his voice strained. "You can take it. Good girl."
Behind him, Bruce pressed into Clark's tight body. Clark gasped, his hips jerking forward, his cock sliding deeper into your throat. Bruce's balls slapped against Clark's ass, his rhythm slow and punishing.
"This is what you wanted?" Bruce grunted. "Caught in the act? Watching your lover get used?"
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
"Then watch."
Bruce fucked Clark in long, deep strokes, each one driving Clark's cock deeper into your throat. You were drooling, your jaw aching, your hands clawing at Clark's thighs. Bruce reached around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles.
"You feel that?" Bruce's voice was ragged. "Feel me inside him while you choke on his cock?"
You moaned around Clark's shaft, the vibration making him shudder.
"I'm close," Clark whimpered. "Bruce, I'm—"
"No." Bruce's hand clamped down on Clark's hip, stopping his thrusts. "You don't come until I say."
Clark sobbed. Actually sobbed. His body trembled, his cock pulsing in your throat, denied release.
Bruce pulled out of Clark and circled around, his own cock—thick, veined, intimidating—hovering in front of your face. Clark withdrew from your mouth, leaving you gasping, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his tip.
"Switch," Bruce ordered.
Clark lifted you, positioning you over Bruce's lap. You sank down onto Bruce's cock in one wet slide, both of you groaning. Clark moved behind you, his cock pressing against your other entrance.
"Ready?" Bruce asked.
You nodded, and Clark pushed in.
You screamed into Bruce's shoulder. The stretch was unbearable—two cocks, two massive men, filling every inch of you. Your belly bulged, the outline of them visible under your skin.
"Look," Bruce said, his hand pressing on your stomach. "Look how full you are."
They moved together, perfectly synchronized, a machine of pleasure. Bruce's thumb found your clit, rubbing while they fucked you from both sides. Clark's hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back.
"Quiet," Clark hissed. "Everyone on the station will hear if you don't—"
You came without warning, your body convulsing, your cunt clenching around Bruce's cock. A loud, broken moan escaped before you could stop it.
They froze.
Footsteps in the corridor.
Bruce's hand clamped over your mouth, his eyes locked on the door. Clark stopped moving, buried deep inside you, his breathing ragged. Your pussy clenched involuntarily, and Clark whimpered—a tiny, desperate sound.
The footsteps passed.
"Fuck," Bruce breathed. "That was close."
"Don't stop," you begged, the words muffled against his palm. "Please—"
They didn't stop.
Bruce fucked you through your second orgasm, then your third, his rhythm never faltering. Clark came first—hot, flooding your ass, his voice breaking as he emptied himself. Bruce followed, filling your cunt until it overflowed, his cum mixing with Clark's, dripping down your thighs to pool on the observation console.
They pulled out slowly. You collapsed between them, trembling, spent. Bruce caught you. Clark kissed your forehead.
"Clean up," Bruce said, his voice soft now. "We'll talk tomorrow.
Three in the morning, dead asleep, and then suddenly — not. Pain cracking across your ribs like something had hit you, sharp and immediate and real enough that you fell out of bed gasping, clutching your side, completely convinced for one disorienting moment that something had happened to you.
Nothing had happened to you.
You were in your bedroom. You were fine. But your ribs ached with a depth that didn't belong to you, and when you turned on the lamp and pulled up your shirt there were bruises blooming across your side in real time — dark, mottled, the specific pattern of an impact — on skin that had touched nothing.
Your mother sat with you until four in the morning with her hand on your back.
"Your soulmate," she offered quietly. Like it explained everything. Like it was supposed to be comforting.
It explained everything. It was not comforting.
Because whoever was on the other end of this — whoever you were cosmically bound to — was getting hurt. Badly. Regularly. The bruises faded by morning but the ache took days, and it happened again two weeks later, and then again, and then with a frequency that settled into something you could only describe as a schedule.
Every few nights. Sometimes every night.
Always between midnight and four in the morning.
Always the kind of pain that meant serious, the kind that meant your soulmate was out there somewhere doing something that resulted in cracked ribs and split knuckles and once, memorably, a dislocated shoulder that had you weeping on your bathroom floor at two in the morning unable to lift your arm.
By the time you were twenty and had moved to Gotham for work you had developed a whole system. Extra painkillers. An ice pack in the freezer. A specific pillow arrangement. You kept loose shirts for the mornings when the bruises were bad, covered them at work with practiced ease, told no one because how would you explain it, what would you even say.
My soulmate is out there somewhere doing something that keeps putting them in the hospital, probably, and I feel all of it, and I've never met them, and I don't know if they're okay.
You thought about that last part more than you let yourself admit.
Whether they were okay.
The Gotham Preservation Gala was not your idea of a Tuesday night.
It was your boss's idea of a Tuesday night, specifically the idea that you attending would be good for the company and that your presence was required and that the dress code was black tie which meant an hour of your life spent doing something with your hair that it didn't naturally want to do.
You went. You smiled at people. You accepted a glass of champagne you didn't particularly want and stationed yourself near a window with a view of the city and did the mental math on how long you had to stay before leaving was acceptable.
"You look like someone calculating an exit strategy."
You turned.
Bruce Wayne was, apparently, a person who existed in real life and not just in the society pages. You knew his face from years of Gotham news — the square jaw, the dark hair, the eyes that were a complicated shade of blue-gray that photographs had never quite captured — and here it was in person, closer than expected, wearing an expression of mild amusement that sat slightly oddly on features that seemed more naturally suited to the cover page of a magazine.
"I'm calculating an exit strategy," you corrected, because lying seemed pointless.
Something in his expression shifted. Warmed, slightly. "How long have you given yourself?"
"Twenty more minutes. Forty if the food is good."
"The food is good."
"Forty minutes then."
He almost smiled. It had the quality of something that didn't happen easily, that had to make its way through considerable resistance to get to his face. "Bruce Wayne."
"I know." You told him your name. "I know who you are."
"Most people here pretend they don't, as a courtesy." He settled beside you at the window, looking out at the city with an ease that suggested he'd done this at many galas — stationed himself somewhere peripheral, watched the room, kept an exit available.
"That seems exhausting," you mused.
"It is," he agreed.
You stood together for a moment in the particular comfortable quiet of two people who had both independently decided the party was better from the edges. The city glittered outside, and you thought — as you sometimes did, looking at Gotham at night — about whoever was out there somewhere in it, doing whatever they did that hurt so much.
The pain had been bad lately. Last week had been one of the worst — something that had woken you at one in the morning with a blinding headache and what felt like a gash across your left forearm, the skin raised and stinging, gone by morning but vivid enough while it lasted that you'd sat in your kitchen until sunrise.
"You're rubbing your arm," Bruce Wayne stated, curiosity in his gaze.
You stopped. You hadn't noticed you were doing it — the left forearm, automatic. "Sorry. Old habit."
Something crossed his face. Fast, almost invisible. "Does it hurt?"
An odd question. "Not right now. It's just — a thing I do."
He looked at your arm for a moment with an expression you couldn't quite read — too many layers to it, something careful and controlled at the surface and something else underneath that the control was working hard to cover.
"Enjoy the gala," he stated charmingly, flashing you that award winning smile. And then he was gone, smooth and unhurried, absorbed back into the room.
You watched him go with the distinct feeling of having missed something.
You ran into him again because Gotham was simultaneously enormous and very small.
The coffee shop on Seventh — your coffee shop, your Tuesday and Thursday morning ritual, the place that knew your order — and there he was, at the counter, in civilian clothes that were expensive in the way of things that were trying not to look expensive, looking at the menu with the focus of someone making a genuine decision.
He saw you at the same moment you saw him.
"You come here?" you asked, because it seemed impossible somehow. Bruce Wayne had a manor. Bruce Wayne had, presumably, staff who made him whatever he wanted.
"I come here," he confirmed. "Alfred's coffee is better. I come here to think."
"The noise?"
"The anonymity." He glanced around the shop — small, slightly scruffy, not the kind of place anyone looked for Bruce Wayne. "Nobody here cares who I am."
"I care who you are."
"You're the exception." He said it simply, without deflection, and the directness of it caught you slightly off guard. "Can I join you?"
You sat together for an hour. That was the thing that surprised you — not the sitting, but the hour, how quickly it went, how easy it was. He was different here than at the gala. Still contained, still careful, still with that quality of a person who monitored themselves constantly. But the performance of Bruce Wayne, Gotham's most eligible socialite, was absent. What was left was quieter and sharper and considerably more interesting.
He asked questions and actually listened to the answers. He had opinions he stated without the social lubrication of pretending they were suggestions. He drank his coffee black and read the room around him in a way that was so continuous and automatic you almost didn't notice he was doing it.
"You do that constantly," you stated observantly, "Watch the room."
A pause. "Old habit."
You smiled at that — your words, back to you. He caught it and something in his expression did the almost-smile again, more visible this time, closer to the surface.
You left with his number in your phone under Bruce W., which felt both completely ordinary and slightly surreal.
It became a thing.
Coffee on Thursdays. Occasionally dinner. The particular rhythm of two people finding each other in the margins of their separate lives, which was how you thought of it — neither of you were people who made a lot of room, and somehow you were making room, and neither of you were commenting on that directly, which suited you both fine.
You liked him. Considerably. More than was probably wise given how little you actually knew about him — because for all the ease of the coffee shop conversation, there was a wall in Bruce Wayne, solid and carefully maintained, and you could feel exactly where it was even when he was being generous on the other side of it.
You didn't push. You figured the wall had reasons.
The pain was getting worse.
Or not worse exactly — not more severe. More frequent. Hardly a night went by now, and the accumulated tiredness of it was starting to show in ways you couldn't entirely manage. Dark circles. A slowness in the mornings. Your boss had asked twice if you were sleeping.
You were sleeping. You just kept getting interrupted.
Three months into knowing Bruce Wayne, on a Thursday morning, you arrived at the coffee shop with a bruise along your jaw that concealer had mostly handled but not entirely, and the particular careful way you were holding your left side that you'd gotten good at disguising but apparently not good enough.
He saw it immediately.
You watched him see it — the almost imperceptible shift, the way his eyes moved over you in that room-reading way and stopped, and then the stillness that came over him that was too controlled to be casual.
"What happened to your face," he asked you, not unkindly, worry evident on his face.
"Nothing happened to my face."
"There's a bruise."
"I walked into a door."
The look he gave you was exceptionally flat. Bruce Wayne had a very effective flat look. "You walked into a door."
"It was a very sudden door."
"And your side?"
You straightened automatically. "My side is fine."
He was quiet for a moment. The coffee shop moved around you — orders called, chairs scraping, the ordinary noise of a Thursday morning — and he sat across from you with his hands around his cup looking at you with an expression that was doing something complicated.
"You don't have to tell me," he finally. Carefully. "But I'd like you to know that I'm — that I notice. And I've been noticing for a while."
Something in the honesty of it made your chest tighten.
"It's not what you think," you stated firmly.
"What do I think?"
"That someone is — that it's happening to me." You looked at your coffee. Then at him. "It's the soulmate thing. The connection. Whatever they're — I feel it too. It shows up." You gestured vaguely at your jaw.
The silence that followed was long.
When you looked up, his face had done something you hadn't seen it do before. All the careful management of it had gone briefly, completely offline — not long, just a second — and what was underneath was raw enough that it took you a moment to process.
Then it was back. Controlled. Present.
"Your soulmate," he started, his tone very even.
"Whoever they are, they do something — I don't know what. Something that hurts. A lot and often." You tried to keep your voice neutral, the way you'd learned to. "I've been feeling it since I was sixteen."
Another silence. Different quality to this one.
"That's a long time," he rasped.
"Yeah."
"Do you—" He stopped. "Are you angry? At them?"
The question surprised you. People usually asked if you were scared, or sad, or whether you'd tried to find them. Nobody had asked if you were angry.
"Sometimes," you replied honestly, "At two in the morning with a dislocated shoulder, yeah, a little." You turned your cup in your hands. "Mostly I just worry. Whoever they are, they're — they've been doing this for years. Whatever it is. And they keep going back to it." You looked out the window at the Gotham street. "That takes a certain kind of person."
Bruce Wayne was very still across from you.
"What kind of person?" he asked quietly.
You thought about it. About sixteen years of midnights, of pain that didn't belong to you, of the particular rhythm and frequency of it that you'd lived with long enough to know like a language.
"Someone who thinks it's necessary," you stated, tilting your head, "Whatever they're doing. Someone who's decided it matters enough." A pause. "I don't think they do it because they want to get hurt. I think they do it in spite of that."
He looked at you for a long moment.
"You're very understanding," he observed gently, "About something that costs you a great deal."
"They don't know it costs me," you said. "I've never met them."
Something moved through his expression — something that looked almost like pain, separate from whatever the bruise on your jaw had been. Self-directed, internal.
"What would you say?" he asked. "If you met them."
You considered. Outside, Gotham went about its morning, loud and indifferent and entirely itself.
"I'd probably ask if they were okay," you replied, "First. Before anything else." You met his eyes. "The rest of it can wait. I just want to know they're okay."
Bruce Wayne looked at you across a small table in a coffee shop on Seventh Street, and something in him — some load-bearing thing, carefully constructed and long maintained — shifted.
His left hand was on the table. He turned it over slowly. And there, on the inside of his wrist where his sleeve had pulled back slightly, was a scar — thin, silver-pale, the kind that came from something specific and serious — that matched, with precise and impossible accuracy, a scar on your own wrist that had appeared four years ago and that you'd never been able to explain.
You looked at his wrist.
You looked at your own.
You looked at his face.
He was watching you with an expression that was completely unguarded for the first time since you'd known him — all the walls down, or not down exactly, but transparent, the structure of them visible but no longer blocking the view. And the view was — a lot. The view was a person who was very tired and very sorry and had apparently been sitting across from you for three months with this knowledge living in him like a held breath.
"Bruce," you started.
"I know," he rasped quietly. "I know. I should have—"
"Are you okay?" you asked him softly.
He stopped.
He looked at you — really looked, the way he hadn't let himself — and whatever he found in your eyes seemed to take him slightly apart at the seams, gentle and irreversible.
"No," he replied, like it was honest in a way that clearly cost him, "Not always."
"Okay." You turned your hand over on the table, an offering. The same scar on the same wrist. "That's what I needed to know."
His hand moved to yours slowly. The contact of it was — warm. Solid. The particular weight of something that had been a long time coming finally arriving.
Outside, Gotham was loud and difficult and entirely itself.
Inside, Bruce Wayne held your hand across a small table and said nothing, and you let the nothing sit there, and it was the most he'd given you yet.
summary: you and your infamous, lovesick Bat, but with only one of you knowing the other.
warnings: full +18 content (vaginal sex and riding). minors do not interact, please.
notes: hiiiii!!!! ♡ I thought in the middle of break and on Valentine's Day, why I shouldn't write about this specific idea about one year Bat Bruceyyy, a Valentine's Day special for you! This smallest piece is specifically based on “Batman: Year One” where baby was trying his hardest on his promise that he accidentally found the love of his life! 🫶🏻 And this idea was running through my head all those weeks, specifically him like this; i just know that man is crazy for his girl, like infuckingsanely! So, happy reading, my dears!!!
“Shit,” he cursed, his baritone voice filling your ear as he bit the soft skin of your neck. You softly moaned while holding him close by your fingers in his hair as he fucked you with his deep thrusts. Each snap of his hips against yours was deeper and slower than the previous one, diving into you inch by inch while he did. You tried to hide your face from being so easy in his hands, against his shoulder as if it wasn't dark enough in your small room, just a trick of your current sensation. However, his hand that was gripping the metal headboard came through your hair to keep you pressed against your pillow for dragging his lips over your soft skin. His other hand was holding your bare thigh around his waist since you had wrapped your legs around it, to perfectly ease him move in and out of your pussy.
It aroused you more that how he was effortless about handling you like this, never rough and mindful of you. He had improved himself since you two had sex for the first time. It could be so much better if he were open about his ideas or words but it still made you want him like this, quiet and messy, in your dark room.
Your fingers found his upper back which was scarred but also hardened by the muscles. Your fingertips dragged through the one you found at the moment while his cock hit your sweet spots perfectly leaving you breathless. He loved to play with his pace as you realized ‘cause since he started to drag his hips into yours, he was slightly altering his pace on and off, leaving you breathless and whimpering against his bruised skin.
The sound of skin and his breathing right against your ear were the only sounds that filled your room, occasionally your own soft moans in the dense air between you.
“Is it good?” he muttered to you, pressing his nose under your jaw. You believed that he liked the situation you were in, him being buried in you thickly while your legs around his waist could give anyone a vision of lovers, well in fact that you two were strangers that only one of you knew the other.
You tightened your legs around him which made him squeeze your soft flesh as a response to you. He pressed his face to your cheek, making you meet his angle before he caught your lips in a lazy kiss while he fucked you. He kissed you one by one, earning the kisses how he liked but also giving you moments of air since it was harder for you to breathe in this position — you underneath his sturdy body, scorching from his warmth and the quilts around you two in the freezing February night in your bed.
“You’re so sweet.” he groaned at your lips before catching them, rolling his tongue into your mouth as his cock rolled between your folds, stretching your walls utterly. You loved the way he was doing you, the thickness and the skin against yours — him inside of you so good like this.
You sighed into his mouth when he broke the kiss to catch your lips once more before pressing his forehead against yours. You were sweet as honey, almost like the unique flavor he once tasted in his lifetime before he lost the feeling of it until he found it again. Your sighs of love — even though it was early to call this love — and scent were hazy around him, against his face. The feeling shouldn't have made him feel so good like this as he was in your arms, in your sheets but here he was in the bed you had let him rest when you were first aiding him as well as letting him fuck you for the second time in the week. He would stay away from you until there was a hollow in his mind, the hollow that made him think about you in the ways that belonged to the lovers.
You were constantly flickering in his mind when he was in his cave, bruised and freshly awakened from his daytime slumber. Sometimes you were in his mind for a minute before his thoughts wandered to whatever thing he was pondering about, sometimes instead of getting a chance to envision you, he was right near your neighborhood as he watched your silhouette in your window. He did not want to admit or he was obviously ignorant of his own feelings when it came to you until he couldn't bear to miss you anymore as he found himself in your bed. Well, in fact it was the main reason why he was there in the first place on Valentine's Day night, for the purpose of getting enough of you until he came back days later.
Your fingers pulled him back by the hair on his neck, trying to get some air. You were now used to his ushering of being close like this, face to face when you were having sex slowly each time. If you ever recall, you would know he did not like to have a few minutes of release since his only thought was to be with you, thus the sex would last long and slow. You did not mind, did not care as long as he was against your burning skin. You were just as needy as he was for you, a constant ache between your thighs and chest when you were thinking about him. You two were so mad about each other that you were not minding to fuck a stranger in your dark room, yet if you dared to call him a stranger anymore. He would come in the night for you to help him with his wounds — even though he had Alfred as his upper hand — or just a visit he couldn't bear to go to his lonely bed to finish the patrol and end up with you in your bed. You would unconditionally take him as he was, sometimes messy and rough, or sometimes slow and needy since he was making you catch some feelings over his every visit.
The way he kissed you, wrapped around you each time like he couldn't dare to keep his hand away from you was enough for you to let him into your heart. You wished you could see his face when you were pulling him close to you, see the expression of love when he would lean his face on yours to instantly kiss you since he did not want to stay away from you even for a second. You wished you could see his gorgeous, hazy eyes during your afterglow as you would be talking to him about something sleepily while he was nuzzled against you, him breathing quietly until you fall asleep and he would leave your bed. And you wished you had the chance to see his face instead of tracing his features in the sombre room when you were unfastening his cowl.
All those wishes and yet you two were in your same routine as he was all over you and you were gladly aching for every inch of him.
When he hit one of your sweet spots, your fingers dug into his scarred upper back. You were used to tracing them when you had the chance — which you did nearly every time. He had a few as you knew them by heart now, adoring his soft skin. You scratched his back in pleasure, your soft whimpers against his jaw.
“Oh, baby,” you tightened your arms around his neck as his face was nestled against your cheek while his hips were lazily moving against yours, “Please.. don't stop.”
“I won't.” he mumbled against your cheek before dragging wet kisses over your jaw, then softly kissing it as he fucked you as you two liked. Your fingertips grazed his skin while you were having the time of your night, your eyes fluttering from his thrusts. A few more slow snaps of his until he almost halted his actions which made you instantly upset.
Before you did anything, he pressed a kiss on your lips and then muttered his words against them.
“I want you on top of me.” he pressed another kiss on your lips. In the next minutes, you found yourself straddling his hips, your fingers digging into his ribs from the sensation of his thickness inside you. You just both loved and hated how he was — so thick enough to make your toes curl and so mean about that he knew how much you enjoyed it to drive you mad during it.
He loved you more when you were on him, your body so right under his palms as he was starved for you to be unable to keep his hands off you. As you were riding him with your slow pace and soft moans, his hands were supporting you on your thighs. There was no single light in your room, only the dim, small light coming from the slightly drawn curtain as you two preferred that way — him being a mystery to you in as he was the darkness itself. He cursed under his breath since he was there to see you in the first place yet due to the inconvenience, he did not watch your pretty face; watch how you were like the brightest star in his arms, so breathtaking that it got him on his knees for your pussy.
Fuck it, if he couldn't see you, what was the meaning of all this anyway? What was the meaning of having sex of his life in the night with a marred shoulder then leaving at four in the morning for his father's house?
He bet you were so gorgeous as you were trying to keep yourself steady from the pleasure; your hair messy and the lips he loved to devour were slightly parted as you were trying to catch some air. He bet your vision would be the best thing he saw that week, in the midst of slipping through the GCPD.
Your hands moved from his ribs to his chest, bracing yourself as you took him inch by inch slowly. You were unaware of him almost switching the light from the notions though his head. All you could think about was how it was perfect in the middle of the night; just him and you. Valentine's Day was long forgotten by you since he was kissing you, never mind spending it lonely until he came this night. For you, it was all about him and you, tangled in your sheets like this. But for Bruce, it was more than that.
When you hit a particular spot by yourself, a whimper let your lips as you stilled in your pace. But he got you, ushering you with his hands under your bare thighs.
“Fuck, baby.” he groaned, aiding you move again, “Take what you want.”
As you rode him, it drove him mad that he couldn't reach for your skin other than the part under his palms, so he drew you close enough to catch your lips messily. A few more kisses and slow thrusts left the tension between you scorching than before. So, you tried to ride his cock while being close to him so he could prep wet and messy kisses over your jaw and throat, bite the skin as he enjoyed every second of you. Once his mouth found your breast, another needy gasp left from your lips, your hand snaked around his neck to keep him buried to you. He sucked the bud before biting it as you were trying to get another sweet spot on his cock.
Your fingers went through his thick hair, pulling him back to your lips. He must have gotten the need as he complied and came to your lips, kissing you hungrily now. You let him slip his tongue into your mouth, make you needy for air and him as well, while he was buried so deep in your pussy.
“Do you,” he whispered between the kisses, “Do you want to do this all night?”
“Yes.”
So, it must have been the love in the dense air between you have gotten you two so high to be tangled in your arms like two valentines.
♡
thank you so much for reading! ♡
here is the “masterlist” and “pieces on the way” if you would like to see! ♡
summary: your husband has a few things to say but what about if he is blinded by you being his God?
warnings: full +18 content with religious themes. if you’re against the religious undertones, please do not engage with my work. Minors do not interact, please.
notes: hello, hello!!!! ♡ i hope this would be a great beginning of trying to come back to writing after long hiatus and i hope all of you would enjoy this!!! Mr. Wayne’s yearning basically can be explained by this picture but feel free to imagine whatever you want, dearsssss!!! And YES, Bruce Wayne yearns for his wife! if you have any idea to give, feel free to hit me up! Mwah!! ♡
His fingertips grazed your bare thighs under the hem of your skirt, sighing in contentment as you were close to him. His skin was warm just like yours, especially when he brushed his fingers higher under the jean. Your hands were on either side of his shoulders while he was sitting on a chair, you looking down at him prettily while being between his legs. As he pressed his forehead against your stomach, your fingers went into his dark, inky hair as well, holding onto him.
Bruce hummed after he stayed pressed against you for a while as your fingers started to play with his locks. He was softly brushing his thumb on your skin, loving the familiar feeling of being this close to you, like bathing in the Sun after being so long in the dark. The way you were radiating warmth to him, even just normally existing in his arms was something that he kept so precious in his darkness-covered Manor.
His loveliest valentine. His one and only Sun.
He started to press a few kisses lazily on your shirt. Then, one of his hands came to pull up your garment for his lips to meet your soft skin before it disappeared under your skirt to find its place on your thigh. His mouth found a few places there and here, taking his time to cherish you.
“How was your day, baby?” he mumbled as his voice was muffled by your skin.
“It was alright,” you said, tilting your head slightly to the side from the loving sensation. “I was busy with Dick after his school… How was yours?”
“I happened to stop by a church today.”
His words astonished you. Your husband was never the one to believe in God, yet in religion itself. He had no time to be on his knees to pray anymore or maybe he was simply hopeless ever since his beloved parents had bled on the coarse Gotham concrete. Thus, it was bewildering for you to hear his utterances.
As you were silent on the tongue, he went on as well as his kisses on your stomach. “I was looking for something..” he muttered, resting the left side of his face on you, closing his eyes to the dim light of your room. His hands under your skirt went higher, already reaching your delicate panties to slip his callous fingers through the waistband of it. “Then I came across it.”
You frankly listened to his conversation as your fingers had halted to play with his locks since you had heard his words. There was a soft rain outside, its drops tapping against the windows of your grand bedroom as they filled the room with your undisturbed breathing. He remained speechless for a few minutes, basking in you. You tightened your hands around his neck, keeping him buried to you as much as you wanted. He sighed before trailing his face, nuzzling into the bare skin of your stomach, kissing it once again. Then he opened his eyes, turning his gaze solely to you through his thick, dark lashes.
For some reason, he looked perfect in your vision that made your chest tighten from the intensity of his gaze on you. His blue eyes that you adored seemed to be in a deeper shade of blue from the dullness of your night lamp. Your hand around his neck came to his handsome face to touch him. You tried to caress his cheek but angled his face to press another kiss onto your palm, then nuzzled there.
You wanted to get down his level, slip into his arms, and bury him in kisses at his feverish moves, but he did not let you as he withdrew his face from your palm. His face had a few faint scars since the last week, the ones you had carefully bandaged to heal for the nights. They were fine now but back in the days, you used to kiss one or more of them when he was sleeping next to you, saddened by the scene of his cuts had bled through the night to leave a few blood marks on his pillow.
In the next seconds, his deft fingers which were hooked with the elastic band of your panties, started to pull them while his stare bored into your skirt.
“I sat there for a while,” he said casually, skillfully dragging your delicate piece from your bare legs until they were off you, placed on the floor. Your breath was slightly hitched when he gently but suddenly pulled you to himself to be in the same closeness as a few seconds before. Then, he hiked your skirt up with one hand to gain access to his intimate and sole heaven.
You sighed when his lips found your folds. His other hand on your thigh gently parted them to his liking. He kept his hot mouth there, barely humming before bitting them to cause you to softly moan. “The pastor was,” his lips were brushing as he commenced to speak his mind off before kissing another kiss there, “preaching about something that I couldn't pay attention to.”
Your lips parted when he dived his tongue amid your folds while your brows knitted beautifully at his unholy action. Your hands around his neck found his sturdy upper back now to keep yourself steady in his arms. His tongue slipped between your folds into you, deliciously filling you in as your fingers tightened on his shirt. He consistently moved it in and out from you, then your pussy into his liking, eating out his sweet girl.
His girl that was already scorching from his mouth, looking down at him with needy eyes and warm cheeks in his arms as his hungry stare bore into her from below. His mouth was latched into your pussy, leaving his eyes visible through your disheveled skirt. He could have stayed there if he could, buried in you as you were looking at him with nothing but love.
He always adored when you were looking into his eyes, your beautiful eyes having a glint in them from your immense love for him. You would be bashfully or happily smiling at him, or leaning on him to earn how many kisses you wished in his Batcave while he was occupied by the thoughts of managing to pull himself to your magnetic self. He would give you anything you wished, anything that made you look at him just as you were doing at the moment. If it was meant to be like this, you would be his forevermore with the vision of love in your arms and his name through your lips he loved to kiss, so then it be.
So, then it be as you fluttered your lovely lashes down at his stare, gripped your fingers on his white shirt from his tongue inside you while the soft, heavy breaths slipped from your lips.
He closed his eyes and sucked your folds, then nipped them to hear your voice, to make your head tilt to the side in pleasure. His palms in the back of your thighs kept you pressed to him to hinder miss any inch of your cunt. When you swallowed and softly mewled, he continued with the conversation that he had paused.
“I never understand it,” he said before gathering your arousal into his mouth, sucking it in fulfillment. “I sat there for a while, shit, to listen to the choir.”
When he nipped the inside of your soft thighs, your fingers went to his hair from his taunting. He then kissed the places he bit one by one, an apologize to his rigged play on you. How could he not when you were so adorable, so sweet to his deliberate, needy mouth to devour you?
“..What’s wrong, baby?” he muttered into your skin, pressing the words to it, “Is this too much?”
You knew from the tone of his voice how conceited he was since he loved to have any way with you to make you burst with bliss. But you also knew how arrogant he was, that it was only him to make you feel that good. From his manner, it was hard not to give in.
He once again slipped his tongue into your pussy, making you moan. It was burning you in your less clothes as he was fucking you solely with his tongue, not even bothering to use his fingers.
“B-Bruce,”
“Mhm?”
You couldn't finish your words since he pulled his face from where it belonged, leaving you bare from the absence of his presence. Your soft sigh of disappointment and flutter of your loveliest doe-like gaze at him were so adorable at him at that moment; the corner of his mouth twitching from the amusement. When you saw it, you were about to leave his arms before he pulled you by your thighs to bury his mouth on you along with his smile on his lips. He had pulled himself back for an air but the need in your bewitching eyes was far more necessary for him to worship you.
“You’re so sweet.” he said, flipping his tongue between your folds that were covered with his saliva and your arousal. “My sweet girl,” he resumed as he preached his words while eating you out heavily. Your fingers made his thick hair messy as if he ever minded. In the next few seconds, his hand supported your thigh carefully placed it on his shoulder as he was busy with your pussy, to open you more for him.
“..Fuck, come here..”
As if you weren't his already.
In the next few seconds, you were a mess. You did not need to grind on his face or tongue as he was eating you so fucking good, mewling out for him with your head low, eyes hazy. He was holding you dear to him, his crooked nose pressuring your clit so utterly to be pliant in his hands. A few flickers of his tongue in you, then he was slowing down for a moment to relish you.
“How does it feel to be a heaven, huh?” he asked you, turning his sharp gaze up at you. He angled his face to the left, kissing your slip before looking at you avidly. You were both speechless and perplexed by his words, staring at him tongue-tied in the loveliest way with your soft breaths that were slipping through your lips that Bruce loved to steal them. He sighed in contentment at your scene in front of him; your vision of ache for him, your burning skin, and amorous eyes in this “impure” activity. The way you two were addicted to each other, the way you two were all over each other, was the contrast to the theme of conversation or vision he was having in his mind.
He would lick and suck your wetness for hours, nip or bite the flesh of your soft thighs, spit in your cunt to tease you then clean it heartily, and all you needed to do was scratch his neck or bury his face in your sensitive pussy by his hair with your feeble moans, which were the things he named as divine. Or all the dirty words he would mutter while grazing his mouth on your skin were enough for you to warm your cheeks or clench your pussy around him, yet he would call you a heaven in his ‘divine’ definition.
Your fingers went to his neck since you were silent, your eyes were focused on his blues.
“What?”
“Are you doing this on purpose?” he murmured, the corner of his lips creating a crease of a smile at your loveliness. “Are you driving me mad on purpose?” he continued, his baritone voice hushed now, yet filled with something you had only heard when he was in bed. “To want me on my knees for you? Is that why you look at me like that?”
You were all flushed already from his deft tongue and now he was working his mouth on you with words as well. Without letting you adjust his words, he gently guided your knee off his shoulder, so you could stand comfortably on your feet, and pressed his lips against your lower abdomen as his eyes were now half-lidded, looking up at you once again just like the first time in the night.
Your hand came to his locks that were in disarray on his forehead, placing them aside to clear his vision as you gazed at his lovesick eyes. A sweet, bashful smile appeared on your lovely face, blushing in the prettiest way.
“Where did that come from?”
Now, it was time for him to be silent, breathing calmly against you. His favorite sight was right there in front of you, bestowing him.
“..Hm?”
The light rain outside had already turned violent as you two were busy in love and now its drops were easily heard when you two were tranquil. As you heard no word from him, you gently caressed his cheek then, brushed his under-eyes adoringly. He was all peaceful and wordless while his eyes were flickering on your features, somehow pondering in his mind while you were loving him.
You managed to pull him slightly away from you to sit on his thigh, him gladly welcoming you. Now, you were face to face with him how you wanted earlier, to kiss his face as much as you wanted. He smiled at you when he saw your heart-shaped eyes at him, angling his face to catch your lips in a soft kiss. You happily took it, tasting yourself in his mouth before the kiss ever got the chance to be heated. A few more kisses followed after it, soft but more and more until you pressed your forehead against his.
“I love you.”
“You are the only thing I know as divine.” he mumbled against your lips, clearly confessing something.
“Oh, Bruce..”
“Does loving you this much make me a saint, too?” he went on, his mouth seeking yours eagerly. “Coming to you every night can be considered as exalting you?”
His hand on your waist went through your locks to pull you away slightly to stare at you wholly, noticing how the way light illuminated your features fascinatingly. You were adorably fluttering your lashes at his lovestruck gaze, dazed from his admissions. He was infrequent about speaking his mind off like this in the two years of your marriage, yet never were his actions unfamiliar to you.
You loved him, adored him insanely, especially how he was earnest and honest with you in anything you could count but this was something that was beguiling for you. His gorgeous blue eyes that you dote on were flickering on your face once again as if he had not drunk your whole expression just before; as if he was seeing you for the first time in his miserable day.
“I didn’t realize you.. you wanted me this much.” you said to him, giving him a small peck as the self-consciousness washed over you. The scarce feeling bloomed in your chest at his words that made you bashful even.
“Did you not?”
He asked in genuine confusion, his hushed tone against your kiss-bruised lips. When your eyes caught his blues, they were focused on you in this closeness under his knitted eyebrows.
“I—” you said, clearly lost for thoughts at the moment. Had he not been straightforward about his feelings with you? Had he not made it unmistakable when he had proposed to you two years ago, at the age of twenty-six as young to know about the eminence of love, that he wanted you evermore? Had he not said the words of how much he loved you in heavy feelings or utterances that were obscuring you to doubt yourself?
“Lay me down, handsome.” you whispered to him, pressing your forehead against his to bask in him with your shyness. “Come inside.”
He did not need to be told twice as he carried you to your bed, laying you down on your sheets to show his devotion through the night.
♡
thank you so much for reading! ♡
here is the “masterlist” and “pieces on the way” if you would like to see! ♡
you’re going to love again, find a job again, create art again, do what you love again, feel powerful again. you’re going to be back on track. i don’t know when, but you are going to feel like yourself again, eventually. this isn’t the end. hang in there.
summary: landing in an alternate dimension—you're certain this version of damian who finds you should hate you as much as your damian does. but when he pulls you in so tight as if he's experienced losing you before.. you realise he isn't so willing on letting you go.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: alternate dimension damian who finds you which makes the yearning 1000x worse, 'ill choose you in every lifetime' trope, angst-comfort
It's been twenty minutes since you ended up in another dimension. A stupid argument. An accidental trigger. Of course, none of that comes close in comparison to the complete shock of Damian Wayne crushing you with his embrace.
No. Embrace is too soft a term for how tightly squeezed you are—the lack of space making it easy for you to detect how his body is physically shaking.
You're covered in soot, dust particles still emanating from where your form had materialised—from where your first instinct had been to press the emergency contact on your comms. Damian had found you not long after. You still remember how quickly your fury had been extinguished the moment you caught sight of his pale expression, the sheer disbelief in the open gape of his lips.
Damian hates you. That fact is precisely the reason you ended up here, in a whole other dimension. That instinctive reminder is what forces you to push yourself out of his embrace, and his own hands go slack as he stares at you wordlessly.
"Why'd you follow me in—you idiot!" You snap, trying to brush off how taken off-guard you are. "I can't believe we're both stuck here."
He blinks once. "Stuck?"
"You should've pieced this together faster than I did." Gesturing to your surroundings, your arms still ache from having crashed through a construction site. "We're stuck in another dimension all thanks to you."
He blinks again, slower this time. Processing. "Where exactly did you come from?"
"Did the fall injure your head?" Your impatience brims over your exhausted features. "Isn't it enough that you had to start something in the lab? We wouldn't have ended up here if you hadn't been so insistent on triggering the portal."
His features remain stoic, but there's a familiar calculation in his gaze. His lips part after a moment. "Portal."
It's infuriating how long he's taking to catch onto the reality of what's just happened. You give a short nod, your growing panic stuck between your teeth. If Damian's here with you, there's no telling if you'll be able to make a connection back to your dimension.
"I suppose you are right." His brows remain furrowed in consideration. "But there is one thing you're missing."
Leave it to him to counter every point of yours, needing to be right as always. A heavy sigh leaves your lips. "And what is that?"
"I'm not your Damian."
Those words still ring hollow, a repeating drone of his voice as you watch the familiar city pass by the windowpane. It is Gotham, but not. Unfamiliar stores fill the streets, similar roads but not quite, small inconsistencies that are enough to remind you that this isn't your home.
That the person in the driver's seat beside you is a complete stranger.
"Who am I to you?" You question, casting your glance back to that stiff, perfect posture of his as he makes a turn towards his apartment.
That hug from earlier, if you could even call it that, still lingers like a shadow, casting goosebumps over your skin whenever the memory overstayed its welcome.
You spot the whitening of his knuckles, the pads of his fingers squeezing into the steering wheel before the colour returns, as if his composure never faltered.
"You were my assigned partner." He answers briskly.
Were. There's finally one consistency, at the very least. To your relief, the version of you here didn't seem to get along with him either.
Your small amusement is quickly diminished at the rise of another concern of yours. If there was another version of you running around this city, you can't even begin to fathom the potential fractures of reality if an encounter truly happened.
You're already playing a huge risk in letting this Damian assist you. Still, you had no one else.
Your comms had contacted him, not that it was to any surprise of your own once the initial panic died down. It wasn't likely that you still had a connection to your own world, much less an existing channel with your Damian. It was pure luck that you still had use for the device at all. Or at least, you hoped you could consider it luck.
Your gaze lingers over his features. The likeness between him and your Damian was uncanny. The same nose bridge, freckles, and even that faint scar running down his jawline. It was all so familiar that you had to snap yourself out of it when you found your body conditioning itself into safety, as if forgetting he's a stranger.
"Well, I hope you'll let bygones be bygones." You answer wryly. "There wasn't anyone else I could contact. If you can help me find a way back home, I'll be out of your dimension in no time."
The silence grows terse. A shift has occurred, even if you're unsure on the why. You had only stated the obvious. Perhaps his moods were in line with what you were familiar with after all, and that is no soothing relief if it meant having to face that same temperament that landed you here.
"I'm already offering my help." Damian answers after a moment, as if he's finally settled for a response he was satisfied with.
"I hope so." You mutter, eyelids falling shut in your exhaustion. The sight of the city was making you nauseous. "It's kind of your fault I ended up here. The other you, anyways."
He hums, finger tapping once against the steering wheel. "Typical."
This Damian has an apartment akin to a serial killer's. The barest necessities, minimal decorations—it's as if every surface has gone untouched. If you hadn't seen it with your own eyes when he unlocked the door with his thumbprint, you would've assumed no one had ever stepped foot within these walls.
"Ever heard of decoration?" It lands wrong, and you internally wince. It's difficult, to not fall back into that same push-and-pull when you see Damian's figure in your peripheral vision. To not be mistaken with familiar company.
He watches you for longer than he should. He keeps doing that, the staring. "There's no reason for me to do so." He answers eventually.
Your brows furrow. Something about his responses from the moment you met him unnerved you, as if he's leaving his words purposely vague. Clues buried within that mask of his, where an unanswered story that didn't belong to your reality lingers in his.
"Where am I currently in your dimension?" You decide to settle at the sofa, stretching out your limbs. "If she's still in Gotham, I need to be careful not to be seen."
Ever since you arrived, your body has been aching horribly. It hadn't been this obvious when you had arrived, but now, it's stinging down to your nerves. Maybe the adrenaline had finally worn off, and you're left to deal with a body unequipped to the frantic mess your mind is trying to sort out.
"It won't be a problem." He answers, lips pursing into a thin line. "She's gone."
Your head tilts questioningly to meet his gaze, but he avoids yours. Pulling open his kitchen drawer, there's a taut tension in his body as if he's been expecting your question and dreading it all the same.
Gone could mean anything. Out of the city borders or—
Your eyes flicker down to his disappearing hand, and find his reappearing fingers gripped around pain ointment. Your stretch pauses halfway, the strange alertness of being noticed without your permission sending a chill down your spine.
Forcing your hands down back to your sides, you eye him warily as he makes his way round the couch, stopping before you. His hand extends, lifting his offering silently.
It's unfamiliar, and even if you try your hardest to reason to yourself, that this isn't the Damian you know, it doesn't make it any easier to allow him to assist you. You half expect mocking, a glimpse of his smirk when your gaze flickers to the ointment held out in front of you.
A low breath escapes his lips, and you expect him to give in. To understand that you don't require more of him other than his specific assistance to send you home—only for him to lower himself.
Damian Wayne—even if he isn't the one you're used to—is kneeling down to meet your gaze. Your breath stops, your chest seized tight as you stare at him, unable to hide your surprise.
He doesn't falter, his fingers mindlessly dipping into the ointment before placing the jar by your side. His free hand goes to grip your wrist, tugging gently to expose the bruises trailing along your arm from your fall.
"If it is me you have come to for assistance." He mutters with a click of his tongue. "Then, I expect you not to be stubborn."
You swallow, your jaw ticking as you find your tongue heavy with a lack of an adequate response. His unwavering concern, this intensity can't be tied solely to you. There has to be a reason for why he is looking at you this way.
"What did you mean?" You ask quietly. "By gone?"
His fingers, still coated with the ointment, brush gently over your thudding pulse. His gaze finally lifts, but you can't read him. There's a pull to his gaze, and the answer reveals itself by the time you recognise what is held within his eyes isn't irritation or indifference. It was grief.
"She's dead."
It's a strange feeling to know you're stepping into a world where a version of you used to exist. A sick form of good luck, a technical elimination of complications.
Except that it's only made everything more complicated. You had no idea on how to deal with the Damian in front of you now that the truth's been revealed.
When he first admitted that he wasn't the Damian you knew, you had quickly assumed that whatever dynamic he shared with you from this dimension was a parallel to the one you shared with your Damian. Forced tolerance, a begrudging partnership. No, you had needed to assume it so. Anything different would have shattered this fragile alliance you had with the stranger sitting across you, because despite everything you felt about your Damian—you relied on him as a partner.
Now, you weren't sure if you could trust the Damian in front of you. You had assumed that if he answered your questions, you would have cleared the air—but it has only raised more.
You can feel his attention while you're thinking. You swear with the intensity of his gaze casted onto you which you pretend not to notice, it's as if your existence only materialised when his eyes are on you. There's a strange urgency in his unblinking stare, as if to remind himself that you're still in front of him.
It's too much. It was the same back when he first saw you as well. Damian hasn't mentioned his strange reaction since, and his lack of an explanation for why he had embraced you clues you on nothing still, on what you meant to him.
"I'm not her." You mutter after a moment. You don't know why, but you feel you have to say it.
There's some form of attachment he must've had with you, and you couldn't let yourself be tangled into the mess of what's been left behind. This isn't your world, and the last thing you needed was a blur of that line.
"I know." He answers quickly. Without pause, as if he's been repeating it to himself before you had even verbalised it.
Your hesitance must be palpable because he lets out a sigh not long after, heavy from his chest.
"I didn't offer you my help because I think you're—" He swallows, pain etched into the lines of his grimace. "I understand that you are alone in this world. That some mistake of mine from your end caused this. I am taking responsibility for it—to bring you back. There is nothing more to it."
You watch him as he did to you, noting a delicate fragility to him you've never seen before. You had been so wrapped up in your situation, that you failed to notice the frantic quality of his gaze or the exhaustion plaguing his features. As if being around you—drained him from the impossibility of seeing you alive and breathing.
"Okay." You answer eventually. "I believe you."
His shoulders, tense and taut, finally loosen slightly at your response.
"Do you—" Your voice is plagued with exhaustion, and you struggle to find the words, the composure to hide your desperation. "—have any idea on how I'll be able to get back?"
Relief flickers briefly in his gaze, replaced with a familiar efficiency that slots over the dark pool his eyes held mere seconds ago. This, you were used to. Whenever he was asked to perform a duty, that was when you both cooperated the easiest.
"If it were me, I'd predict that there will be a two-way mechanism." He suggests automatically. So, he had been considering his own theories this entire time.
Leaning in, his elbows pressing against his thighs, he continues. "An entry will not be possible without a tunnel. To find the connection and restart it as you had before in your dimension, it should trigger an opening."
"I also considered the possibility of a tunnel." You frown, your fingers drawing a thin, edged line across the sofa's fabric. "The only problem is that when I arrived, before contacting you—I looked around the premise. I really tried."
"There was no opening." You admit, dread digging slowly into your bones.
"Perhaps it will only be activated if it was triggered in the same process as before." He suggests.
"...Doesn't that rely on Damian—" You falter, meeting his gaze. "—my Damian restarting the trigger on his side?"
He nods, even as his lips purse slightly at the mention of the other him. "Your only chance depends on him coming to the same realisation we have."
You draw a short breath. "Shit."
Damian doesn't hesitate when you ask by the third hour of silence—to accompany you back to the construction site when the passing hours has done enough in driving you insane.
You hate waiting. Your Damian knows that. This Damian seems to know too.
He follows you like a silent shadow, tracing your steps and overlooking the same rubble caused by your fall as you try to find an anomaly. Anything that proves to your stubborn anxiety—that you are actually doing something to feel less trapped.
"There is nothing here." He states.
"You don't know that." You wish your voice sounded stronger. "I wasn't in my right mind when I landed. I might identify something I missed."
His jaw ticks once, but he doesn't stop you. He doesn't argue—and that unnerves you. The Damian you know doesn't hesitate when picking a fight, and frankly—you miss that. You needed something to distract you—and he was merely standing there like he was watching a phantom.
"I thought you said you would help." Your voice breaks.
Fuck. Swallowing back your revealed fright, you finally slump down onto the dust-covered concrete, pressing your palm against your eyes.
You hear a shuffle, the fabric of his coat landing heavy next to you. You uncover your eyes, catching him as he crouches beside you. His gaze meets yours head-on—and you nearly drown in the weight of it.
"There's no relief in digging through a dead-end." He mutters, peering over your features. "It'll only worsen the thoughts."
You grow quiet. You didn't need a verbal confirmation, not when just his gaze alone tells, that he wasn't only talking about your situation. Your chest heaves, the scent of concrete filling your nostrils.
The silence stretches, an uncomfortable sensation of helplessness filling the air.
"...Do you like pizza?" He asks after a moment.
Blinking once, you must've misheard it. You can't help the snort that escapes you, the sound broken and unsteady. "What?"
"I dislike it." He mutters. "The ones in Gotham. It's too much grease, and lacking of any true nutrients."
That... sounds very Damian of him.
You raise a brow, and his lips purse together. Letting out a regretful sigh, he gestures with a tilt of his head. "There's an adequate franchise down the street."
Lifting himself off the ground, he holds out his hand towards you. "Since this dreadful day has been awfully unproductive, I suppose a meal like that is befitting."
Your gaze flickers between his hand and that unfamiliar, warmth in his eyes. Of how you had been in a similar position mere hours ago when he had offered you pain ointment. Of how he has been consistently extending his hand towards you, accompanying your side—ever since you entered this dimension.
This time, you take his hand.
Strangely enough, the fluorescent lights of 'Gotham City Pizzeria' and the smell of floor disinfectant—combined with the peculiar sight of Damian lifting a soggy pizza slice with a grimace did lift your spirits. If this was your dimension, you would have bothered with taking a picture to capture the sight of him clashing with an environment so strongly, but you couldn't afford to let this rare moment of normalcy be dimmed by that reminder.
"Should I be concerned that the Damian Wayne in this dimension consumes Gotham pizzas?" You murmur, wiping a streak of tomato at the corner of your mouth.
His lips quirk up slightly. "Even I have my faults."
Clearing his throat, he murmurs. "Your turn."
You raise a brow, confused.
He leans back, dusting his hands against the napkin. "I haven't learned anything about you since you arrived."
Oh. You had assumed that he didn't want to. Outside of the boundaries of your circumstance, he hasn't really pushed much further other than details he needed to have, to piece a solution together.
"What do you want to know?" You shrug.
His lips tilt upwards again, more intently this time. "Do you like pizza?"
Your smile lifts instinctively. "I do, detective. How'd you guess?"
His smile strains a little, and you realise why.
"Ah." You murmur.
"No." He stops you before you can retreat. "Don't stop on my account. I want to know what you like."
You swallow, fingers running over the crust flakes coating your thumb. You suppose you could answer, there wasn't any harm done. "I do like pizza. It's the only thing that's comforting enough after a long night of patrol. I think when I enter a familiar place at an hour like this, when there's no one else around, it's like the world closes in to exist in just this spot, y'know? I get to forget about my worries for a little while."
He nods, listening to you speak as if he intended on memorising every word. Like he may miss the chance to do so ever again.
"So, why'd you pick this place?" You return the question.
"...As I told you before, I'm not fond of it."
"So, why are you here?" You push.
A slow exhale escapes his mouth. "I suppose, it was like you said. Comforting—in a sense, to be surrounded by something familiar."
You can see him struggling, on what to say and what to keep buried. This provided company of his—it's like you're digging into a wound he's openly showing you.
"What else do you like?" He reiterates.
Your smile reappears, almost easing. "Need a full catalogue?"
"Yes." He answers almost immediately. It takes the breath out of you, the humour still stuck on your tongue with the way he looks at you, all-consuming. "I would."
"I suppose... I could tell you things I never told anyone." You whisper almost conspiratorially. "Something tells me you'll keep quite a good secret."
His lips lift, curving a small dimple by his cheek. "I swear."
"I guess..." Leaning your cheek against your palm, you take your time in truly looking at him. "I always did like your eyes."
He blinks, not expecting your answer. "My eyes?"
"Yeah." Your grin comes easier to you now, seeing him uncharacteristically flustered. "Made me unreasonably jealous at times. Green eyes like that, and you spend half the time glowering."
He scoffs lowly, but it holds no bite. "I wasn't aware there was a way to utilise them."
"No, you do it right when you're not thinking too hard." You murmur, lost in thought. "When you don't pretend to be strong, your eyes go soft. Just around the edges."
The moment those words leave you, you realise you're pushing too far, saying something so intimate, it should have never been verbalised.
He watches you, and to your dismay, he does it right then and there. The sharpened edges around his gaze softens, and so does Damian.
"You're direct." He mutters, almost fondly.
You swallow, averting your gaze. "So I've been told."
"I like that."
You shift your focus back to him immediately, a soft thudding in your chest. He has never averted his gaze. Rarely, you realise, does he pull his attention away from you. It's like he's treasuring it, the small impossibility of this conversation, of your presence in this pizzeria illuminated by the neon lights.
"Do you feel like you're dreaming?" You ask. "It feels like I know you even though I shouldn't."
His lips quirk. "It is a fair exchange for reality, if I get to meet you."
Your heart is thudding louder now, and you don't find it instinctive anymore to avert his gaze, no matter how much the depth feels like drowning.
"A once in a lifetime phenomenon." You declare. "Let's not waste it."
Gotham's cityscape takes a less intimidating turn in the weeks following your exploration with Damian, as the hidden beauty within begins to reveal itself. The confusing streets become interesting puzzles, a guessing game on what road could be an alternative to the ones you frequent in your dimension. When night falls? That's when this Gotham truly sings, coming alive.
Without the late nights being reserved for the sole purpose of patrol, Damian guides you within the ins-and-outs of alleyways, leading you through slot machines, bars that still had the hum of human company despite the late hour. Eventually, you both land on a rooftop that lets you oversee the entire city.
It's terrifyingly easy to enjoy his company when you're not busy pretending otherwise. There's a symphony to your shared steps, the trailing of his shadow that plays out like a familiar, comforting rhythm.
"It's different." You mutter almost excitedly. The faint buzz of exhaustion from the late hour leaves you increasingly lax, your hand tugging at his sleeve towards the Wayne Tower in the distance. "Ours is all red hues and sharp angles. I like yours more."
He hums, sounding amused. His gaze is still trained on you, not focused on your pointed finger towards the building at all. Letting out a huff, your hand, numbed by the freezing wind, lifts to cup his cheek.
He blinks, a rare vulnerable expression crossing his features at your touch.
"Stop looking at me." You gesture, trying to tune his head towards the cityscape. "You're missing out."
"No, I'm not." He answers honestly.
You blink, hand faltering over his cheek, but he raises his own to cover yours.
"Sorry." He murmurs, lashes lowering with his gaze as he closes his eyes momentarily. "Allow me to be a little selfish, just this once."
Your fingers shake in response, but you don't remove your hand.
"That's not very fair of you." You mutter.
"I suppose I have never practiced that trait well." Opening his eyes, you're faced with that tenderness, the one that leaves you breathless. "Does it make me hateful?"
"No." You answer honestly. "You've always been bad at that."
"At being fair?" He asks.
"Making me hate you." You admit quietly.
His gaze softens imperceptibly. "I suppose we're both not very good liars."
The touch of his cheek burns your skin. This is dangerous, your mind faintly warns you. You promised yourself to never hesitate in your decision, not even after meeting him. You were always meant to go home.
He spots your hesitance, and his warmth falters. His lips set back into that familiar, distant line as he lets your hand go.
"I apologise if I over-stepped." He says before you even have time to clear the air.
"No, that isn't it." You wince, drawing your hand back to scratch at your cheek. "I was just thinking. Maybe—it isn't so bad if I could stay a little longer. There's no guarantee on when the portal will open again, so it's not a ruled out possibility."
Your suggestion is a toss into the wind. A complete silent, interpretation that maybe that's what he'd like as well.
You don't even have time to process the slight hope in his gaze, the consideration of your words before something—no everything seizes. Your body collapses to the ground, the pain of your atoms glitching, seizing to exist, and reforming again, is nearly indescribable.
A near howl escapes your bitten lips as you crumple towards the floor, only for Damian to catch you in his arms, down on his knees in front of you. Your fingers grip tight around his wrists, steading yourself as your vision blurs in and out. By the time you've strained your neck to look back up at him, you see the pain contorting his expression, wiping it loose of all composure.
"I—I'm okay." You breathe out, even as you can feel how cold and clammy your skin has become.
He doesn't answer. He merely stares, a rush of emotions flooding too fast through his mind for you to read, before it falters. His grip is your only anchor, but he's trembling too.
"This isn't a good sign." He states, dread falling over his features. "You must return, soon."
"So, you're saying—" You recall his words faintly. "The longer I stay in this dimension, my body will begin to disintegrate?"
Those technical words, theories that sound ridiculous on paper, thread thinly in a reality where your body was now a self-destructive timer. He gives you a short nod, his dark circles illuminated by the hologram of his research. Despite it being your life on the line, he looks wrecked.
What had started out as a happy night, ended with the reminder that you're not only endangering yourself but him. He's faced losing you once, and your existence in this dimension that should have never happened—he might go through it all over again if you don't find the portal in time.
"Damian." You call out, spotting the weak composure he's trying to display. "Look at me."
He refuses to listen, or maybe, he's completely blocked everything out with his gaze trained on the coordinates and running calculations. Standing up from the couch, you move slowly towards him to not startle him. Your hand briefly touches his arm, and he flinches.
"Damian, we've been over this." You speak as calmly as you can. "There's no opening unless it's opened from my side."
"Then, why hasn't he done it?" He snaps.
You blink, taken aback by his reaction.
"I can't—" He swallows, jaw clenched as he stares at you with a raw agony. One he's been hiding from you since you arrived, that you had caught a brief glimpse of when he first embraced you in his panic. "I won't fail you again. I refuse to."
"Damian." Your brows furrow, hands intertwining with his to force him to feel your touch. "I need you to breathe."
His chest heaves, and you recognise a panic attack before he's even verbalised it. Pulling him towards the sofa, you force him to sit, hands still connected with his.
"It isn't fair." Damian shakes his head. "Nothing ever is. Either way, it feels as if I'm losing you all over again."
Your breath trembles in his admission, and you can do nothing but sit here and listen.
"It was my fault." He confesses, grief-stricken. "A mission gone wrong—and my arrogance. I had overestimated the ambush, and we were cornered."
His body goes still as he drowns in his memory. "You hadn't hesitated stepping in the way. I could do nothing but watch."
"I am unworthy for many things." His voice lowers, with such an encompassing belief in his words. "But not being able to save you? That is a punishment I will never recover from."
"To lose you again." He mutters, broken. "I won't know what to do."
"Damian." You whisper. "I'm scared too."
He looks up at you then, and tears are welled in the corners of his lashes.
"But I'm glad." You emphasise, squeezing his hand. "That it's you, that you're the one here with me."
He blinks, barely able to process your words. "Why?"
"Because you have been by my side, from the moment I arrived." You answer genuinely. "Even if it hurts you, and I know it does. You stuck around, and you got to know me. You didn't have to do that, not when it costs you everything to do so."
He swallows, his expression shattered as he listens.
"I would have never known this side of you, if you hadn't found me." You push forward. "And no matter how terrifying it is to be in a whole other dimension without knowing if I'll make it home, it doesn't change that I'm glad I met you."
He breathes out, as if your words were a sucker-punch to his gut. His eyes trace over your features, a hidden longing unravelling the longer he carried out his intent focus, wanting to capture everything.
"Can I be selfish one more time?" His voice is a quiet plea, and you don't resist to how weak it renders you.
You nod gently.
Leaning in, his fingers tremble as he reaches up to brush away a stray strand from your cheek. His warmth lingers over your skin, eventually brushing over your cheekbone as his gaze pours into you. He looks at you the same way he had countless times before, and you had never been able to put it to words. Till now.
When his lips touch yours, it feels like a goodbye. A wish made impossible, fulfilled for only a mere moment. It's softer than you ever expected, gentle in a way you had never been treated from anyone else before.
When you open your eyes, you watch his expression carefully draw back into his composure. He's doing it for you, picking up the pieces that's broken so you won't have to face it.
"Let's get you home." He promises, and you believe it.
As the days pass by, with your body experiencing more frequent glitches, Damian's kindness runs a deeper wound above your heart. Whenever you insist that you're fine so he can focus on his work—he merely accompanies you by your side like some personal torture he inflicts on himself. Whenever your body seizes into another episode, split between the fractures of reality—he's there, waiting for you to reach for him so you can feel real again.
He listens with a seared focus now whenever you tell him stories, of yourself—of your world, like he's running out of time. You both are.
It's the seventh day, when the daily scans of the construction site run by Damian finally begin to detect increasing abnormal activity from where you landed.
"The debris movement seems to reverse every time I run the scan." He mutters. "As if there's a disruption in the space."
You swallow dryly, eyeing the replay he's showing you. "Do you think it could mean.."
"Yes, I'm certain." Damian nods firmly. "The portal is being triggered on the other side. The only concern now is when we should be at the site."
This... is it. Despite everything you've prepared and anticipated for, the obvious fact that you should be relieved you have a chance of making it home—the realisation comes with a bitter-sweet note.
Damian doesn't comment further past the facts. He merely focuses on the hologram screen, inputting commands to verify an estimate window to make rounds at the construction site. Despite calling himself selfish, you had never seen him so composed, silent on his true thoughts of this discovery.
"In two days." He answers, staring unblinkingly at the figure. "We won't miss it."
That settles it. In two days... you're going home.
"I hate waiting."
"I am aware." Damian murmurs.
"Stop agreeing with me." You sigh.
"Alright."
Your head snaps, an unamused expression taking over your features.
His gaze flickers from his device to meet yours briefly, and his lips quirk up slightly. "Sorry." His voice doesn't sound apologetic at all. "You've made it too easy."
You can't help but scoff, chin leaning against his shoulder. "This is worse than the glitches."
"Have I mentioned that you're a horrible liar?" He mocks.
"Numerous times." You hum, eyeing the scan with a narrowed glance. "What if your calculations are wrong?"
"I ran over them one thousand and fifty-three times." He frowns. "The chance for error are near zero."
"Wow, from the looks of it—you seem rather eager to get rid of me." You tease.
"Was I that obvious?" He shrugs.
"Who's the bad liar now?" You tease.
He opens his mouth, ready to produce some quick retort—but something catches his eye.
Shifting your gaze to follow his, you catch movement from where the ground had been stagnant. The rubble—is beginning to move in an anti-clockwise direction.
"Now." Damian stands abruptly, a hand wrapping around your waist to lift you to your feet.
The shift in the atmosphere as a distant rumbling occurrs beneath your feet, it's much more aggressive than you expected. Damian tugs you back, just in time before a fracture cracks in the ground.
"The portal." You recognise, eyeing the glow beneath the fissure, something dreadfully familiar.
Your breath is almost winded, coming up short as you stare at the formation in trembling anticipation. Your gaze whips to Damian, your heart slamming against your ribcage—only for your words to fail you when you meet his expression.
Broken, that's all you saw. The same way he had seemed when you first met him.
"Damian." You call out, hesitant, but he shakes his head.
"I never got to tell you." He starts.
Your brows furrow. He had been nothing but honest since you got here. There isn’t a wound that he hasn’t uncovered in front of you, no vulnerability he hasn’t revealed. You know him, because he had let you.
"I want you to know that I am glad." He confesses, his voice picking up in pace. He sounds terrified that he won't be able to finish what he's started. "That I got to know you. There wasn't a moment where I regretted it, not even for a second."
"I must tell you." His voice cracks. "That I'd choose you, in a hundred lifetimes, no matter what reality, I'd always choose you."
The words are lost on your tongue. I'd choose you too. He has to know, even when the tears well up in your eyes.
He holds you tight, as if he's trying to sear this very embrace into his memory. "At least, I'll know now that somewhere out there, the person I am in your world was able to bring you back. That a version of me didn't lose you."
"I know it's selfish." He whispers. "But I wish I could keep you."
Contrary to his words, he lets go of you the moment he says it, his arms parting from your frame to remain firmly at his side. He's restraining himself, you realise. Damian, the very image of self-control, is barely keeping himself together. He’s letting you go, and in doing so, he’s saving you.
"Thank you." He murmurs in goodbye, casting you a solemn smile. "For sparing me the mercy of meeting you again."
"I hope he understands just how fortunate he is." A bittersweet smile graces his lips. "That he'll cherish you, and protect you always."
You think you ask him to wait. For more time. You remember briefly on how your hand extended towards him, before the portal had pulled you in. It was silent after that, and the loss of something indescribable hits you by the time the world comes back—roaring to life.
Tumbling onto the ground, you choke out a breath, saliva coating your lips as your fingers press numbly into the ground.
You're home. A quick glimpse of your surroundings is enough to confirm the familiar machinery, the abandoned lab. Yet, flashes of Damian's unmoving gaze before his frame completely disappeared, staring at you like he wanted to commit you to memory.
How could he have called it mercy, when he was so shattered?
Your tears slipped, and you feel a strange gap in your chest.
A rushed call of your name echoes before you can even name the emotion that consumes you. The syllables barely forms in your mind, as your head whips up in a daze. Your tear-stained expression is broken, completely unhidden—when you see Damian. Your Damian.
"Damian." Your voice croaks out. The name sounds strange on your tongue.
He freezes, unsure on how to process this version of you. Whatever he expected when he got you back, he must've never anticipated this. The version that has just lost him, and a part of you always will.
Pushing yourself to your feet, you stumble in your steps before collapsing into him. You're convinced he'll push you away, as he always does.
What you didn't expect was the steady warmth of his arms wrapping around you. Tense, but protective—as if he were trying to fend off the inner turmoil that's consuming you.
"It's alright." He mutters, voice stiff but his grip doesn't falter. "You're safe. I am here."
That breaks a silent sob out of you, and you bury your face into his chest. He doesn't push you for answers, nor does he distance himself. He remains planted exactly where he is, grounding you with his presence while you mourned for something that should have never been yours, and what you should have never lost.
He is embracing you so tight, it gave you a violent sense of déjà vu. The lines are blurring, and you can't find it in yourself to be angry when you know you should be.
"I am sorry." He mutters, voice breaking in composure. "I did this—I am sorry. I failed you."
"No, you didn't." You answer, your voice hoarse. "You brought me back."
It was the truth, broken into a hundred pieces.
In time, you will tell him. Of how he protected you even in another dimension. Of how that version of him will forever know that in another reality, he had saved you. That there was a Damian who didn't experience losing you.
Of how you'll never forget him. Even when he's out of bounds, but forever engraved into your existence, a memory that should have never existed.
But for now, you'll let yourself rest, knowing that you're home.
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
[extra pov] - alt! damian + reader’s damian after her return
I AM NOT OKAY A MAD GENIUS OF A READER SAID THIS REMINDED THEM OF HONEYBEE BY OLIVIA RODRIGO AND NOW IM DISTRAUGHT OMG.
Time can heal even the worst of wounds / And the clichés I knew/ Seemed so commonplace when I saw you
jaw dropped. genuinely jaw dropped. when damian saw reader for the first time in so long when she appeared and contacted his comms.
And I hope I never see what your face looks like going / A face I swear that I could spend my whole life knowing / Herе's to hoping
looks like going. omg. here's to hoping, just shooting myself in the foot.
Pick me up, walk me home / And it feels likе God threw me a bone Would you sit and keep me company? / In the dark, I'm not scared / I just reach and you're right there
this is so damian and reader spending time together exploring the city and that tentative hope grew between the both of them, and how they reassured each other the first time her body glitched in his apartment.
thank you so much @fratbrochrisgf i just spiraled </3333.
I spoke before about how genuinely terrifying Yandere Superman would be in a different post. But another thing a commenter brought up that's a very good point is that another reason why Superman would be so freaking scary is how GENUINE he would be.
He would GENUINELY believe that he is doing the right thing and protecting his human as needed. He would justify it to himself and would EASILY be able to do it because he's literally one of the strongest beings in the franchise. There's little to no one else who could kill him outside of literal cosmic wannabe-gods like Darkseid, Galactus, or etc.
Once again, I don't think he'd be a harsh or rough yandere. Like, if you escaped out of the house, he wouldn't even be mad. He'd just wait until you were worn out and take you back home. Or if you told him off to someone else, sure he'd probably incredibly disappointed, but I think he'd be like, "Of course you're scared. It's because of this and this, it can't possibly be what I'm doing to you. These people messed with your mind on purpose."
You could look into those eyes and just KNOW you are not escaping him. Not even because he's a threat to YOUR life, but because of how much of a threat he is to OTHER people's lives. Because people forget---canon Superman is MORE than willing to catch a body, he just PREFERS not to.
You would be preparing the whole day just to escape him, but those eyes, loving and willfully ignorant to his crimes, would suck you back in and make you forget why you're even trying to run until he's back home covered in blood. He'd be so lovesickening to the point it'd rot your teeth out. And considering it is canon in the older comics that he was able to HYPNOTIZE PEOPLE, oh yeah. No. You're cooked. Battered, fried, cut, and plated. You are not escaping this man ( / T o T)/
(Uhh I wrote this after eating a few gummies. It's all over the place and unedited. I'm posting it anyway. Huzzah!)
Tw: Heavily implied stalking
Okay, I need more soft!dark Clark Kent. I’m not talking like full-on yandere, ‘I'd kill anyone for you’ god no Clark would still be the sweet, loveable man that he is.. but just off. Sometimes you'd catch him staring at you from across the bullpen. You couldn't explain it, but behind that gentle expression of his, something was…wrong.
Every Friday he brought you homemade hot cocoa to celebrate the end of the week. (apparently it was his mom’s recipe) and he often brought random trinkets offering them up to you with the same excuse of ‘I saw this when I was out grocery shopping and it made me think of you’ and he absolutely refused when you tried to give them back to him out of guilt. He really didn’t have to spend his money on you.
One day he stayed late, saying he had an article he needed to finish before the deadline hit. Yet just a few hours earlier you heard him telling Jimmy about the article he turned in early, for once.
Of course at the end of the night he insisted on walking you home too. He acted like a guard dog the whole way, completely glued to your side, his massive hand splayed across your back to guide you away from anything in your path. All the while he gushed about his Ma and Pa and his family's farm. (You don't forget how he mentioned that they'd love it if he brought home someone like you one day.)
You felt watched, like someone was monitoring you twenty-four seven. There were no signs of someone breaking in, and you had no solid evidence of a stalker actually existing. So you bought yourself a metal basketball bat and decided that if you were going down, you would at least bring down your tormentor with you. It was the rational choice, really.
The only person told was Lois. You invited her over after work one evening and explained everything. She believed you, of course. You never once doubted her loyalty; she was your ride or die for a reason—
You just might've glossed over some of your theories regarding a certain mutual acquaintance who you also knew she was close with. You swore there was something going on between them, which was suspicious considering Clark’s obvious interest in you.
But you digress.
Now, what you didn't expect was Superman revealing himself as your stalker. That came out of nowhere.
You'd gotten caught in the crossfire of some sort of attack when suddenly a pair of arms encircled your waist and lifted you off the ground.
It was Superman.
He brought you to the alleyway beside your building, which was far away from the devastation. You didn’t question how he knew where you lived. He made it very clear who he was when he called you by your name, kissed you on the forehead, told you to stay safe, and then flew away.
After that it was only the matter of putting all the pieces of the puzzle together.
The entire picture was terrifying, and the worst part of it all was that you had no other choice but to resign to your fate. You couldn’t escape Clark Kent. There wasn’t a single place on Earth where he couldn’t find you.
clark's cock being so big that it doesn't even fit properly in his boxers
hhhhhhhh yes yes yes it’s a whole third leg. dangles out of his boxers from a hole that’s supposed to be for his actual legs to go through, head always poking out and getting cold and brushing up against his denim whenever he puts on jeans. he can’t even walk around the house in boxers like how regular men usually do, the visual way too obscene. seeing the girthy bulge and the tip of his crown and the obvious bulging silhouette of both his balls. it’s so obnoxious. clark has bought boxers of bigger sizes before but it never helps him look like any less of a slut, whether he’s cold or warm, whether he’s hard or soft. his dick dangles around like it’s just begging for attention
clark kent has this ritual of lavishing you with kisses interspersed by the occasional dirty quip—unexpectedly, he’s got quite a gift for depravity—before he even thinks about moving forward. it is torture of the nth degree when you’re caught in such extreme fits of lust that you just want to fuck nasty, but you don’t have the heart to rush him when he’s being this sweet. oh but it’s so fucking difficult, having to feel the heft of his stiff cock rest against your tummy.. a delicious preview on just how much space he’s going to take up once he’s inside you.
the brainrot for bruce wayne x 19yo reader is fucking feral rn.
idk why but the potential for angst in this is like calling to me but basically after everything is said and done and she’s stopped trying to get with bruce and she knows why he did it all, there’s a difference in the way she acts, not even that noticable but to everyone, like everyone, its something so huge.
maybe her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes when she’s flouncing around with guys anymore, maybe she’s just a touch more closed off, maybe she’s not as flirty and touch like she was before.
one thing is for sure tho, bruce wayne is the one at fault for this change. He doesn’t care tho, bruce didn’t care about how this constant hot and cold would affect her. She’s an adult, she can make her own choices, but the rest of the world is constantly reminding him that she was still in high school not even a year ago, but he doesn’t care. As long as they’re focusing on Bruce Wayne and not Batman.
i rly liked this message bcos i feel like the significance of nineteen year old reader often gets misinterpreted but this was a rly nice example of her
you basically laid out a similar plan that i had for her after her and bruce end it and she matures a bit. not saying she wasnt an adult, but i know what i was like at nineteen and ive matured and changed a whole bunch. i struggle to relate to people even two years younger than me. cant imagine how bruce was feeling with someone young enough to be his daughter so to speak
the experience does change her, alter her self esteem. not in a particularly bad way, just impactful. being young and famous, shes only been taught her youth and beauty is an asset irresistible to men, and for bruce to show her that hes capable of refusing it is very puzzling. so yea she does retreat into herself a bit, she knows she cant get just "any man" and its not a process that humbled her because she needed humbling, no no. she just learns lessons she wouldnt have learned without bruce. its hard and complicated to explain, but it is based on an experience ive had i think. loosely
bruce ofc doesnt visibly care that he changed a girl's life, or care that people remind him every so often. but he knew what he was doing using her, and in a way hes glad it was him and not someone else that wouldve used her for something else.
i dont feel like im explaining this all right, because i put a lot of personal emotion into this "au" so im all over the place, but i rly liked your message
the bruce age gap got me going CRAZY for this man🤤🤤
idk if this was asked but do you think bruce would be willing to share y/n with dick and jason🤔?
- 🍮(if not taken)
u can have the emoji i marked it down for u <3
now to your question, knowing bruce wayne i don't think any sharing would be a directly caused. if you mean sharing as in like threesome/foursome, it's a definite no. if you mean sharing as in he doesn't care if reader fools around with dick and/or jason behind his back, he certainly would not want to date reader anymore if she did, and would not wanna hear about it she did fool around. just based on what i know of bruce, he's not a huge sharer, nor would he see a point in sharing someone he's dating
in turn, i don't think jason and dick would be up for sharing someone either especially not with their father figure.
being longtime friends with someone like BRUCE WAYNE grants you special privileges. he doesn’t shy away from your physical contact, he doesn’t subtly squint his eyes at you when you come to touch his arm or drag him away from his conversation. when you holler loftily after him, “brucie-e-e!” he sighs into a polite smile, and loyally awaits your inevitable and eager embrace. alfred playfully ribs him about it, but bruce is quick to dismiss it with a common remark, “she’s just flirting, alfred. no harm done.”
for bruce, friendship with you has always meant blurred lines, but neither of you have really crossed them. sharing a bed after a night of partying just means he looks away when you peel yourself from his expensive sheets wearing a short and thin nightie. you take a shower in his master bathroom because you like it more than the guest - it’s bigger, with more products that “smell like him.” you reason. the two of you have skinny-dipped together, the night air filled with your thrilled squeals when you dared to press your bare body against him and he took it upon himself to dunk you under the water just so you clutch onto him tighter. the circles around bruce, the privileged elites his age, cock their brows and gossip - noting your closeness, even joke that you’d cluelessly share the same fork with the wayne heir if the opportunity presented itself. some speculate you’re obviously after him for his money. bruce is, again, quick to insist, “we’re just good friends - old friends.” because he’s never actually felt the inside of you. adults can have friendships that transcend the need for physicality, he justifies—that is, until you need him.
“brucie…” you croon, and he looks down at you with knitted brows, already delving into the pools of deep sympathy in his chest, the ones that don’t allow him to say no to you, or reassert boundaries with you. you always have a place in his home, and your ankles always have a place on his shoulders. getting you on your back is so easy he had no idea why it took you this long to ask him. all those longing looks, sharing a bed, touching him so casually, you’ve had a little thing for him. now your nails paint pink angel wings on his back while your head sinks into the soft down of his pillows. it’s no secret he’s hung, but now you get to actually enjoy it, the head of him seats firmly inside of you as it pushes out those little sounds, strained and nasally from up in your nose, spurting out of your pouted lips as you clutch onto him like he’s going to disappear.
“relax a little… can you?” that gravelly voice pets the inside of your ear, and while your eyes flutter closed you nod your head. a massive and warm palm spans your pelvis as it comes to press comfortingly against your stomach. “right here.” you nod again, and will the muscles in your legs to slack, resting all their weight on his shoulders. with less stiff in your hips, the unconscious grip in your guts lessens, and when he pulls out you can feel the tangible difference travel up your spine in a powerful shudder.
“oh, my god…” you exclaim in a deep exhale, when he sinks back in, the heel of his hand faithfully applies pressure, the tip of him meeting the roof of you that much quicker. you gasp, biting hard into your lower lip to quiet yourself.
“that’s it…there we go.” he commends in a low voice, and you can hear his smile, his pride. “feels better, doesn’t it?” you resist the urge to roll your eyes.
“oh, you’re always so smug, bruce.” you note, but the winded nature of your tone doesn’t aid your sense of superiority. the corners of your mouth mirror his, and when you’re able to peel your eyes open, you find yourself locking in his gaze. it’s intimate to fuck as friends and commit to eye contact, but somehow it feels… natural with him - easy.
he shrugs, flashing a downturn of his lips. “just trying to help.”
“want to help?” your readjust, raising your neck to bump your forehead to his, picking up his sweaty hair there, peering up into his eyes. “make me cum.”
i think its funny how superman and superboy prime are literally the alternate versions of each other yet act so so differently
not even just from their behavior, but from the way they fuck too. and how did you know? well, probably because superboy prime was balls deep behind you while your hand was wrapped around superman’s cock
“ohhh baby, you’re a star” clark— superboy prime— moaned, his hands ruthlessly pulling your hips to make contact with his and his chin resting on your shoulder to whisper in your ear. “jerkin’ off superman and gettin’ fucked by superboy prime” a dazed smirk formed on his panting lips. “now that’s what i’d call an intro—"
a choked moan left him when he felt your pussy squeeze him. the pace was almost merciless, the speed and depth of his thrusts making lewd noises come out of your poor cunt. it pulled out an ah! ah! ah! and other soft sounds from your parted lips
meanwhile, clark — superman— was panting under you, his blue eyes blown and pinned on your boobs bouncing with each thrust as his hand was on top of yours, guiding you. your name left his lips in a moan, feeling your soft hand brush a vein on his cock just right it made his length twitch in your grasp
“just like that, honey” clark whined, his big chest heaving and his hand speeding. “god, you’re perfect” it was amusing, really— the great superman, now undone and at your mercy just by your touch
“look at him” clark— prime— whispered in your ear, his eyes on his alternate self. “look how ruined he is, all from your— hah— hand alone” his mouth went behind your ear to place an open-mouthed kiss with a chuckle. “and hear how well she’s takin’ me”
of course, he was talking about your pussy— the same one that was handling each and every inch of his cock, wet slaps and squelches heard
“clark i— ohhh my god, clark!” which one were you moaning for? probably both
and to add on to the stimulation you were already feeling, clark’s other hand slipped down to press on your clit with his thumb. the added pressure along with clark’s cock— prime— drilling in you made a loud moan leave your lips and your hips jolt as a response
but the large hands on your hips immediately pulled you back, holding you back in place. “ah ah” clark— prime— murmured, his hands sliding up to your boobs to squeeze and fondle with them, his pace not stopping for even a second. “not yet pretty girl, let me fill you up first”
could this be considered a threesome if you were fucking two alternate versions of the same person? yes and no, but who cares?
hiiisiesss!!! not actually sure if this is like an open thing but what do you think about dick grayson being mean to u JUST so you cry. like idk him getting hard when you tear up is something that haunts me (in a good way)
cw// he’s rlly an asshole lol
dick grayson’s a meanie.
at this point, it’s common knowledge. everyone knows it, he knows it, you knew it when you got in a relationship with him, but nobody could prepare you for the absolute devil he would allow himself to become in the comfort of a relationship.
at first, you thought it was just a degrading kink—him being the degrader. he enjoyed pounding you into the mattress, leaning down to graze his lips over the lobe of your ear and spew out the filthiest, meanest nothings right into it. the sensation of him rearranging your guts and calling you a stupid little slut had you seeing stars, to the point where small droplets of tears would roll down your puffy cheeks.
jackpot for him.
those pretty saccharine tears were exactly what he was looking for. when you started to cry during sex, he’d go feral, cock twitching uncontrollably inside you before he painted your insides a pearly, milky white.
though, it didn’t stop there.
it became a true addiction to him.
he had to calm himself down when he caught you crying after watching an emotional movie, control his raging boner when you’d sob into his chest over a sad cat video. he pushed through the haze of the lust to comfort you, but that abstinence would be rather short lived because dick decided he simply did not care anymore. he preferred to indulge, simply because he knew it was already over for him.
he knew he was a goner when, instead of comforting you like he usually did, he’d run into the bathroom to fuck his fist to the image of your reddened eyes, his cum dribbling out of his tip when he hears the faintest hint of a sniffle coming from you. he knew it was over when he made fun of your failed haircut just to keep those pretty tears flowing, his pants tightening when you look at him with those big, glossy eyes that he loved so much.
dick knew he had overstepped a line when you decided to give him cold shoulder for the night because of how much of an asshole he had been for the past few weeks. he knew he was supposed to be sad when you began to cry softly, you back turned to him in bed. he should be sad—he really should.
eventually, dick reasons with himself when he realizes he’ll have all the time in the world to be sad after he’s done jerking off to your cute sniffling and twitching, tugging at his cock while laying right next to you, back to back.
he thinks it’s the biggest orgasms he has ever had when he heard a pained sob escape you, the sound of your sadness flinging him over the edge, his abs and thighs clenching as ropes of cum coat the sheets you had just washed, his canines sinking into the flesh of his bottom lip to (uselessly) contain the moan that clawed its way up his throat.
dick grayson isn’t just a meanie—he’s utterly fucked up.
