laynaa .⋆♱⃓

⛧°.⋆༺♱༻⋆.°⛧

[ellaynaa]

₊˚⊹ ᰔ — about me!! 🕯️

⤷ previously ellaynaonsaturn 18+, mdni, she/her, c.ai creator, aug leo, american, multi fandom, infp, wallflower, introvert, fem, cabin #6, hufflepuff, fall lover, mike faist enthusiast, steve harrington truther, logan howletts gf, challengers advocate, clark kent’s #1 superfan .ᐟ

CURRENT WORK:

⟡ my babysitters a vampire! au

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶ♱

[groovyangelkisses]

sammy loves calling you on your lunch break, much to the playful jeers of the station around him.

it's halfway through his shift, and sammy finds himself glancing at the clock on the stucco wall. sammy smiles to himself, sitting up and fishing his flip-phone from his suit jacket pocket with a little grunt and squeak from the desk chair. it's a hot spring day, and all sammy wants to do is talk to his sweet little wife on her break.

at the sound of sammy spinning around to grab his phone, moretta immediately pipes up, "here we go. loverboy's making his daily call" gesturing to sal with a laugh. sammy rolls his eyes as he brings the phone to his ear, sal turning to another detective and shooing them away "the man is whipped, leave him be." with a blush, sammy turns to his friends "yeah, yeah"

you answer on the second ring, cheery voice brightening up the line. sammy leans back in his chair, lifting his strong legs onto his desk with a sigh "hey sweetheart." his voice is warm honey, personalized just for his girl to hear.

in the back, his coworkers keep hurling comments "ask her what she packed you for lunch, sammy!" and "tell the missus we say hi!" and when you giggle in response, sammy's throwing a wad of paper at his buddies. "ignore them baby, just jealous... what're you doin? you on your break?"

sammy knows the answer, he just wants to keep you with him as long as he can. he's fully tuned into you as you speak, nodding along and asking questions about your work day. cooing motivation for you and letting you complain about your coworkers, "yeah i know the feeling" "ah c'mon loverboy" nate yells "y'know you love us! right sal?" sal grunts in response, unable to hide his own smile at the display of young love in front of him.

reluctantly sammy has to go, "alright, i'll see you at home, okay? be good, baby.” he smiles into the phone, hand running over his thigh soothingly. giggling, you respond with a loving “okay, i will, promise. love you sammy”

sammy tucks in his chin into his phone, trying to whisper to you. he’s not ashamed to tell you this, never could be, but he knows it’s going to get really loud if nate overhears. “i love you too” which is immediately interrupted by nate & his buddies loudly going “AWWW!” followed by sammy screaming distantly “shut the hell up!” before quickly hanging up.

[groovyangelkisses]

sammy x ditzy!wife!reader who meets him at the door when he comes home from work— well… more so runs into him rather than “meets”

he’s barely got a foot in the door when you come barreling up, like clockwork, a squealed “sammy!” knocked out of you. he catches you with one arm underneath your butt as you wrap your legs around him and kiss his chubby cheeks <3

his tie hangs loose as you run your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly until he happily sighs againdt your lips. he stops himself from walking to hike you up further for a more secure hold. you used to be scared that you were too heavy, but sammy bryant can hold his girl, no doubt about it.

he walks through the house, still holding you with one arm as you yap about your day, your new jewelry cleaner for your ring, both of your pajamas being warmed in the dryer, and how much you missed him. he nods along, focusing on putting down his lunchbox, then going to see what you saved him for dinner, then checking the time on his desktop computer

it’s so domestic, being carried by your husband. even more so when he places you down at the foot of the stairs, “sweetheart d’ya wanna get a bath ready for us? just wanna relax with you a bit” you smile, hands on his broad shoulders, before kissing him and running up the stairs. he looks through the mail, smacking your ass as you run up and he shakes his head in excitement.

while you fill the tub, he places the envelopes down & puts his hands on his hips. smiling, sammy fondly wonders aloud “what the hell am i gonna do with her?” before taking the stairs two at a time with loud stomps just to hear you squeal excitedly again as he gets closer to the bathroom. <3

[groovyangelkisses]

oh to get pulled over for speeding by your husband sammy <3

shrugging your shoulders and forming a wince when you see the officer sammy bryant rolling up to your window. eyes squinted shut a bit at "okaaaay, license and registration."

when he finally gets a good look at you, he's cooing "baby... what the fuck? this is a 30, you were doing 45. what's the rush princess? whatsa matter?"

you're pleased to find out that crying does, indeed, still get you out of a ticket. you're hyperventilating as sammy watches, "shh, shhh okay, okay honey c'mon outta the car."

he opens the door for you, helping you stand up and hugging you, a gentle rock back n forth as he tuts into your hair "gotta be careful baby, you're precious cargo, you know that? huh?" sammy holds you for a few more minutes, big soothing hand running down your back to help even your breaths. you never did like getting in trouble, and it's even worse when you disappoint him.

after a few minutes and a call over the radio, sammy pulls back with thumbs rubbing at your arms. he meets your eye level, putting on that soft dominant voice you love so much, "now get your pretty lil ass back in the car, drive home- slowly now, okay? and go lay down for a little, you're too worked up sweetheart. i'll be home soon, kay? okay baby? alright.. g'head" tapping your butt as you get back in the car, closing the door for you on the way.

when you pull away he smiles at you, making the "i'm watching you" signal with his pointer and middle finger and flashing you his million-dollar, crooked, charming smile.

[bbgbelle]

belly bulge with stevie 😵‍💫

steve loves it when you ride him, when you try to take control and use him for your own pleasure. he loves the way your ass slaps against his thighs with each thrust, he loves how tight you clench around him when you ride him faster. he loves the way your nails dig into his shoulders for balance, and the moans that leave your lips while your eyes roll into the back of your head when you sink down almost too deep. but none of that would ever compare to this. you’re riding him again, gripping onto his bare shoulders, letting out long whines with each drag of your hips. steve’s hands sit loosely on your thighs bracketing his legs as he leans back against the headboard. his eyes trail down your body, from your head thrown back in pleasure, to your neck exposed to him covered in fresh red marks, down to your tits jiggling with each bounce, and when his eyes reach your stomach, steve’s mouth goes dry. each time you sink down on his cock, steve can see it protruding from the skin of your stomach, the tip of his large cock leaving a bulge in your tummy. he watches it slip away once as you lift your hips, then reappear the moment you sink down, and steve swears he gets harder. “look at you, baby…” he whispers. he lifts one of his hands to rest it against your belly, and the next time you slam your hips down against his, steve feels the bulge press against his hand. immediately his arms come around your waist, pulling you closer to his chest as he starts thrusting up into you, fucking you up and down on his cock with his own strength. you moan out immediately, your face disappearing into his neck, drool slipping from your lips. “fuck, steve…” you whimper, but he shushes you, picking you up and fucking you at a brutal pace. it’s relentless, he needs you now. “gonna fill you up, baby. look how deep i am, i gotta keep you nice and full, honey.” he groans, pressing his palm against your tummy again, feeling his cock bulge out of it with each hard thrust. you just moan, but you do your best to lift your head and look down into the space between your chests, and there you see it, the way your skin stretches out each time his dick fucks into you, and you moan at the sight. “fuck, yeah, you feel so good, baby. you take me so well. fuck, ‘m close.” he groans and you whine. “stevie, please fill me up, please. i need it.” you beg, eyes rolling back into your head as your orgasm washes over you. “fuck, fuck, fuck.” warm ropes of cum fill you deep inside your pussy as steve cums with another loud groan before his grip loosens and you collapse on top of him, completely fucked out.

[matchpointfaist]

i get wet at the thought of you… being a responsible guy! <3

synopsis: you'd gotten tired of dating guys your own age, totally over the excuses and immaturity. who knew your coach was just the fix?

warnings: age gap, dom/sub dynamics, art is soooo responsible and takes such good care of reader, smut, breeding, size kink

wc: 1k

notes: obsessed w the new sabrina album hehe. stream mans best friend!

you’d sworn off boys your own age. there too many excuses, too many half hearted plans, too many morning afters where you woke up feeling more like their babysitter than their girlfriend. you were done with it, done with the immaturity, done with the flaking, done with the bare minimum. what you didn’t expect was to find the antidote standing right there on the court, whistle around his neck, clipboard tucked under one arm. art donaldson was annoyingly responsible, the kind of man who remembered to pack extra water bottles for you, who had his finances in order, who called you kid just to make you roll your eyes, who texted you after practice to make sure you got home safe. he was steady, careful, older. and it made something in you ache. you told yourself you liked him platonically, admired him, looked up to him even. you told yourself that it was comforting, having someone around who didn’t need to be reminded to pay his bills or keep gas in his car. but then there were the nights you’d catch yourself thinking about him, about his big hands steadying your waist during drills, about the way his voice dipped when he told you to focus. it wasn’t a proper crush, not really, not until you showed up late one night, making up some excuse about wanting extra training.

he should’ve sent you home. he almost did, but then you stayed, leaning back against the bench with that daring tilt to your chin, and he sighed like he already knew he was giving in. "you know you’re too young for me," he said, voice low. "i’m not that young," you shot back, though your pulse skipped at the reminder. he stepped closer, looming in that way he couldn’t help, broad shoulders shadowing you, "you want a man, not a boy? that what this is?" your throat went dry, and you nodded. then his hands were on you, so much bigger than anyone else’s had ever been, holding you still like he knew exactly how to take care of you. he kissed you slow, purposeful, like he wasn’t rushing through it but making sure you felt every second. "you don’t know what you’re asking for," he murmured against your mouth. "yes i do," you argued, shaking against him. "you’re saying you want me to be responsible for you?" god, it made your knees weak, the way he framed it like a promise, not a fling.

by the time he had you bent over the padded bench, you were half crying from how good it felt, his voice in your ear steady and grounding even as you fell apart. he was careful, too careful, always checking if you were okay, but there was no mistaking the hunger in him. the difference between a boy fumbling around and a man who knew exactly how to give. and when he pressed deeper, when his breath shuddered out against your neck, he muttered, "fuck, gonna take such good care of you, fill you up, make you mine," responsible, steady, yours, and you’d never been wetter in your life. his hand spread across your stomach, wide and firm, holding you still as he pushed deeper. you gasped, half in shock, half in awe. he was so much bigger than you’d ever had, stretching you to the edge of what you could take.

"shh," he soothed, his voice patient, like he had all the time in the world, "breathe through it, that’s it. good girl," the praise made your skin burn, your spine arching as he sank in another inch. you clutched at the bench, whining, but he didn’t move until you relaxed for him. always careful, always steady, making sure you could take every bit of him. "boys don’t fuck you like this, do they?" he muttered, hips grinding deeper, deliberate, "they don’t know how to slow down. don’t know how to make you feel good first," "n-no," you stammered, head dropping forward, already dizzy from how full you felt. his chuckle was low, smug, but warm too, "that’s right. you need a man. someone who knows what he’s doing, someone who’ll take care of you,"

he set a rhythm then, steady and strong, his cock dragging against every spot inside you until you were sobbing from the intensity. your nails scraped the leather padding of the bench seat, your thighs trembling, and still he held you together with those big hands, grounding you every time you threatened to come undone. "you’re taking me so well," he praised, voice rougher now, teeth grazing your shoulder, "so tight around me, fuck. look at you, baby. you were made for this," the sound you let out was more of a cry than a moan, your body clenching down hard, chasing release. he felt it, of course he did, and his grip only tightened, pulling you back onto him until you could do nothing but take it. "you want it, don’t you?" he rasped in your ear, hips snapping harder now, the control fraying, "want me to fill you up? pump you full, make you mine?"

the words alone had you spilling over, your orgasm ripping through you so hard you nearly collapsed. he caught you easily, keeping you pinned against him as he fucked you through it, relentless but steady, driving you into the bench until you were whimpering his name. and then his breath hitched, hips pressing flush against you as he groaned, deep, guttural, broken. you felt him throb inside you, hot and heavy, his cum spilling into you. he held you tight as he filled you, rocking you through it, murmuring against your neck, "that’s it, that’s my girl. all mine now. keeping you full," you sagged against the bench, boneless, but he didn’t let go. he stroked your hair, kissed your shoulder, murmured again, almost reverent, "i’ll take care of you. every time," and god, you really believed him.

[matchpointfaist]

thinking about older bf! art donaldson competing in the olympics when he makes his career return, nearly passing up the opportunity because he doesn’t want to spend a second away from you, stuck in the olympic village. when he wins, though, he’s headed straight for you, taking you back to your hotel room and fucking you until you’re crying and hoarse, his hands tangled in your hair and bruises on your hips from his grip. “missed this fuckin’ pussy,” he’d groan, face buried in your neck, bottomed out inside you, “thought about you every time i played. you won it f’me, baby.” and he’d loop that gold medal around your neck, watching it shine between your tits as you bounced on his cock, his head thrown back, eyes glued to your chest. “that’s it,” he’d praise, hips bucking, “that’s my little superstar. takin it like a champ, sweet girl.” and when you came undone, he’d follow soon after, half whines falling from his swollen lips, bright eyes rolled back as he spilled inside of you.

[bbuuunnyyy]

this specific frame of pope …. he’s so big, so fucking big. my scary boyfriend. my guard dog. woof !!!!

[zweiginator]

obsessive reader and manipulative patrick possessive sex lives rent free in my head...it shouldn't be this addicting

patrick saying he can’t keep seeing you because he knows you’ll panic and do anything to make him stay… he knows it’s really fucked up and mean. knows that he’s a bad person but he’s already come to terms with it. as suspected, you start tearing up, lower lip wobbling as you plead for him to tell you what you did wrong. was it something you said? you’ll do anything for him—you love him so, so much. so much it scares you (scares him too).

but Patrick says he doesn’t really believe you. you’ve been fighting so often lately it feels like you really don’t care about him.

“that’s not true—“ you stop sniffling for just a second. “you know I love you!” you’re frantic; you all but claw at him to stay there and listen to you.

“prove it. prove that you love me.”

and clearly words aren’t enough. the slobbery, hyperventilating cries are enough. so you ride him on your couch, spitting on your hand before sinking down on his cock. doing all the work yourself; hips swiveling up and down. fast and desperate, clinging onto him while he watches you make it up to him. his hands move over your ass, pushing you deeper and deeper but he refuses to move his own hips—this is your job.

his eyes almost roll back at how frantic you are; how your pussy clenches when he praises you because he does it so infrequently.

“that’s it—so fucking good.” his fingers dig into the flesh of your ass as you swing your hips forward, desperate to feel friction on your swollen clit. “fuck-just like that.”

“I love you—need you to stay.” you almost cry it out to him.

“I know you do.”

[zweiginator]

situationship patrick away on tour so they facetime one night and you bring up how your favorite pair of good luck panties (agent provocateur lace you splurged on after passing a tough class) have gone missing, whining and pouting, talking about how expensive they were, knowing damn well he stole them out of your laundry basket.

you play him like fiddle, just giggling when he finally confesses because now he actually feels kinda bad. you calls him a nasty perv, making him take the lace into his mouth before he wraps the fabric around his throbbing dick, jerking off into them on facetime while you berate him (your own hand has been down your pants since he picked up the phone)

and this completely changing the dynamic between you two because before he left he really was convincing himself he was pulling the strings. that him being the more dominant one in the bedroom meant he called the shots which makes his afraid-of-commitment self feel very secure. safe. but then he leaves and he’s across the country for a month straight and he misses you. tries to hook up with another girl his second night there and he has to apologize because he just can’t get it up for her.

he’s so desperate and tries to convince himself that it’s completely normal, too, that he shoved a pair of your blush pink lace panties into his pocket the last time he fucked you. a going away present of sorts. that’s what you called the sex, so who cares if Patrick took a souvenir with him. it was cheeky fun, nothing more.

you call him one night when you know he’ll surely be in bed and you confront him about the panties.

“those were like $100 alone, Patrick. did you take them?”

patrick feels himself grow hot. a strange tang of disgust enters his mouth and pools in the pit of his stomach—why do you need them? “why do you think I’d take them?”

“because I wore them the last time we saw each other.” you’re blunt; you already know he has them. you’ve looked absolutely everywhere.

Patrick flips his camera to show them lying in his duffel bag, right on top of his boxers, neatly folded.

“you’re a fucking creep, you know that?”

patrick has a smirk on his face as if to say and what about it?

“Do you smell them while you touch yourself or something?”

you’re usually pretty tame when it comes to dirty talk, so patrick is surprised by how blunt you’re being.

“are you mad at me or something? you need them for tonight?” patrick rubs his cock through his pants to ease the tension.

“I’m not mad at you.” you sigh. “I just think you’re kind of pathetic.” you don’t know where this confidence came from, to talk like this. when patrick is usually the one fucking you into the mattress, calling you a slut and spitting on the side of your face. maybe you just wanted to try it for a change. and you would stop—except Patrick’s pupils are blown wide and you can tell he’s trying to hide the face that he likes this.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles. “I won’t touch them if that makes you feel better.” he can’t really tell what your true feelings are; do you like this or are you actually disgusted with him?

“No, pick them up. you obviously brought them for a reason. maybe you should show me what your plan was.”

So patrick shows you them in his hand, all crumpled up. He lets a glob of his spit soak the fabric before wrapping it around his dick, and god—you’ve never seen him so hard before. he’s red and throbbing; every ridge of him looks painful and angry with arousal. like he could burst any second.

“you’re disgusting, you know that?”

And patrick whines, humping his fist, hips rutting so the underside of his cock is massaged by the soft lacy fabric, still soaked with your scent.

“fuck, yeah. I’m a piece of shit, aren’t I?”

you see his thigh muscles clench as he slows down a bit, not wanting to spoil his orgasm. patrick notices how intently you’re looking at his cock, the contrast of the angry red partially eclipsed by the pretty baby pink, soaked with spit and pre-cum.

and you’ve never heard sounds like these come from your patrick. desperate whimpers and whines, gasps for air like he can’t get enough in his lungs. eventually, he sets his phone up on his nightstand so you can see his face too—sheathed in sweat, jugular vein pulsing and mouth hung open as he stares at you. he knows you’re touching yourself, but that he’s been a bad boy. he won’t get to see it.

“You’re such a piece of shit.” You agree. “everyone knows it too. how much of a slut you are. and you think you’re this big hot shot but here you are fucking a pair of panties because you can’t get any. begging me to cum just by the look on your face.”

Patrick is about to black out just from how mean you’re being and he didn’t even realize how fast he’s been fucking into the lace in his hands but now he’s about to cum and he lets out the most pathetic fuck before he spurts all over your underwear. and maybe, just to prove to yourself that he’d do anything for you, you make him suck it out of the fabric.

[harringtonsugar]

steve harrington gives girls tummy bulges …. i need a cigarette

[ryoride]

ꮼ DON'T YOU WANNA KISS ME MORE !

cw: bicep biting, teasing, male whimpering, dry humping, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, talking you through it, hair pulling, he's described as big, back scratching, creampies, not proofread.

ⓘ Featuring how sexy Dick Grayson is for his pretty girl.

boyfriend!dick who muffles your moans with his bicep whenever you're staying over at his father's, cooing, "You need to be quiet" so his family won't find out how dirty you are, as if he isn't the one fucking into you so hard the headboard's slamming against the wall.

+ Bonus points: Whenever you finish, and he pulls back to see drool on his arm along with the teeth marks, he knows he did well.

boyfriend!dick who can spend hours teasing you before getting to work, with light brushes of his fingers up your thigh, light kisses to your lips, and rubbing the tip along your slit, but pulling back once you start begging him to just fuck you already.

Eventually, you wear each other down; you're moaning out his name & he's struggling not to finish in two minutes.

boyfriend!dick loves when you go down on him, fists clenching against the sheets as he struggles not to guide your head, biting down the sweetest moan every time you swirl your tongue around his blushing tip.

After he finishes in your mouth, he'll always wipe your lips clean & whisper how pretty you are in the shakiest, hottest tone known to man.

boyfriend!dick who tends to get a little needy & sometimes ends up dry humping you till he's creamed his boxers instead of just fucking you like he'd originally planned. Noting "it felt too good to stop" while letting out a choked laugh & burying his face in your throat.

He'll always joke about it afterwards. But it's kind of obvious at the moment how embarrassed he feels about it.

boyfriend!dick likes to finger you after a blowjob, scissoring you open on long fingers so he can stare at the wetness pooling on your skin while telling you just how sexy it looks to him & licks you clean after each orgasm.

He likes to give you at least two orgasms per one of his.

boyfriend!dick has grown used to your nails sinking into his back every time he bottoms out; he's even grown to like how every few thrusts bring the sweet sting of your nails scratching at him in sync with sharp moans.

boyfriend!dick who is well aware just how endowed he is & always takes it slow to let you adjust, making sure to whisper sweet little praises in your ear.

boyfriend!dick who has made himself well acquainted with your clit, happily goes down on you every time you're being bratty or not in a good mood, knowing his tongue can be an instant mood booster.

He always moans at the feeling of your nails scratching at his scalp, pulling & begging for more, loving the sensation of feeling your pleasure through the sharp tugs.

boyfriend!dick who has a bad pullout game & ends up accidentally filling you up more often than he'd like to admit. He's so embarrassed when he pulls out and sees his seed spilling out, but your fucked-out expression always makes him feel better about it.

[kassy-djomunson]

why are they the same person

[ellaynaa]

add mike faist and this is my rotation

[angelpediaa]

𝓓𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝓝𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ✷ just Bruce being down bad for his woman :p

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ✷ bruce wayne x f!wife!reader

“Honey.”

Bruce’s voice carried through the bedroom for what had to be the sixth time that evening, low and patient in that practiced way only he could manage, though the faint strain beneath it betrayed him entirely. He sat in the leather chair near the windows of the penthouse suite, one ankle resting over his knee, a crystal glass of whiskey balanced loosely in his hand as the amber glow of Gotham shimmered behind him. Rain threatened beyond the glass, clouds smothering the skyline in silver and charcoal, the city alive beneath him in distant sirens and flickering lights.

From the adjoining bathroom came the familiar sound of shuffling, the clink of makeup brushes against marble, and then her voice.

“I’m almost done!”

Bruce closed his eyes slowly.

Almost done.

Right.

The soft ticking of the watch on his wrist felt louder now, mocking him. Seven o’clock reservations had become seven-thirty nearly twenty minutes prior, and somewhere downtown an irritated maître d’ was undoubtedly giving their table away to someone else. Bruce had specifically cleared tonight for her. No meetings. No patrol until later. No Wayne Foundation calls. Just dinner. Just her.

And despite all of that, despite the irritation simmering quietly beneath his composed exterior, he still couldn’t truly find it in himself to care.

Because he knew what was coming.

He knew eventually that bathroom door would open, and she would walk out looking devastating enough to make him forget every coherent thought in his head.

She always did.

Bruce tipped his head back against the chair and exhaled slowly through his nose, staring up at the ceiling as he rolled the whiskey over his tongue. He could hear her moving around again, muttering something under her breath, followed by an annoyed huff.

A smile threatened at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

The bathroom door finally opened.

Bruce looked up immediately.

And there she was.

Every ounce of annoyance vanished so quickly it almost embarrassed him.

She stepped out carefully, one hand braced against the doorframe while the other adjusted the fabric hugging her waist, and Bruce felt something in his chest tighten with dangerous intensity. The dress clung to her like it had been made specifically for her body, elegant and dark, the kind of thing designed to ruin men quietly. Soft skin glowed beneath the warm bedroom lighting, her hair falling around her shoulders in effortless waves that probably took far too much effort to create.

Bruce’s gaze dragged over her slowly, helplessly.

God.

“I’m sorry, my love,” she sighed dramatically, though the smile tugging at her lips ruined any sincerity. “I was struggling with my zipper.” Her eyes met his then, warm and teasing. “Help me?”

Bruce set his glass down carefully before he did something reckless like shatter it in his grip.

Without a word, he sat forward in the chair as she crossed the room toward him, heels clicking softly against the hardwood floors. She stopped directly in front of him before turning around, sweeping all her hair over one shoulder to expose the bare line of her back and the half-zipped dress hanging scandalously low.

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

His hands found her hips instinctively, large and warm against the silk fabric, and he guided her backward until she settled onto his lap with a soft laugh.

“Bold,” she murmured.

Bruce barely heard her.

His attention was fixed entirely on the exposed skin inches from his face.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached for the zipper.

His fingers brushed against the small of her back first, and he felt her shiver instantly beneath his touch. That alone nearly undid him. Bruce pulled the zipper upward at an agonizing pace, eyes following every inch as the fabric closed together little by little. Not because it needed to take that long.

But because he wanted an excuse to touch her.

To look at her.

To keep her exactly where she was.

Once the zipper reached the top, Bruce’s hand lingered there. His fingers flattened gently against the back of her neck before he leaned forward, pressing a slow kiss against her shoulder.

The tension in the room shifted immediately.

“Do we have to go?” he asked quietly against her skin.

She smiled instantly, hearing exactly what hid beneath his voice.

“What do you mean?” she asked innocently, though amusement danced in her tone. “Of course we do. It’s date night.”

Bruce’s hands tightened almost imperceptibly around her waist.

“I know.” His voice dropped lower, rougher now. “But we’re already thirty minutes late.” Another kiss brushed against her shoulder, slower this time. “The restaurant has probably given our table away.” His nose skimmed lightly along the curve of her neck. “And I know I just helped put this dress on but…”

He trailed off deliberately.

Because his hands were already moving.

One slid from her waist to her thigh, fingers spreading over bare skin where the slit of her dress exposed her leg. The other traveled upward, gliding along her waist before settling against her stomach, holding her firmly against him.

She felt warm.

Too warm.

Bruce lowered his head again, pressing another kiss just beneath her ear, and her breathing hitched softly.

That sound nearly destroyed whatever restraint he had left.

“Bruce,” she warned, though the laugh in her voice weakened the effect entirely.

“Hm?”

“We’re supposed to be going out.”

“We can reschedule.”

“You made those reservations two months ago.”

“I’ll buy the restaurant.”

That made her laugh properly.

A real laugh.

Bruce finally allowed himself to smile against her skin, eyes closing briefly as he soaked in the sound of it. God, he loved that sound. More than the quiet of the manor. More than victory. More than sleep after patrol. Her laughter was one of the few things in the world capable of silencing every violent thought in his head.

“You cannot buy every problem away,” she informed him.

Bruce leaned back slightly, finally looking at her face.

“Yes, I can.”

The confidence in his tone made her roll her eyes affectionately, but Bruce noticed the way her cheeks warmed beneath his stare. He always noticed. Bruce noticed everything about her.

The way her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat when he looked at her too long.

The way she unconsciously leaned into his touch even while pretending to resist him.

The way her lips parted slightly whenever his hands settled on her waist.

He knew her tells better than he knew his own.

And right now?

Right now she was seconds away from giving in.

Bruce rested his forehead lightly against her shoulder and exhaled slowly, his voice quieter when he spoke again.

“You look beautiful.”

Not flirtatious.

Not teasing.

Honest.

That was what made her fall silent.

Bruce Wayne was charming with everyone else. Effortlessly charismatic. Polished. Untouchable. But with her, the act disappeared. What remained was something rarer and infinitely more dangerous: sincerity.

He looked at her like he truly couldn’t believe she existed.

And maybe he still couldn’t.

His fingers brushed slowly up her arm as his gaze moved over her face again, softer now.

“I spent the entire week looking forward to tonight,” he admitted. “Not the restaurant. Not the reservations. Just…this.”

Her expression melted a little at that.

Bruce noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

His thumb traced slowly along her thigh again before he leaned closer, voice turning quieter, intimate enough to make heat curl low in her stomach.

“So forgive me if I’m struggling to care about dinner when you’re sitting on my lap looking like this.”

Y/n smiled while shifting carefully on his lap, she turned until she was facing him fully, one leg sliding along either side of his thighs as her hands rose to cradle his face. The sharp angles of Bruce Wayne always softened beneath her touch. His jaw unclenched first. Then his shoulders. Then those impossibly pretty eyes lifted to hers with that quiet intensity that still made her chest tighten after all this time.

She leaned down and kissed him gently.

The kind of kiss that lingered.

Bruce immediately chased after it when she pulled away, his mouth brushing hers once more before she could speak, clearly unwilling to let her go that easily.

“How about,” she began softly, her thumbs brushing along the stubble shadowing his jaw, “we go to the restaurant…” Another small kiss touched the corner of his mouth. “I’m sure they’ll magically find a table for Mister Bruce Wayne.”

Bruce huffed quietly through his nose, neither confirming nor denying the very obvious truth of that statement.

“We’ll eat their ridiculously overpriced pasta,” she continued, smiling now, “drink wine we’ll both pretend we can actually taste the difference between, and have a wonderful time.”

Bruce’s eyes never left her face.

Not once.

The attention was almost unbearable when he looked at her like this. Like the rest of the world had ceased existing the moment she climbed into his lap.

“And then,” she whispered, leaning closer, “we’ll come home.”

Her lips brushed his jaw.

Bruce’s grip on her waist tightened immediately.

She felt it.

Enjoyed it.

Slowly, deliberately, she pressed another kiss beneath his ear before trailing them upward, lingering just long enough to feel the subtle hitch in his breathing.

“And then,” she murmured directly against his ear, “you can take this dress off me, hm?”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Not empty.

Heavy.

Bruce’s hands spread wider against her waist, large enough to nearly span it completely, and his head tilted slightly as he looked at her with an expression that was becoming increasingly dangerous.

“Or,” he said slowly, voice roughened into something velvet-deep and unfairly attractive, “we skip dinner entirely…”

One hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him.

“…and cut straight to the part where I take the dress off.”

The bluntness of it made heat bloom across her cheeks.

There it was.

Not billionaire Bruce Wayne smiling for cameras.

Not Gotham’s charming prince.

Just Bruce.

Direct. Certain. Possessive in a way he only ever allowed himself to be with her.

Y/n rolled her eyes despite the smile tugging at her lips. “We’re going.”

Bruce stared at her for a long moment.

Genuinely stared.

Like he was reevaluating every life decision that had led him to this exact moment.

Then, with all the exhausted dramatics of a man being sent unwillingly to war, his head tipped backward against the chair and a long sigh escaped him.

It was such an exaggerated sigh that she nearly laughed again.

“You’re very cruel to me,” he muttered darkly.

“Mm,” she hummed. “You’ll survive. You’ve survived worse.”

Bruce’s gaze slid back to her immediately, entirely unconvinced.

“Debatable.”

That one earned him a laugh.

A real one.

Soft and bright and warm enough to pull the faintest smile from him in return.

God.

Bruce would burn cities down for that sound.

She slid carefully off his lap before he could change her mind—or before she changed it herself—and smoothed the fabric of her dress back into place. The silk settled perfectly against her body as she turned toward the mirror near the doorway to check her appearance one last time.

Behind her, Bruce remained seated.

Watching.

Shamelessly.

Completely shamelessly.

His eyes tracked her every movement with open appreciation, dark and unwavering as they moved over the elegant line of her spine, the curve of her waist, the soft sway of her hips beneath the dress he had been seconds away from peeling off her body himself.

Most men looked casually.

Briefly.

Bruce never did anything briefly.

He looked at her like a man committing artwork to memory before someone stole it away from him.

Like every glance mattered.

Like he still couldn’t fully believe she was real, let alone his.

And perhaps some wounded, guarded part of Bruce truly never would.

Because this—domesticity, softness, love uncomplicated by blood or violence—had never belonged in his world before her.

Yet there she stood in his bedroom, fixing an earring while his tie sat crooked because she’d distracted him fifteen minutes earlier.

Normal.

Beautiful.

His.

“Come on, Wayne,” she called finally, reaching for her clutch.

Bruce rose from the chair with the kind of effortless grace that always made him look dangerous even in a tailored suit. Six-foot-something of broad shoulders, expensive cologne, old money confidence, and concealed violence wrapped neatly beneath black Tom Ford.

He adjusted the cuffs of his jacket before tugging once at his tie.

Then he paused.

A nearly invisible grimace crossed his face as he subtly adjusted the front of his trousers.

Y/n caught it instantly.

Her eyes widened in amusement.

“Oh my God.”

Bruce looked entirely unapologetic.

“You whispered in my ear,” he said flatly, as though that explained everything.

“It was one sentence.”

“It was a very effective sentence.”

She bit down on her smile as Bruce grabbed his wallet from the dresser and crossed the room toward her, every movement composed despite the situation he was currently blaming entirely on her.

When he reached her, he rested one hand against the small of her back automatically, grounding himself there like second nature.

“This,” he muttered as he guided her toward the bedroom door, “is going to be a very long night.”

The smirk she sent him over her shoulder was downright lethal.

“Hopefully.”

©𝓐𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘢. do not copy, translate, or repost my work on any other sites without my permission. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.

[maiamore]

mmh thinking loads about clark and his grown-out hair…don't mind me….

tags: implied smut, fluff, domestic bliss, gratuitous mention of his curls (700+ wc)

—

i'd imagine that fhe first time you noticed would've been when you're just in bed with him, lounging after a hearty home-cooked dinner. he's laying on his belly beside you, with an arm tucked under his pillow. he gets like that when he eats too much, usually burning the lethargy off with a nap. quietly, you'd watch the sturdy, broad lines of his back rise and fall, in utter bliss.

"mm. can feel you staring at me. i think." after a long while of you squinting, he'd call you out on it, voice a sleepy, pillow-muffled drawl.

you'd clamber over his stupidly slender waist, combing your fingers through his thick, slightly coarse locks. "your hairs gotten seriously long."

clark remains a drifting cloud beneath you. the only evidence of his presence being the low, content grumbles he makes at the gentle pressure of your nails against his scalp. he lifts his head a fraction. "…has it?"

"mhm." you hum, non-committal. slumping your whole weight into the wide expanse of his broad back. scents of cedar & peppermint coating your senses. your knuckles come to push the curled out edges by the nape of his neck. it springs back up under your nudge. "i've never seen it stick out like this."

you stroke through his curls a little rougher, eliciting a full-bodied shudder from your sleepy boyfriend, "i see. i've had my hands a little full lately." a soft, deep sigh leaves him, and you feel his calloused hands blindly feel for your ankles, snug by his waist. he thumbs at the muscle there, sliding up your calf.

"should i get it cut?" he offers, cheeks pressed against his pillow.

your ministrations stills, "hmm. dunno." you answer honestly, pulling at the curled edges to make them stick out more. "it's sort of…hot. gives you a dishevelled…rugged look." you lower yourself, resting your cheeks onto his traps.

"…"

his arm wraps around your lower back. and with a swift movement, you feel your vision tilt as he plops you beneath him. "ack!" you gasp, steadying a palm by his thick bicep, which he flexes, for your enjoyment.

clark shuffles to cage you in his arms, favouring his weight with his left forearm. one side of his head is visibly styled out in a messy swoop from where you were combing through. though a shorter, unruly strand curls past his forehead.

"i'm not sure if it's good for the hero image. to look unkempt," he ponders seriously, palms pressed against his cheeks as he lays on his side.

you blink up at him. still thrown by the sudden adjustment."…i'm just saying." your knuckles graze past the stray lock, melting into him, with a thigh draped along his ribs. "i like you like this. softer. just f'me." your words trail into murmurs, but he catches them anyway.

the dimples, deep in his cheeks makes themselves known first, and he lets out a huff, sizing you with a dopey smile. "that so?" clark leans on, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot below your ears. the first peck tickles you, with his messy hair brushing past your ears. "hahah. hey! that tickles." you groan, catching a brief glimpse of his blurred, dark locks," geez…like some…wild beast."

"hmm. make up your mind," he rumbles, trailing teasing kisses past your collarbone, to your sternum. clark lifts his head up, eyes glinting in wanton adoration for you. "am i a beast, or some cool…hip dude?"

you stare at him, in mild disgust. "cool hip dude? nevermind. you can never be rugged."

he nips at your wrist when it comes to rest at the back of his head. "ow!" you yelp, shooting him a displeased look. clark just laughs, replacing the sting with a chaste peck. he guides your hand to the back of his head, as though encouraging you to keep it there.

"got your verdict yet?" the shift in the playfulness is subtle as he makes his way down your midsection. pressing another breathy kiss beneath your breasts to your navel. your eyes don't leave him, and neither does your idle palm, half-vanished in his curls.

before you can think to answer, clark lifts your hips up for a second to slide your sleep shorts down. keeping his gaze locked on yours as he presses his lips to your inner thighs.

you swallow the shudder that threatened to give away your building arousal, hands imperceptibly tightening where it was once lax.

"…beast. definitely a beast."

[vetckkie]

˖ ࣪౨ৎ˚₊ MDNI. not proofread

bruce wayne doesn't know how to be exes. doesn't know how to act like an ex husband, doesn't know how to function without you either. its just been 6 months since your divorce. you both decided it was for the best, something about him focusing on crime rates in gotham rather than focusing on you, his wife. and no, you didn't just sit back and take the neglect. god, no. you put the divorce papers on his desk, the noise of the folder hitting it echoing as a slap, and? well..he respected your decsion.

but he also missed you, terribly. missed that fire. and so after making up some pathetic excuse of coming over to your apartment to 'drop something you left', he was now on your bed, having you spread out on all fours so prettily, his cock teased your swollen bud from behind, leaving you whining.

bruce speaks first "missed you baby.. missed this pussy." he speaks in that gruff voice of his. the voice you've heard so many times before.

you roll your eyes, the very same fire he fell for in the first place, "prove it then."

and that was it. bruce pushes into your wetness, you groan at the stretch as he bottoms out with a groan. the delicious fullness of it all coaxed a moan out of you as the filthy sound of wet skin slapping echoed throughout the room. his head repeatedly hitting that sweet spot, feeling like ecstasy. you could feel the veins, feel every pulse, feel every little drop of pre cum that dripped from his sensitive tip. his arm comes up, wrapping around your waist as he pounds into you from behind, hands working their way up to your tits. "gonna marry you again" bruce grunts in your ear while fucking you into oblivion.

bruce wayne doesn't know how to be exes. how could he?

⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟmain m.list

[maiamore]

y'all have no idea the sheer horny energy coursing through my veins right now. his longer hair is driving me fuckign crazy. seeing him is like seeing my war husband. i'm feral.