*just a little note I would like to thank you for stopping by and checking out my stories I hope you like them! and as I grow more confident with my writing I'll open up requests for some of the characters I'll be writing for*
{also don't be afraid to comment on my posts, I would love to interact with y'all. but don't feel pressured either, just a simple like really helps me in letting me know that you like my content.}
DC
Bruce Wayne, Batman
Bats: FLUFF Bruce Wayne thoughts,imagine/drabble
Cat Eyes: Catwoman!Reader, violence/gore, fluff and angst, swearing. Oneshot mini-series(ongoing)
Clark Kent, Superman
TWILIGHT
Edward Cullen
Edward Cullen's Mate: SMUT 18+, one-shot
Edward Cullen's Thoughts: Fluff, one-shot, backstory for reader and Edward, connected to Edward Cullen's Mate.
SPIDER-MAN
Spider-Man 2099, Miguel O'Hara
Fangs: SMUT
Good girl: NSFW drabble
Soft Tunes: FLUFF drabble, Mermaid AU, Dad! Miguel
So it's already pretty commonplace to talk about how warm Clark is, that he radiates the warmth of the sun that powers him. Well, I have an addition to this take: Clark smells like the sun.
When you spend the day in the sun or get sunburnt, your skin actually smells different. It smells different for a while, too. I think that Clark, someone who spends as much time as possible in the sun, definitely has that smell.
It's faint, not noticeable until your nose is nearly against his skin, a warm, nutty smell, almost metallic. It mixes with the hints of freshness and ozone that cling to him from all his flying. Familiar yet so unique, something we've smelt on ourselves, but it's different on someone else.
Bruce, chronically indoors and nocturnal, is used to smells that are earthy and wet. He knows the smells of the cave, of the manor, of rotting trash in the back alleys of Gotham. The perfumes of a gala and his mother's roses in the garden. He knows the scent of joker gas and fear toxin and of blood.
When he first notices the smell of Clark's skin, something unfamiliar and warm, the smell of the sky and sun, he can't stop thinking about it. It's something unlike anything he's used to, warm and comforting. Sharp in a way that's new.
He relishes in every piece of clothing Clark leaves behind or that he steals borrows because that scent that is just so Clark lingers in the fabric. He can't get enough of it, and he can't figure it out. He can't find that smell anywhere else, in any soap or cologne. It's not Clark's soap(he checked), so that smell is just him. Purely Clark.
Clark doesn't ask why Bruce loves to nuzzle in his neck and just breathe him in, but he notices. He notices the stolen clothes and blankets that eventually return just to disappear again in an endless cycle. He doesn't mind because that earthy smell, something akin to petrichor or fresh silt from the bottom of a creek, hidden just beneath the smell of metal and leather, beneath the expensive cologne, has Clark doing the same thing in return.
inspired off of @worstwolverinesbf 's post: https://www.tumblr.com/worstwolverinesbf/792170958132822016/has-anybody-drawn-corensupes-sitting-down-and?source=share
Clark Kent experiences the world in a way no one else can. Every sense—sight, sound, touch, scent—is dialed up to levels that would overwhelm a human being. So when he’s with you—when he’s inside you—it’s not just sex. It’s symphonic. It’s transcendental. It’s everything, all at once.
He hears the flutter of your heartbeat before your moans ever leave your lips. He smells the honey-thick arousal before your thighs have even begun to tremble. He sees the way your body takes him with every push of his hips—the stretch, the slickness, the tightening of your muscles around him, almost like your body is trying to memorize him, mold itself to his shape.
He watches the beads of sweat on your skin start to form before you even realize how hot you’ve become. He hears the wet sound of every thrust, every press of his fingers against your clit, every delicate twitch of your walls pulling him deeper. The sound of your breath hitching? The tremble in your voice when you whimper out his name and tell him you’re close? He already knew. He knew the moment your blood started rushing, the moment your pulse skipped just once, the moment your thighs locked just a little tighter around him.
Wen you finally break—when that orgasm tears through you like a white-hot wave—Clark feels it all. All of it. The pressure of your release, the soft cries spilling from your mouth, the taste of your climax thick in the air, the heat radiating from your skin. It knocks the wind out of him. No villain, no meteor, no battle has ever unraveled him like the feel of you cumming around him. Because your pleasure is his and he doesn’t just witness it—he lives it.
And when he finally lets himself go—when he cums with a groan so deep it shakes the windows—he watches through his x-ray vision as his release floods into you, thick and warm, curling into the very deepest parts of you like he’s marking you from the inside out. When he sees it—his knees almost buckle. His vision flashes white for a moment. It’s overwhelming. It’s perfect. It’s intimate on a level only he could ever truly comprehend.
To Clark, your body isn’t just beautiful—it’s a miracle. A sacred place. And when you let him in, let him take, let him feel? He knows he’s found heaven. And he never wants to leave.
⚠️WARNING: This fanfiction contains excessive Kryptonian stamina, repeated creampies, aggressive titty worship, and a Superman who takes the “you owe me a Mother’s Day gift” Facebook rule way too seriously. Side effects may include ruined panties, sudden outbursts of “Oh my God, Clark,” soaked bedsheets, spontaneous ovulation, and an uncontrollable urge to climb a certain reporter like a tree. Reader may experience heart palpitations, weak knees, and an irrational desire to bake him apple pie afterward. Do not read in public, while operating heavy machinery, or if you have a weak heart—Super strength and super tongue have been known to cause blackouts from sheer pleasure. If you become emotionally attached to fictional farm-boy abs or start calling your partner “Smallville” in bed, seek help immediately. Batteries not included. Keep away from kryptonite and people with no sense of humor.‼️
You were scrolling Facebook in bed, legs tangled in the sheets, when the post popped up. Clark was in the kitchen making breakfast—because of course he was—his broad back to you as he hummed something old and Midwestern under his breath. The morning light poured through the windows of your shared apartment, catching on the ridiculous “Kiss the Cook” apron you’d bought him as a joke last Christmas. It barely fit across his chest.
The status read: If you cum in/on me or sucked my titties, you owe me a Mother’s Day gift.
You cackled so hard you nearly dropped your phone.
“What’s so funny?” Clark called, voice warm with that Kansas sunshine smile you could hear even when you couldn’t see it.
“Nothing,” you lied, still giggling. “Just… Facebook.”
He appeared in the doorway a second later, two plates balanced in one hand like they weighed nothing. God, he was unfairly beautiful in the morning—dark hair tousled, glasses slightly crooked, the faint shadow of stubble he never quite needed to shave thanks to Kryptonian biology. His eyes flicked to your phone, then back to your face, curious.
“Should I be worried?”
“Only if you’re scared of owing me presents.”
He raised an eyebrow, setting the plates on the nightstand before crawling onto the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight as he loomed over you, one hand braced beside your head. “Explain.”
You showed him the post. He read it, cheeks tinting pink, then let out that low, surprised laugh that always made your stomach flip.
“So… by that logic,” he said slowly, voice dropping into that dangerous register he used when he was teasing, “I’ve been racking up quite the debt.”
“Massive debt, Kent. Years of it.”
His gaze darkened, playful heat turning into something heavier. “Then I guess I’d better start making payments.”
Breakfast was forgotten.
Clark’s mouth found yours first—slow, deep, the kind of kiss that reminded you he could bench-press buildings but chose to touch you like you were the fragile one. His hand slid under your oversized sleep shirt (actually one of his old Daily Planet tees), palm warm and huge against your ribs. When his thumb brushed the underside of your breast, you arched into him with a soft sound.
He pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, “Mother’s Day is tomorrow. Think I should get a head start?”
“You’re such a dork,” you laughed, but the sound melted into a moan when he ducked his head and latched onto your nipple through the thin fabric.
Clark sucked gently at first, then harder, tongue flicking in lazy circles while his hand kneaded the soft flesh. He’d always been obsessed with your breasts—something about the way they fit in his palms, the sounds you made when he played with them. Today he was thorough. He pushed the shirt up and off, baring you completely, then worshipped. Slow, wet pulls into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm. He switched sides, humming in satisfaction when your fingers threaded into his hair and tugged.
“Clark—” you gasped.
He released your nipple with a wet pop, lips shiny. “Already? We’re just getting started, baby.”
He kissed down your stomach, pausing to nuzzle the waistband of your panties before peeling them down your legs. Then his mouth was on you—hot, eager, Superman on his knees for you. His tongue parted your folds and licked a long stripe up to your clit, sucking the sensitive bud between his lips while two thick fingers pressed inside you. He curled them perfectly, stroking that spot that made your thighs shake.
You came the first time with his name on your lips, hips bucking against his face. He didn’t stop. He kept licking you through it, gentler now, until you were trembling and oversensitive.
When he finally rose up, his cock was straining against his sweatpants, the outline obscene. You reached for him, but he caught your wrist gently.
“Not yet. I still owe you.”
He stripped quickly—God, that body. Years of working the farm and then saving the world had carved him into something almost unreal. Broad shoulders, defined abs, that perfect V leading down to his thick, flushed cock. It curved slightly upward, already leaking at the tip. You licked your lips.
Clark noticed. He stroked himself once, slow, eyes locked on yours. “You want it?”
“Yes.”
He settled between your thighs, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your clit until you whined. Then he pushed in—slow, careful, even though you both knew you could take him. The stretch was delicious, filling you inch by inch until he bottomed out with a groan that vibrated through his chest.
“Fuck, you feel perfect,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “Every time.”
He started moving—deep, rolling thrusts that hit every sensitive spot inside you. One hand braced beside your head, the other cupped your breast, thumb flicking your nipple while his mouth claimed the other again. He sucked hard, matching the rhythm of his hips, and the dual sensation had you clenching around him.
“Clark—oh god—”
He switched breasts, lavishing the same attention on the other while his pace quickened. The wet sounds of his mouth and the slap of skin filled the room. You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, urging him deeper.
He gave it to you. Super strength carefully reined in, but the power was still there—each thrust driving you up the bed until he had to hold your hips to keep you in place. When he hit that perfect angle, you came again, harder this time, walls fluttering around his cock.
Clark growled, the sound low and primal, but he didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, then flipped you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing. He pulled your hips up and slid back in from behind, one hand reaching around to rub your clit while the other braced on the headboard. The wood creaked dangerously under his grip.
“You’re gonna come again for me,” he murmured against your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin. “Then I’m gonna fill you up. That count toward my debt?”
“Yes—fuck, yes—”
He pounded into you, relentless but never rough enough to hurt. His fingers circled your clit perfectly, and the third orgasm crashed over you, leaving you shaking and moaning into the pillow. Clark followed right after, burying himself deep as he came with a guttural groan. You felt every pulse, hot and thick, flooding you until it leaked out around his cock.
He stayed inside you for a long moment, both of you catching your breath. Then he carefully pulled out and rolled you onto your back, kissing you softly.
“Round two in the shower?” he whispered, lips brushing your ear.
You laughed breathlessly. “You’re really committed to this debt, huh?”
“Baby, I’m just getting started.”
The shower was slower. Steam filled the bathroom as Clark washed you with reverent hands, soapy palms sliding over your breasts, down your stomach, between your legs. He dropped to his knees again on the tile, water cascading over his shoulders, and ate you out until your legs gave out. Then he stood, lifted you effortlessly, and pinned you against the wall. Your back pressed to cool tile, legs wrapped around his waist as he slid back into you.
This time he fucked you with long, deep strokes, eyes locked on yours the whole time. “I love you,” he whispered between thrusts. “Love this. Love coming home to you.”
You came with his name, clenching around him. He followed, spilling deep again, hips stuttering.
Afterward, he carried you back to bed—wrapped in a towel, hair damp—and fed you the now-cold breakfast with his fingers, both of you laughing at how ridiculous and perfect it was.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of touches and teasing.
You tried to work on an article at your laptop. Clark “distracted” you by sucking marks into your inner thighs under the desk. You retaliated by dropping to your knees while he was on a video call with Perry—muted, of course—taking him down your throat until his knuckles went white on the edge of the table.
By evening you were both exhausted in the best way, tangled naked on the couch watching some old movie. Your head rested on his chest, his fingers idly tracing patterns on your bare hip.
“So,” you said, tracing the ridges of his abs, “still think you’ve paid your debt?”
Clark chuckled, the sound rumbling under your ear. “Not even close. I’ve got plans for tomorrow.”
“Plans?”
He tilted your chin up, kissing you slow and sweet. “You’ll see.”
Mother’s Day morning dawned bright and golden.
You woke to the smell of fresh coffee and something sweet. Clark was already up, wearing nothing but boxers and an apron again. When you padded into the kitchen, he turned with a tray—pancakes shaped like hearts (slightly lopsided, because even Superman couldn’t make perfect circles every time), fresh fruit, and a single red rose in a vase.
But that wasn’t the gift.
After breakfast, he led you to the living room. On the coffee table sat a small, beautifully wrapped box.
“Open it.”
Inside was a delicate silver necklace with a tiny pendant: a stylized sun and a Kryptonian symbol intertwined. You knew what it meant—family. Home. The life you were building.
Your eyes stung. “Clark…”
“There’s more.” He looked almost shy. “I talked to my mom. She’s coming for dinner tonight, but she’s staying at a hotel so we have the apartment to ourselves after. And I… I booked us a weekend at that cabin up north. The one with the big fireplace. No phones. Just us.”
You kissed him fiercely, climbing into his lap right there on the couch. The towel you’d wrapped around yourself after your shower slipped open. Clark’s hands immediately found your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples until they peaked.
“Still not done paying?” he teased, voice husky.
“Not even close, Kent.”
You pushed him back against the cushions and straddled him, guiding his already-hard cock inside you. You sank down slowly, savoring every inch until he was buried to the hilt. Then you rode him—slow at first, grinding your hips in circles, then faster, hands braced on his chest.
Clark’s head fell back, eyes half-lidded, watching where you were joined. “God, look at you. So beautiful taking me.”
His hands gripped your ass, helping you move, occasionally pulling you down harder. When he sat up to suck on your breasts again, you moaned loudly, fingers tangling in his hair. He lavished attention on them—licking, sucking, gently biting—while you bounced on his cock.
You came first, clenching around him, crying out. Clark flipped you onto your back on the couch and thrust deep, chasing his own release. He came with a groan, filling you again, hips jerking as he rode it out.
Later, when you were both catching your breath, he pressed soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” he whispered, even though you weren’t a mom yet. The words felt like a promise.
You smiled, tracing the necklace now resting against your skin. “You know… according to Facebook, you still owe me.”
Clark laughed, bright and warm, and rolled you beneath him again.
“Then I guess I’ll just have to keep paying. All day. All night.” His lips brushed your ear. “Super stamina has to be good for something, right?”
You pulled him down for another kiss, already feeling him harden against your thigh.
Lets just say a man has gone back to work and it has stolen my motivation... but, at last i finally got around to this after months of decaying so ima take the win.
what do you think is the FIRST thing clark did after kissing bruce at the altar after they got married? :3
The first thing he probably did after that is hold Bruce's half conscious body up because Clark kissed him for too long, completely forgetting that Bruce is a human and needs to breathe and cry a little about almost killing his wife of 2 seconds lol.
But fr, I think they both are too drunk on the dream like blissful happiness to do anything more than just stare into each other's eyes for the rest of the function. No one could get them to separate even for a millisecond. Clark's hand was glued to Bruce's waist, both of them sporting the biggest smiles ever and kissing a million times more, and confessing their love again and again.
The FIRST thing Clark did after the ceremony was fly Bruce out to the fortress of solitude to complete their wedding by getting mated officially in kryptonian customs. They did all of the rituals and sealed their irreversible bond forever.
After the kryptonian ceremony, Clark flew way up in the atmosphere with Bruce in his arms to show him a star bursting in the atmosphere. The star was Krypton, that is millions of light away from Earth. Their wedding day overlapped with the day Krypton's explosion was visible from Earth, and Clark wanted Bruce, now his whole world, to be there with him to witness that moment in his life.
request reader who acts as a healer for the team, and their ability on paper [and seemingly in practice] is just that they can heal anybody, no matter the damage or cause, except their power actually works by stealing the wound and inflicting it upon themselves. they can take any pain, mental, chronic, sometimes even emotional depending on circumstances and the degree of it. no one knows until they take on something far too bad: losing a limb, breaking their spine, guts spilling out, etc.
content gn! reader x bruce wayne, healer! reader, reader gets hurt, graphic injury, severe spinal injury/paralysis, internal bleeding, blood, medical trauma, magical injury, pain transfer, self-sacrificial healing, near-death experience, emotional distress, guilt, panic/fear over a loved one’s injury, brief discussion of consent around healing, hospital/medbay scenes, temporary loss of mobility, angst with hurt/comfort
masterlist
word count 7.3k
Bruce Wayne did not believe in miracles.
He believed in preparation. He believed in weight distribution, Kevlar threading, six exit routes minimum, and the ugly mathematical certainty that if a human body hit concrete at the right angle, it broke. He believed in blood loss by volume. Heart rate by exertion. Pupil response. Grip strength. Respiration.
He believed in pain because pain was honest.
Miracles were not.
Miracles arrived too clean. Too bright. Too easy. They stood in the middle of a battlefield with blood on their hands and said, I fixed it, like the body was a machine and suffering was a loose screw.
Bruce did not trust miracles.
Which was unfortunate, because the Justice League had one.
You.
You were not the loudest member of the League. Not the strongest, not the fastest, not the one reporters chased with microphones and wide eyes. You did not wear a cape or a symbol bright enough to turn hope into branding.
You were usually found in the aftermath.
In the ash. In the medbay. In the quiet corner of the Watchtower, where someone was trying not to scream.
You would kneel beside them, place your hands carefully over the damage, and breathe in like you were bracing for winter. Then the wound would close. Poison would vanish from the bloodstream. Bones would knit. Burns would fade. Panic would ease. Pain would leave.
On paper, your ability was simple.
You could heal anyone. No matter the wound. No matter the cause. Human, alien, magical, divine, chemical, psychic — it did not matter.
The League called you a gift. The Titans called you a lifesaver. The Outlaws called you a cheat code.
Clark once called you “mercy with a pulse,” and you had laughed so hard that Bruce had looked up from his tablet just to watch.
Bruce called you reckless.
Mostly because you were.
You would walk into active fire to reach an injured teammate. You would ignore direct orders when someone was bleeding. You would put your palms against flesh torn open by things that should not exist and say, “I’ve got you,” as if that alone were enough to bully death into backing off.
The worst part was that it usually worked.
The second worst part was that Bruce could never decide whether he hated you for it or loved you for it.
Tonight, he decided he hated it.
Mostly because you were bleeding. Again.
Not severely. Not enough for anyone else to notice. A thin line at your temple. A split on your lip. A tremor in your left hand that you kept hiding against your thigh.
You stood in the Watchtower medbay beneath cold white lights, smiling softly while Clark thanked you for sealing a kryptonite burn across his ribs. The wound had been ugly enough to make even Diana go quiet. Green veins. Blackened skin. Clark’s breathing gone ragged and wet.
Now he stood whole and sheepish, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.
“You didn’t have to take care of it so quickly,” Clark said. “I could’ve waited.”
“No, you couldn’t,” you replied, like this was obvious. “You were turning a shade of green that even Hal couldn’t pull off.”
Hal, from the next bed over, raised a hand. “Rude, but fair.”
Clark smiled. “Thank you.”
You smiled back.
Bruce watched the tremor in your hand worsen.
He said your name.
Your eyes shifted to him immediately.
It always did something strange to him, that. The way you heard him, no matter how softly he said it. The way your attention arrived like a hand settling over an open flame.
“You need to sit down,” Bruce said.
You blinked. “Hello to you too.”
“Sit.”
“Wow. Full sentences tonight. I’m honoured.”
Hal made a low whistle. “Careful, Bats. They’re armed with bedside manner.”
Bruce did not look away from you. “You’re injured.”
“So are half the people in this room.”
“Not after you get to them.”
Your smile thinned.
There it was. A flicker. Small enough that anyone else might have missed it. But Bruce had built a life out of noticing what people tried to bury.
You looked away first.
“I’m fine,” you said.
Bruce hated those two words more than almost any others. They were a locked door. A smokescreen. A blade held behind the back.
Jason used them like armour. Dick used them like a performance. Tim used them like a spreadsheet refusing to load. Damian used them like a dare.
You used them like a prayer.
Bruce stepped closer. “Let Alfred examine you when we return to Gotham.”
Your expression softened in that infuriating way it always did when he worried about you. Like his concern was something precious and breakable. Like you had no idea what to do with it except hold it carefully until he looked away.
“Bruce,” you said quietly, “I’m okay.”
He lowered his voice. “You’re lying.”
Your gaze held his.
For a moment, the medbay noise faded around you both. No monitors. No League chatter. No hiss of sterilisers or distant hum of the Watchtower’s engines.
Just you. Just him. Just the secret Bruce knew you were keeping and the terrible feeling that one day it would cost more than either of you could pay.
Then the alarm screamed.
Red light washed over the medbay.
Clark straightened instantly. Diana reached for her sword. Hal cursed.
Batman was already moving.
“Report,” Bruce snapped into comms.
J’onn’s voice came through, strained. “Breach in Gotham. East End. Magical signature. Multiple civilian casualties. Zatanna is unreachable.”
Bruce’s blood went cold.
Gotham.
Of course, it was Gotham. The city had a way of calling him home with broken teeth.
He turned toward the exit, cape snapping behind him. He heard your footsteps follow.
“No,” he said immediately.
You scoffed. “Excuse me?”
“You’re staying here.”
“I am absolutely not.”
“You’re injured.”
“I’m useful.”
“You’re compromised.”
“And you’re emotionally allergic to common sense, but we all cope.”
Hal muttered, “Damn.”
Bruce turned on you fully. The others moved around you, preparing, but he could only see the blood at your temple. The way your hand still shook.
“You are not going into another combat zone.”
Your face sharpened. “People are hurt.”
“That doesn’t override your safety.”
“It usually overrides yours.”
“That’s different.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Bruce regretted them.
Your expression went still.
Not angry.
Worse.
Understanding.
“Right,” you said. “Because you’re Batman.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened.
You stepped closer, lowering your voice so only he could hear. “And I’m just the person who puts everyone back together afterwards.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“But it is what you believe.”
“No.”
“Then move.”
He did not.
Your eyes flashed.
“Bruce.”
His name in your mouth was not a plea.
It was a warning.
Diana’s voice cut through the tension. “We need to go.”
Bruce looked at you for one more second.
You looked back, chin lifted, blood drying at your lip like a signature.
He knew that look. He had seen it in mirrors.
There was no stopping you.
Only failing to protect you loudly enough to pretend it counted.
“Stay behind me,” he said.
Your smile returned, quick and grim. “Cute.”
Then you were gone, following the League into the red-lit corridor.
Bruce let himself breathe once.
Only once.
Then Batman took over.
Gotham was burning blue.
Not orange. Not red. Not the familiar hungry gold of fire eating through old wood and older sins.
Blue.
The flames crawled along brick walls without consuming them. They licked over pavement, curled around street lamps, danced across windows with a strange, weightless hunger.
Magic.
Bruce hated magic.
A creature stood at the centre of the East End intersection, too tall to be human and too thin to be alive. Its limbs bent wrong. Its face was a polished black surface with no features except a mouth full of white light.
Around it, civilians lay scattered across the street.
Some moved. Some did not.
Batman landed hard on a rooftop overlooking the intersection. Clark hovered to his left, jaw tight. Diana landed beside him, sword already drawn. You dropped from the Javelin last, boots hitting gravel with a muted scrape.
Bruce glanced back at you.
You were already looking at the wounded.
Of course you were.
“Assess first,” Bruce ordered. “No engagement without—”
The creature opened its mouth.
The sound that came out was not a scream.
It was worse.
It was every scream at once.
Every person in the intersection arched in agony. Civilians. Police. Firefighters. A young paramedic dropped to their knees, hands clawing at their own throat. Clark grunted and clapped both hands over his ears. Diana staggered.
Bruce’s vision went white.
Pain ripped down his spine.
It was sudden. Absolute. Like something had reached inside him and pulled every nerve taut until his bones sang with it.
He hit the rooftop on one knee.
You shouted his name.
He tried to answer.
Couldn’t.
His comm crackled with overlapping voices.
“Batman—”
“Bruce—”
“Status—”
He forced his head up.
The creature’s mouth widened.
The street split.
A line of blue fire shot through the asphalt, up the building, across the roof beneath Bruce’s feet.
He moved too late.
The roof collapsed.
For a moment, there was only falling.
Not fear. Bruce rarely had time for fear during impact.
Only calculation. Distance. Angle. Debris. Cape. Grapple. Left hand functional. Right shoulder compromised from earlier strain. Avoid exposed rebar. Protect head. Roll through—
Something hit him midair.
Not stone. Not steel.
Magic.
Invisible force slammed him downward like the hand of a god.
He crashed through three floors.
The first impact shattered his ribs. The second stole the air from his lungs. The third broke something deep.
Something final.
Bruce hit concrete and knew before he tried to move.
His legs were gone.
Not gone from his body. Worse.
Present. Silent. Dead weight below a line of fire in his spine.
The world narrowed to breath.
In.
Broken glass.
Out.
Blood in his mouth.
He blinked at the ceiling far above, where blue flames crawled like veins through the cracks.
His cowl’s diagnostics flickered.
Spinal trauma: severe.
Lower limb response: absent.
Internal bleeding: probable.
Respiration: impaired.
Bruce closed his eyes. Only for a second.
When he opened them, you were there. Dust in your hair. Blood at your temple reopened. Eyes wide, terrified in a way he had never seen from you.
He tried to say no.
It came out as a wet rasp.
You dropped to your knees beside him.
“Don’t move,” you said, voice shaking.
He would have laughed if he could.
You pressed your hands to his chest, then stopped.
Your gaze flicked downward.
You knew.
Of course, you knew. You always knew where the pain lived.
“Don’t,” Bruce managed.
Your face crumpled for half a second before you controlled it. “Bruce—”
“Don’t.”
The word cost too much. Pain flared behind his eyes. His fingers twitched uselessly against the concrete.
You swallowed hard. “Your spine—”
“I know.”
“You’re bleeding internally.”
“I know.”
“Your lung is—”
“I know.”
You stared at him.
The building groaned around you.
Above, Clark shouted your name. Diana called for Batman. The creature screamed again, and the whole city seemed to twist beneath the sound.
Bruce forced his fingers to curl around your wrist.
Weakly. Not enough to stop you.
Never enough.
“Evacuate,” he breathed.
Your eyes filled. “No.”
“That’s an order.”
“You don’t get to order me to watch you die.”
“I’m not—”
His breath hitched. Something inside him shifted wrong.
Agony tore through him so violently his vision blacked out at the edges.
When the world returned, your hands were on either side of his face.
“Stay with me,” you said. “Bruce, stay with me.”
He wanted to tell you that he was trying. He wanted to tell you to leave. He wanted, absurdly, to apologise.
For the blood on your hands. For the fear in your eyes. For every time he had treated your kindness like a tactical flaw because admitting what it really was would mean admitting how much it mattered to him.
You bent closer.
Your forehead touched his.
“Forgive me,” you whispered.
Panic cut through him sharper than pain.
“No.”
You kissed him.
Not like a goodbye.
Like a promise made with shaking hands.
Then your palms pressed over his spine.
And you breathed in.
Bruce’s world exploded.
Not with pain.
With absence.
The fire in his back vanished. His ribs snapped into place. His lung opened. The blood in his throat cleared. Feeling surged back into his legs with such sudden force that his whole body jerked.
He gasped.
The cowl display stabilised.
Spinal trauma: resolved.
Internal bleeding: resolved.
Respiration: normalising.
Lower limb response: restored.
Bruce stared up at you in horror.
Because you were no longer kneeling.
You were collapsing. Your body folded exactly the way his had. Your breath broke on a sound he would hear for the rest of his life.
Blood spilled from your mouth.
“No,” Bruce said.
This time, the word came out whole.
He caught you before your head struck concrete.
You convulsed in his arms, eyes blown wide with agony. Your hands clawed weakly at his cape, not pushing him away. Holding on.
Your legs did not move.
Bruce’s mind went quiet.
Not calm.
Quiet. The kind of quiet that came before violence. Before grief. Before the part of him that wore a bat-shaped shadow took all the pain in the room and turned it into a weapon.
“What did you do?” he whispered.
You tried to answer. Only blood came out.
Bruce pressed two fingers to your throat. Pulse rapid. Weak. Too weak.
Behind him, debris shifted. Clark dropped through the hole in the ceiling, eyes blazing red until he saw you.
The heat vanished from his stare.
“Great Rao,” Clark breathed.
“Get us out,” Bruce said.
Clark moved instantly.
Bruce held you against his chest as Clark lifted them both through the wreckage. Diana met them on the street, blue fire reflecting off her armour.
Her face changed when she saw you.
That was when Bruce understood.
The horror did not belong to him alone.
Everyone was watching. Hal hovered above the intersection, ring dimming. Flash stood frozen near an ambulance. J’onn’s expression had gone remote with shock. Civilians stared from behind barricades.
And you lay in Bruce’s arms with his broken spine.
His blood. His death.
The creature screamed again.
Bruce did not look at it.
“Diana,” he said.
His voice was Batman’s. His arms were Bruce’s, shaking around you.
Diana’s gaze hardened. “Go.”
Clark reached for you. “Bruce, I can fly them faster.”
“No.”
Clark stopped.
The word had come out too sharp. Too raw.
Bruce adjusted his grip carefully, terrified to jostle you. Terrified not to.
“I have them,” he said, quieter.
Clark looked at him, and Bruce knew he understood.
Not everything. Not yet.
But enough.
Clark nodded once and turned back toward the blue fire.
Bruce carried you to the Javelin.
Every step was steady.
Every breath was not.
The Cave had never felt so cold.
Alfred met them before the landing platform fully opened. He did not ask questions. That was one of the many reasons Bruce trusted him more than anyone alive.
One look at you, pale and bloodied in Bruce’s arms, and Alfred’s face became very still.
“Medbay,” Alfred said.
Bruce carried you there.
Your head rested against his shoulder. Your breath came in shallow, uneven pulls. Every few seconds, your body trembled as if some invisible current was passing through you.
His injury. His pain. His consequences.
Alfred cut away your suit with clinical precision. Bruce stood beside the bed, cowl pulled off, gauntlets still on, blood drying at his jaw.
Your blood. His blood.
He could not tell anymore.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, “I need room.”
Bruce did not move.
Alfred’s eyes lifted to his. “Now.”
The word cracked like a whip.
Bruce stepped back. Barely.
Alfred worked.
Scans. IV. Oxygen. Stabilisers. A spinal brace. Blood transfusion. Drugs strong enough to knock out most people and still not enough to fully touch what you had taken.
Bruce watched every monitor like it owed him obedience.
Heart rate too high. Blood pressure too low. Inflammation along the spine. Nerve shock. Internal trauma.
All copied from his body.
No. Not copied.
Stolen.
No, not stolen.
Given.
No.
Taken.
His mind circled the word like a predator unable to find the throat.
He had been healed. You had been hurt.
It had to go somewhere.
The thought arrived fully formed, and Bruce nearly staggered beneath it.
It has to go somewhere.
Every mission. Every miracle. Every closed wound. Where had it gone?
He turned sharply and crossed to the Cave computer, fingers flying over the keys.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred said.
He ignored him.
Mission reports. Medical logs. Watchtower footage. Your check-in records. League debriefs. Gotham patrol incidents. Titan Tower emergencies. Outlaws extractions.
A pattern bloomed across the screen in timestamps and blood.
You healed Clark’s kryptonite poisoning on March 4th. Later that night, you requested private quarters and refused medbay assistance. The next morning, security footage showed you leaning against a corridor wall, vomiting into your hand.
You healed Dick’s fractured femur after a Titans mission in Blüdhaven. Two hours later, you were limping.
You healed Jason’s gunshot wound in Qurac. You vanished for three days afterward.
You healed Tim’s concussion and neural toxin exposure. You spent the next week avoiding bright lights.
You healed Damian’s broken wrist. The next morning, your hand shook so badly you could not hold a mug.
Your smile in every debrief. Your “I’m fine” in every recording. Your steady hands on everyone else.
Your hidden suffering afterwards.
Bruce gripped the edge of the console until the metal groaned beneath his fingers.
He had built systems to monitor everyone. He had missed this.
No. Worse. He had accepted the miracle because it was useful.
Because the people he loved came back whole when you touched them. Because when Jason’s breathing evened out, Bruce had been too relieved to ask why your hands shook afterwards. Because when Clark stood healed, Bruce had looked at you bleeding from the lip and let you say you were okay.
He had let himself believe you.
A sound came from the medbay.
Small. Broken.
Bruce was at your side before he realised he had moved.
Your eyes were half-open. Unfocused.
“Don’t try to move,” Alfred said immediately.
You made a faint, pained noise.
Bruce leaned over you. “You’re in the Cave. You’re safe.”
Your gaze dragged toward him.
Recognition flickered.
Then relief.
Relief.
Bruce nearly broke.
“You’re alive,” you whispered.
His throat closed.
Alfred adjusted the oxygen cannula beneath your nose. “Against his better judgment, yes.”
Your mouth twitched.
Even now. Even like this.
Bruce wanted to beg you not to smile.
“Can you feel your legs?” Alfred asked gently.
Your expression shifted.
Not fear.
Knowledge.
You already knew.
Bruce watched the answer settle behind your eyes before you spoke.
“No,” you said.
The word hollowed out the room.
Bruce turned away for half a second, jaw clenched so hard pain shot through his skull.
Alfred’s face remained composed, but his hands were not quite steady as he checked your reflexes.
“This may be temporary,” Alfred said. “The injury was transferred through metahuman means. We cannot assume it will behave like standard trauma.”
You looked at Bruce. He hated that you looked at him. Hated that you cared more about his face than your body.
“You’re angry,” you murmured.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
His eyes snapped to yours.
You swallowed, wincing. “Means you’re okay.”
Bruce stared at you.
Then he said your name so softly it sounded more like damage than language.
You closed your eyes. “I had to.”
“No.”
Your eyelids fluttered open.
Bruce leaned closer. His hands gripped the rail of the bed because if he touched you, he did not know whether he would hold on too tightly or fall apart completely.
“No,” he said again. “You chose to.”
Your face went still.
“And you didn’t tell me the cost.”
Your gaze slid away.
That hurt more than he expected. Which was absurd. Everything hurt more than he expected. He had spent years training pain into something useful, something clean, something he could fold into mission parameters and scar tissue.
This pain was not clean. It had your blood in it.
“I never tell anyone,” you said.
Bruce’s voice dropped. “I’m not anyone.”
Silence.
Alfred paused.
Your eyes came back to his slowly.
Something raw moved through your expression. Something soft and terrible.
“No,” you whispered. “You’re not.”
Bruce could not breathe around it.
He wanted to touch your face. He wanted to hold your hand. He wanted to shake you. He wanted to wrap you in every blanket in the Manor and lock every door between you and the world.
He wanted, uselessly, to go back. To stay broken. To stop you.
Instead, he said, “How does it work?”
Your mouth tightened. “Bruce—”
“How does it work?”
Alfred gave him a warning look. Bruce ignored it.
You were quiet long enough that the monitors filled the space between you.
Then you sighed. “It transfers.”
Bruce closed his eyes.
There it was. The word he already knew and still did not survive hearing.
“When I heal someone,” you continued, voice thin, “I take the injury into myself. Usually not permanently. Most things pass faster in me than they would in someone else. Burns fade in hours. Breaks heal in days. Poison burns out. Pain drains eventually.”
“Eventually,” Bruce repeated.
You gave him a tired look. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sound like you’re about to cross-examine my bloodstream.”
Alfred, traitor that he was, murmured, “A fair description of your tone, sir.”
Bruce did not look away from you. “You’ve been suffering every injury you healed.”
“Not suffering.”
His stare hardened.
You exhaled. “Not always for long.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
“You lied.”
“I omitted.”
“You lied.”
Your eyes flashed, a spark beneath exhaustion. “And you don’t?”
Bruce went silent.
You tried to shift, and pain tore across your face. The monitor spiked. Alfred moved quickly, adjusting medication, his voice low and calming.
Bruce stood frozen as you breathed through agony that had belonged to him.
When it passed, sweat shone at your hairline.
You looked very small in the medbed. You had never looked small before.
That frightened him more than the blood.
“I didn’t tell you,” you said, quieter, “because all of you would have stopped letting me help.”
“Yes.”
You laughed once. It sounded like it hurt. “Exactly.”
“You should have told us.”
“So you could make the choice for me?”
“So we could make an informed choice for ourselves.”
That landed.
Bruce saw it in the way your mouth parted slightly. In the sudden guilt that crossed your face.
He pressed on, because he was cruel when afraid. Precise when wounded.
“Clark would not have asked you to take kryptonite poisoning into your body.”
“He was dying.”
“Jason would not have asked you to take a bullet for him.”
“He was bleeding out.”
“Tim would not have asked you to absorb neurotoxin.”
“He was seizing.”
“Damian—”
“Would rather cut off his own hand than let someone else suffer for him,” you snapped. “I know.”
Your breathing hitched.
Bruce looked down.
Your hands were clenched in the sheets.
“I know,” you said again, softer. “I know who they are. I know what they’d choose. That’s why I don’t ask.”
Bruce felt something in his chest fracture.
Not because he understood.
Because he did.
You were surrounded by martyrs who would rather die than be saved at a cost. So you hid the price tag. You became the loophole.
Bruce looked at you and saw every terrible part of himself reflected back through gentler eyes.
Sacrifice dressed up as duty. Pain hidden under competence. Love turned into a weapon and aimed inward.
No wonder he had missed it.
It looked too much like him.
“You don’t get to decide that your life is worth less,” he said.
Your eyes shone. “Neither do you.”
The Cave went quiet.
Somewhere above, rain began to strike the Manor windows. Soft at first, then harder. Gotham weather, dramatic as ever. The city had never known how to read a room.
Bruce lowered himself into the chair beside your bed.
He removed his gauntlets slowly. One finger at a time. Armour coming off always felt like losing an argument.
You watched him warily.
He reached for your hand. Paused. Asked, because he should have asked before, “May I?”
Your expression cracked. Just slightly.
Then you nodded.
Bruce took your hand with a care that felt almost violent in its restraint.
Your fingers were cold.
He covered them with both of his.
“I was dead weight,” he said.
You blinked. “What?”
“In the building. I couldn’t move.”
Your throat bobbed.
“You were dying,” you said.
“I know.”
“No, Bruce. You were dying.”
He held your gaze. “I know.”
Your face twisted with something like grief. “Then why are you looking at me like I did something wrong?”
“Because you nearly died.”
“So did you.”
“I’m used to it.”
The words came too easily.
Your stare sharpened, even through the pain.
“That,” you said, “is the saddest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Bruce looked down at your hand.
You turned your fingers weakly against his palm. “You think your death would be easier for me because you’ve rehearsed it more?”
He had no answer.
You continued, voice trembling but steady enough to cut. “You think I could watch you die and call it respect? Call it consent? Call it honouring your choices?”
Bruce’s jaw tightened.
“I couldn’t,” you whispered. “I’m sorry if that makes me selfish.”
Selfish. The word was so wrong that Bruce almost flinched.
“You call this selfish?”
“I wanted you alive.”
His grip tightened carefully around your hand.
You looked at him like the confession had cost you more than the injury.
“I wanted you alive,” you repeated. “Not Batman. Not the mission. Not the symbol. You.”
Bruce closed his eyes. In the dark behind them, he saw you kneeling in rubble. Your face above his. Your forehead against his. Your whisper.
Forgive me.
He had thought, for one blinding second, that you were saying goodbye.
Maybe you had been.
When he opened his eyes, you were still watching him.
“You should have let Clark take me,” you said after a moment.
“No.”
“He’s faster.”
“Yes.”
“Bruce.”
“I couldn’t.”
The honesty left him rough. Bare.
Your face softened. He hated that too.
He was not the one in the bed. He was not the one with a stolen wound curled around his spine like a curse. He did not deserve your tenderness right now.
“I couldn’t give you to someone else,” he said.
Your eyes filled again.
“Oh,” you whispered.
Bruce lifted your hand and pressed his mouth to your knuckles.
It was not enough. It was nowhere close. But it was what he could do without breaking every monitor Alfred had attached to you.
“I’m sorry,” he said against your skin.
You breathed in shakily. “For what?”
“For not seeing it.”
“You weren’t supposed to.”
“I should have.”
“No.” Your thumb moved weakly across his hand. “Bruce, no.”
He looked up.
You gave him the saddest smile. “You don’t get to be responsible for my secrets too.”
Something in him rebelled against that. Responsibility was the shape he gave to love when love was too dangerous to name. He could hold responsibility. Measure it. Use it. Bleed for it.
But this? This was only terror and your cold hand and the knowledge that you had loved him violently enough to become his wound.
“I’m responsible now,” he said.
Your smile faded. “Bruce.”
“There will be protocols.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Limits.”
“You’re doing it.”
“Medical oversight.”
“You’re making my spinal trauma administrative.”
“Transfer thresholds.”
“Romance is alive and well in Gotham.”
Alfred coughed. It sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
Bruce ignored him. “You won’t heal anyone alone again.”
Your expression sobered. “That’s not always possible.”
“Then you don’t heal.”
“You know I can’t promise that.”
His voice hardened. “You will.”
“No.”
The word was quiet. Final.
Bruce stared at you. You stared back.
There you were, barely conscious, temporarily paralysed, still prepared to fight him from a medbed.
He should have been angry.
He was angry.
But beneath it was something more helpless.
“You would do it again,” he said.
Your silence answered before you did.
“If it was you?” you whispered. “Yes.”
Bruce’s chest tightened.
He stood abruptly, because sitting still had become impossible. He paced once, twice, then stopped at the foot of your bed.
“You don’t get to say that like it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
“You took my broken spine.”
“Yes.”
“You took my internal bleeding.”
“Yes.”
“You could have died.”
“Yes.”
His hands curled into fists. “Why?”
Your eyes widened slightly, like the answer was obvious. Like he was the impossible one.
Then your face softened.
Because of course you knew. Of course, you saw the question beneath the question.
Why me? Why would you choose me? Why would anyone look at the ruin of him, the sharp edges, the locked doors, the blood-soaked mission that had eaten most of his life, and decide he was worth carrying?
Your voice was barely audible.
“Because I love you.”
Bruce stopped breathing.
Alfred became very interested in the IV line.
Rain filled the silence.
You looked away first, cheeks flushed with fever or pain or embarrassment. Maybe all three.
“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmured. “Actually, please don’t if you’re about to be noble and emotionally unavailable. I’m very injured and cannot escape the room.”
Bruce moved before he decided to.
He came back to your side, leaned over the bed, and touched your face.
Carefully. Always carefully.
You went still beneath his palm.
He brushed his thumb along your cheekbone, avoiding the bruising near your temple. Your eyes lifted to his.
“I love you,” he said.
You stared.
For once, you seemed genuinely speechless.
Bruce would have appreciated that more under different circumstances.
Then your face crumpled.
“Oh,” you whispered again, smaller this time.
He bent and kissed your forehead.
Your eyes closed.
He stayed there for a moment, lips against your skin, breathing you in beneath antiseptic and blood and rain-damp Cave air.
When he drew back, you were crying silently.
Bruce wiped the tears away with his thumb.
“I’m still angry,” he said.
You laughed weakly. “Yeah, that tracks.”
“I’m going to be angry for a while.”
“Hot.”
His mouth twitched despite everything.
Then his expression broke serious again. “But I love you.”
Your fingers curled around his.
“And we are going to find a way,” he continued. “A safer way. A limit. A counterbalance. Something.”
“You can’t solve everything.”
“No.”
You gave him a look.
Bruce sighed. “I can attempt to solve many things.”
“There he is.”
“I can also sit here.”
Your expression changed.
He saw the exact moment you realised what he was offering.
Not a plan. Not a protocol. Not a war against the impossible.
Presence.
Bruce Wayne’s rarest currency.
“You hate sitting still,” you said.
“I do.”
“You’re bad at it.”
“I am.”
“You’ll brood.”
“Likely.”
“You’ll scare the nurses.”
“Alfred isn’t scared of me.”
“Alfred raised you. He’s immune.”
“Unfortunately.”
Your smile was small and exhausted, but real.
Bruce sat back down.
He did not let go of your hand.
You woke and slept in pieces.
Pain made islands of time.
Sometimes Alfred was there, changing medication, murmuring dry commentary that made the Cave feel less like a tomb. Sometimes Clark visited, guilt written so plainly across his face that you had to spend ten full minutes reassuring Superman, which felt frankly illegal.
He stood at the end of your bed with his hands folded too tightly.
“I should have known,” Clark said.
From the chair beside you, Bruce made a low sound.
You pointed weakly at him. “Do not start a guilt club. I will revoke everyone’s membership.”
Clark’s mouth twitched.
“I mean it,” you said. “No matching jackets.”
“I could design a logo,” Bruce said dryly.
You turned your head slowly toward him. “That was almost a joke.”
“No.”
“Growth.”
Clark looked between you both, something soft dawning in his expression.
Bruce glared. Clark wisely pretended not to notice.
Diana came next. She held your hand between both of hers and bowed her head over it.
“You have carried warriors without allowing them the honour of carrying you,” she said.
You swallowed. “That sounds bad when you put it like that.”
“It was meant to.”
“Cool, cool, love the honesty.”
She smiled faintly. “You will allow us to help now.”
It was not a question.
You glanced at Bruce. He raised an eyebrow.
You sighed. “You told her.”
“I told the League.”
Your stomach dropped. “You what?”
Bruce’s expression did not shift. “They needed to know.”
Anger flashed hot enough to cut through the pain. “That wasn’t your secret to tell.”
“No,” he said. “It was their bodies.”
You froze.
The anger did not vanish. But it changed shape.
Bruce leaned forward. His voice lowered. “They had a right to know what happens when you heal them. You were not wrong to save us. But you were wrong to take the choice away.”
You looked at Diana.
Her face was gentle. Not accusing.
That made it worse.
“I would not have asked this of you,” she said softly.
“I know.”
“And yet I am grateful.”
Your throat tightened.
Diana squeezed your hand. “Both can be true.”
After she left, you refused to look at Bruce for nearly an hour.
He sat beside you anyway.
Brooding. Predictably.
Finally, you said, “I’m mad at you.”
“I know.”
“You had no right.”
“I know.”
“I understand why you did it.”
His eyes moved to yours.
“That does not make me less mad,” you said.
“I know.”
You watched him for a moment.
He looked exhausted. Not the usual kind. Not the clean-lined fatigue of patrols and board meetings and nights spent chasing monsters through the city’s veins.
This was deeper. He sat like a man keeping vigil at the edge of a grave he had almost been lowered into, except you were the one lying down.
“You’re allowed to sleep,” you said.
“No.”
“Bruce.”
“No.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
His face went still.
You realised your mistake immediately.
Bruce looked down at your joined hands. “You don’t know that.”
The words were quiet. So quiet they hurt more.
Your anger softened, unwillingly and all at once.
“Hey,” you whispered.
He did not look up.
You squeezed his hand as hard as you could. It was not very hard.
“Bruce.”
His eyes lifted.
“I’m here.”
His jaw worked.
“I’m here,” you repeated.
“For now.”
“For now is what everyone gets.”
He hated that. You could tell. Hated it with his whole controlled, grieving, impossible heart.
But he did not argue.
That was how you knew he was truly afraid.
On the third day, feeling returned to your left foot.
It was not pleasant.
You woke from a dead sleep with a strangled gasp, pain lightning up your leg. Bruce was on his feet instantly, one hand on your shoulder, the other reaching for the call button.
“What happened?”
“My foot,” you choked out.
Alfred appeared within seconds.
Bruce looked like he might personally fight your nervous system.
“Pain?” Alfred asked.
You nodded, tears springing to your eyes.
“Scale?”
“Six,” you said.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed.
“Seven,” you amended.
Alfred gave you a knowing look. “Nine, then.”
“Betrayal,” you whispered.
Bruce’s hand remained on your shoulder, warm and steady.
After Alfred adjusted your medication and confirmed the return of nerve response was a good sign, the pain settled into something bearable.
Bruce did not. He stayed tense beside you, jaw locked, eyes fixed on your legs like he could command them back into obedience.
“Stop glaring at my spine,” you mumbled.
“I’m not.”
“You sure are.”
He exhaled through his nose.
You studied him through the haze of medication.
He had not shaved. His hair was messy from running his hands through it. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and there was a coffee mug nearby that looked untouched and deeply depressed.
“You look terrible,” you said fondly.
“Thank you.”
“Very Victorian widower chic.”
His eyebrow twitched.
“You need sleep.”
“I’ve slept.”
“Microsleep while threatening medical equipment doesn’t count.”
“I didn’t threaten anything.”
“Bruce.”
“A monitor was malfunctioning.”
“You told it to try harder.”
“It did.”
You laughed, and it hurt, but the hurt was worth it because Bruce’s face changed.
Only slightly.
But it changed.
The tightness eased around his mouth. His eyes warmed with something fragile.
“There you are,” he murmured.
Your breath caught.
He seemed to realise he had said it aloud, because he looked away.
Too late.
Warmth spread through your chest, soft and aching.
“Come here,” you said.
His gaze returned immediately. “What do you need?”
“You.”
That stopped him.
You shifted carefully, making room on the narrow medbed.
“No.”
“Bruce.”
“You’re injured.”
“I’m aware.”
“I could hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“I’m not getting into a medbed with you while you have spinal trauma.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
You sighed. “Okay. Chair closer, then.”
He hesitated.
“Please,” you added.
That did it.
Bruce moved the chair until it was close enough for you to touch him without straining. You lifted your hand. He took it.
“No,” you said. “Closer.”
He leaned in.
You reached up and touched his face.
His eyes closed.
The sight of it nearly undid you.
Bruce Wayne, who held himself like a locked room, leaning into your hand in the cold glow of the Cave.
“You’re alive,” you said softly.
His eyes opened. “So are you.”
“Yeah.”
“You nearly weren’t.”
“As were you.”
His mouth tightened.
You brushed your thumb over his cheek.
“We’re a mess,” you whispered.
“Yes.”
“Like, a medically concerning mess.”
“Yes.”
“Emotionally, too.”
“Obviously.”
You smiled.
He turned his face and kissed your palm.
Your heart stumbled.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured.
Your smile faded into something softer. “About loving me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Your voice shook. “Because I meant it too.”
Bruce leaned forward until his forehead rested gently against yours.
No pressure. No demand.
Just contact. Just warmth. Just the mercy between bones.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted.
“Love me?”
“Let you risk yourself.”
You breathed out. “I don’t know how to stop.”
“I know.”
“You can’t lock me away.”
“I know.”
“You can’t make every choice for me.”
His eyes opened. “I know.”
“And I can’t keep taking choices from everyone else.”
Bruce went very still.
The confession sat between you.
Ugly. Necessary. True.
You swallowed. “I thought if I told people, they’d choose pain. Death. Permanent damage. I thought they’d make the noble choice because all of you are allergic to being loved safely.”
Bruce’s mouth twisted.
“But I think…” Your voice thinned. “I think maybe I was making the same choice for them.”
He did not speak.
His hand tightened around yours.
“I don’t regret saving you,” you said. “I won’t lie about that.”
Pain flickered in his eyes.
“But I’m sorry I made it something you had no say in.”
Bruce closed his eyes.
For a moment, he looked younger.
Not young. Never young.
But younger. Like grief had loosened its grip just enough to reveal the boy beneath the bat. The child in the alley. The man still trying to make every loss mean something.
When he opened his eyes again, they were damp.
He did not let the tears fall.
That was fine. You knew him.
You saw them anyway.
“I would have chosen you,” he said.
Your breath caught.
“If you had asked,” Bruce continued, voice rough, “if you had told me the cost, I would have chosen your life over my legs.”
Your vision blurred. “I know.”
“You don’t.”
“I do,” you whispered. “That’s why I didn’t ask.”
He flinched.
You hated yourself for it, but the truth was there now, sharp and breathing.
Bruce absorbed it in silence.
Then he nodded once.
Not forgiveness. Not yet.
Understanding.
That was a beginning.
“We do it differently now,” he said.
You nodded.
“We make rules.”
“Guidelines,” you countered weakly.
“Rules.”
“Strong suggestions.”
His stare flattened.
You smiled. “Fine. Rules.”
“No healing without disclosure unless the person is unconscious and the injury is immediately fatal.”
“Reasonable.”
“No solo transfers above a threshold we determine with testing.”
“Mostly reasonable.”
“No hiding symptoms.”
You grimaced.
His eyes narrowed. “Non-negotiable.”
“You’re so hot when you’re a bureaucratic nightmare.”
“Deflection.”
“Accurate deflection.”
“And,” Bruce said, ignoring that, “when you are injured, you let us help.”
Your smile slipped.
There it was. The hardest one.
Not the pain. Not the risk. Not the blood.
Receiving. Letting care come toward you and not turning it aside.
You looked down at your joined hands.
“I don’t know how,” you admitted.
Bruce’s thumb moved over your knuckles. “Neither do I.”
A laugh broke out of you, small and wet. “God, we’re doomed.”
“No.”
He said it so firmly you looked back up.
Bruce’s eyes held yours. “We’ll learn.”
The words should have sounded impossible. From anyone else, maybe they would have. But this was Bruce. Bruce, who had rebuilt himself from blood and pearls and gun smoke. Bruce, who turned grief into a citywide vow. Bruce, who loved like a locked door but stayed, always stayed, once you found the key.
If Bruce Wayne said he would learn, then God help the universe, he would.
You let your head sink back into the pillow.
“Okay,” you whispered.
He kissed your forehead again.
Then, after a pause, your mouth.
Softly. Carefully. A kiss shaped around the IV line, the spinal brace, the bruises, the terror. A kiss that did not ask for more than you could give. A kiss that said, with aching restraint, I am here. I am not leaving. I am furious. I love you.
When he pulled back, your eyes were closed.
“You need to sleep,” he said.
“So do you.”
“I’ll stay.”
“That wasn’t the argument-ending statement you thought it was.”
You felt, rather than saw, his faint smile.
A blanket shifted. The chair creaked. Then Bruce’s hand was still in yours, his thumb resting over your pulse.
Guarding it. Counting it. Trusting it, maybe.
You drifted toward sleep.
At the edge of it, you murmured, “Bruce?”
“Yes?”
“If you tell Jason, he’s going to yell at me.”
“He already knows.”
Your eyes snapped open. “Bruce.”
“He yelled at me first.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Then he yelled at Clark.”
“That tracks.”
“He’s waiting upstairs.”
You groaned. “I’m critically injured.”
“He brought soup.”
“Jason made soup?”
“Alfred made soup. Jason is taking credit.”
You smiled despite yourself.
The Cave hummed around you. Rain whispered above. Somewhere in the Manor, the family you had saved too many times waited to be angry, relieved, and unbearably present.
You had thought the pain had to go somewhere.
Maybe it did.
But maybe care did too.
Maybe it could move from hand to hand, body to body, not as a wound but as warmth. Maybe, this time, you did not have to be the only place suffering landed.
Bruce’s fingers tightened around yours as if he felt the thought pass through you.
“Sleep,” he said.
“Bossy.”
“Yes.”
“Love you too.”
His breath caught softly.
Then his mouth brushed your knuckles.
“I love you,” Bruce said, like a vow. Like a wound closing. Like the first honest miracle he had ever believed in.
And for once, when you slept, you did not have to carry the pain alone.
on a random day in metropolis, superman gets hit with an amnesia spell. at first he thinks it's a dud—nothing happens, and he can't exactly ask the sorcerer what was supposed to happen, so he wraps up the fight and flies home, changing out of the suit and returning to life as clark kent.
clark kent wakes the next morning with no recollection of the event. unbeknownst to him, he forgets every aspect of his life that's remotely related to his being an alien. forgets getting his powers, forgets learning how to use them/control himself, forgets the spaceship hidden on his parents farm, forgets saving people all across metropolis and the world, etc. etc.
but then he starts experiencing these...oddities. like that morning, when he reached for his coffee while reading an absolutely horrific article about luthor that was pure propaganda—and he crushed his mug in his hand. at first he thought maybe the mug had been cracked and he didn't know. but the steaming coffee hadn't burned his hand, and the jagged ceramic edges hadn't cut him, either. or on his way to work, when he realized he was running late, and he cleared the distance between his apartment and the daily planet in half the time it normally took him. or the way his vision had gone telescopic when he squinted his eyes to see something far away. or when he accidentally vaporized the bag of popcorn in his microwave before he even closed the door.
all of this happens, and clark thinks, honest to god, that the only explanation is that he and superman switched powers.
which is to say that he somehow has superman's powers and now superman is somewhere out there with none. which must be why he hasn't been spotted for over a week, now.
because clark accidentally stole his powers.
clark panics. but doing so only results in a splintered coffee table and a scorch mark on his bathroom tile. he folds in on himself on the floor in the middle of his kitchen, squeezing his eyes shut and forcing himself not to touch anything.
he gets a call from his ma. clark has no idea how she has such impeccable timing. with a shaking hand, he applies the barest pressure to his phone and answers the call. ma asks if he's okay, says she hasn't heard from him in a while. she wants him to drop by the farm soon. clark can't tell her about the power he's somehow gained, but he lets her reassure him and promises to make the trip to her soon.
comforted by ma's words, clark goes to the closest place he knows with someone he can (hopefully) trust: gotham.
batman and superman have been featured in the paper multiple times together, mostly concerning their joint work in organized crime busts. clark has reason to believe they're at the very least some kind of coworker, maybe even friends. batman will be able to help clark track down the real superman and return his powers. batman will be able to help clark control his infernal abilities and eventually get back to normal.
he manages to get into gotham without any more incidents, but getting batman's attention is a different story. he could flick on the batsignal...but it's reportedly on the GCPD roof and clark really doesn't feel like trespassing on that specific property. he eventually succeeds by accident, when he gets cornered in an alley at knifepoint with the attacker demanding his wallet.
batman swoops down, silent as a shadow. he dispatches the attacker and unholsters his grappling gun to leave, but clark shoots forward with too much speed and crashes into him. they land in a heap that quickly turns into clark pressed firmly into the ground with a batarang to his neck and his wrists held in a firm grip by batman's other hand.
"wait! please, i didn't mean to do that. something's wrong with me," he says emphatically, cursing the wetness in his eyes. even now in the small alley, the sheer amount of noise clark can hear is overwhelming. he knows how crazy he must look—entirely disheveled, hair unkempt, eyes wide and half-crazed with desperation. he just needs to say something that will make batman believe him. "it has to do with superman."
that gives batman pause. clark leaps at the opportunity.
"this is going to sound crazy, but i think—i think that magic guy he fought a couple weeks ago took away his powers and gave them to me."
batman stares at him blankly. "what."
"i don't know," clark stresses. "here, look—" he pulls one of his hands out of batman's grip easily, wrapping it around the batarang tightly—how does he know the name for this thing?—and when he opens his palm, the metal has crumpled and his skin is unmarred. "see? i woke up with these stupid powers and now i can hear everything and see everything and it sucks—"
batman pulls away from him and stands, his cape enveloping him whole. clark scrambles upright, wringing his hands anxiously.
"...i believe you," batman says eventually. he glances down at the crumpled batarang with a curl in his lip.
clark's shoulders rise to his ears, face tinting pink. "sorry."
batman takes him to a safehouse. he sets clark up with food and clothes and even brings over a red sun lamp that actually helps, to both of their surprise. both of them hunker down and try to track superman's movements. they spend days together in the safehouse searching for clues and trying to hone clark's newfound powers.
clark tries his hardest not to develop a crush. but batman is so gentle and accommodating with his powers, and he brings clark thai food after learning it's his favourite, and he cracks wry jokes out of nowhere that have clark barking out a surprised laugh. needless to say, clark never stood a chance.
he keeps it to himself. there's absolutely no way batman, of all people, would reciprocate his feelings. and he'll probably never see him again when this is all over.
they find the sorcerer. well, batman does. clark watches from a monitor connected to the cowl's camera as batman confronts the magic user and demands that he reverse the spell. after some less-than-gentle persuasion, the sorcerer agrees and clark gets swallowed by a burst of light.
he wakes on the floor with batman hovering over him, concern etched into the line of his mouth.
"did it work?" batman asks, helping clark to sit.
clark looks around the room. he hears someone laugh a city away. he also remembers tearing around the living room as a kid and destroying a side table after tripping over his shoe and faceplanting right into the wood. he focuses his vision and sees the moon through six floor of the apartment building. he remembers pulling batman out of a house fire last month and sticking by him until he was sure everything was fine. he listens to batman's steady heartbeat. he remembers his own spiking when batman smiled at him for the first time after a gruelling mission.
clark can only shake his head in disbelief. he doesn't see a way out of this without compromising his identity. and he only has himself to blame. how embarrassingly predictable of him to run straight to batman and fall for him again.
batman sighs harshly next to him, misunderstanding. "the sorcerer is still in custody. i'll go question him again."
"no," clark reaches for him, grasps his wrist. "it worked. he reversed the spell. just not the way we thought."
batman peers at him carefully, his squinted eyes darting between clark's. after a long moment, his shoulders drop and his jaw firms.
"...you're superman, aren't you."
clark's shoulders hunch. "i'm so sorry, i had no idea—"
he's cut off by batman's laugh.
batman's laugh.
clark watches in disbelief as batman's mouth stretches in a wide smile and he doubles over, pressing his forehead to clark's shoulder and absolutely cackling against him.
"no, stop," clark says, pushing at him weakly with his own budding smile. "this is not funny. do you have any idea how stressed i was?"
that only makes batman laugh harder. he grips at clark's shoulders and hangs his head, his smile never dimming.
it's contagious. through his own laughter, clark says, "i can't believe myself."
and batman just shakes his head and says, "i can," and kisses him.
Summary: The first time you sleep over at the manor, and the first time Bruce steps foot in your tiny one bed room apartment.
Asks/requests are open!! Masterlist
The first night you stayed at Wayne Manor felt strangely intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. Not because of the mansion itself. If anything, the manor should’ve felt impersonal. Too large. Too polished. The kind of place where you were afraid to touch things because they probably cost more than your rent. Instead, it felt… lived in.
Warm.
There were books left open on side tables. Half-finished mugs of tea abandoned in sitting rooms. A sweater tossed over the back of a chair that was very obviously Dick’s because no human being besides Dick owned that many neon hoodies. And Bruce—
Bruce somehow made the entire massive place feel smaller just by existing in it. You were standing in the kitchen nursing a cup of tea when he walked in wearing the robe. You physically had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.
Bruce paused immediately. “What?”
“Oh my god,” you breathed. His brow furrowed slightly. “That robe is pink.”
“It is not pink.”
“It’s satin.”
“It’s silk.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
Bruce looked down at himself with a tiny frown like he was reconsidering the robe for the first time in his life. The robe was absolutely pink. Not bright pink. But definitely some rich wine-colored silk situation that looked unbelievably soft and expensive and absurdly domestic on a man built like Bruce Wayne.
Your laughter finally slipped out. Bruce sighed the long-suffering sigh of a man who’d apparently dealt with this before. “Damian bought it.”
You gasped dramatically. “Damian picked this out?”
“He said it looked distinguished.”
“That child thinks you’re a divorced millionaire in a Nancy Meyers movie.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched. And there it was. That tiny almost-smile he tried so hard to suppress sometimes. You pointed at him immediately. “Don’t you do that.”
“Do what?”
“That little smile thing where you pretend you’re not smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“You literally are right now.”
Bruce took another sip of tea to hide it. Coward. You wandered closer, unable to help yourself, fingers brushing lightly against the silk sleeve of his robe.
Your eyes widened instantly. “Wait, this is actually insane.”
Bruce looked down at you quietly. “What?”
“It’s so soft.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I thought rich people fabric was all for aesthetics. This feels illegal.”
A quiet laugh escaped him then. Actual laughter. Low and warm and rough with sleep. It startled you enough that you looked up immediately. Bruce rarely laughed fully. Not like that. Usually it was restrained amusement. A quiet exhale through his nose. Tiny smiles hidden behind coffee mugs. But this?
This was softer. Sleepier. Real. And maybe because it was late, maybe because the kitchen lights were dim, maybe because Bruce looked so comfortable standing there in his ridiculous robe with messy hair and reading glasses halfway down his nose, you suddenly felt unbearably fond of him.
Your hand stayed resting lightly on his sleeve. Bruce glanced down at it before looking back at you. Neither of you moved for a second. Then Bruce quietly asked, “You tired?”
“A little.”
“You’ve been trying not to yawn for twenty minutes.”
“I was being polite.”
“You fell asleep during the documentary earlier.”
“In my defense, it was about architecture.”
“It was about sustainable city planning.”
You stared at him flatly. “Bruce, that’s worse.”
Another tiny smile. God, you loved making him smile. Bruce set his mug down before reaching out gently, fingers catching your wrist. Not forceful. Just guiding. He pulled you closer until your hip bumped lightly against his. And then, because apparently this terrifying man was secretly affectionate beyond belief in private, he simply wrapped both arms around you and tucked you against his chest.
Your brain short-circuited immediately. “…Oh.”
Bruce hummed softly above your head. “What?”
“You’re clingy.”
“I am not clingy.”
“You literally just bear-trapped me in a kitchen.”
“You walked into range.”
You laughed against his chest, and Bruce’s arms tightened slightly in response like the sound itself relaxed something in him. That was another thing you were learning. Bruce touched constantly when he loved someone. Not publicly. Never publicly.
But in private? A hand at your waist while passing behind you. Fingers brushing your knee during conversations. Pulling you absentmindedly against his side while reading. Small things. Quiet things. Like he was always reassuring himself you were still there.
You tilted your head back slightly to look at him. “You’re really different at home.”
Bruce’s expression softened almost immediately. “Is that bad?”
“No,” you said quietly. “I think it’s my favorite version of you.”
Something vulnerable flickered across his face so quickly most people probably would’ve missed it. But you didn’t. Bruce leaned down slightly, pressing a slow kiss against your forehead. Not rushed. Not heated. Just tender. The kind of kiss that felt like being cared for. “You should sleep,” he murmured softly.
“Mmm. Don’t wanna.”
“You said you were tired.”
“I am.”
“Then come to bed.”
The words were simple. Casual, even. But warmth still flooded your chest embarrassingly fast. Bruce must’ve noticed because the corner of his mouth lifted slightly before he brushed his thumb along your cheek. “C’mon.”
He took your hand then. And despite the size of Wayne Manor, despite the endless halls and towering ceilings and all the wealth surrounding you, walking through the quiet manor half-asleep with Bruce’s hand wrapped around yours somehow felt more like home than anything else.
The first time Bruce came to your apartment, you nearly canceled three separate times. Not because you didn’t want him there. That was the problem. You wanted him there too much. Which meant suddenly you were painfully aware of everything. The old radiator that hissed like it was possessed. The tiny kitchen with exactly three feet of counter space. The fact that your couch cushions sank weirdly in the middle.
You spent an embarrassing amount of time cleaning despite the apartment already being clean. Fluffing pillows. Lighting candles. Hiding the one chair that had become The Laundry Chair. And still, by the time Bruce knocked on the door, your stomach was in knots. Because Bruce lived in Wayne Manor.
Wayne fucking Manor.
Meanwhile your apartment building had a flickering hallway light and a neighbor who blasted music every Thursday night. You opened the door still wearing one sock because you’d lost the other one halfway through panic-cleaning. Bruce immediately noticed. “…You’re missing a sock.”
You stared at him. “Hello to you too.”
His mouth twitched slightly. And just like that, some of the tension eased. Bruce stood there dressed down in dark jeans and a black henley, one hand holding takeout bags from your favorite little noodle place across town. Not chauffeured-driver Bruce Wayne. Not billionaire gala Bruce Wayne. Just Bruce.
Your Bruce.
“You brought food?”
“You forgot dinner yesterday.”
“You remember my meals now?”
“You forget them often enough for it to qualify as a pattern.”
“Wow. Judgmental.”
Bruce leaned down slightly as he stepped inside, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead as he passed. “You’re nervous,” he murmured quietly.
Your eye twitched. “No I’m not.”
“You reorganized your bookshelf alphabetically.”
You froze. “…How did you know it wasn’t already like that?”
Bruce slowly looked at the stack of books beside the couch. “…Because those are still piled by color.”
You stared at him in horror. Bruce kissed the side of your head to hide his amusement. “You missed one,” he informed you gently.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Unfortunately, he sounded very sure about that. Bruce moved deeper into the apartment while you shut the door behind him, and you couldn’t stop watching him. Not because he looked out of place. But because he didn’t. That was somehow worse. Bruce Wayne should’ve looked ridiculous standing in your tiny kitchen setting takeout containers on the counter. Instead, he looked… comfortable. Like he’d already decided this place mattered because it mattered to you.
His gaze wandered quietly around the apartment, not critical, not assessing financially, just observing. The string lights around the windows. The tiny framed movie posters. The books overflowing from shelves because you’d run out of room months ago. The blanket draped over the couch. He noticed everything. Of course he did. “You have more mugs than dishes,” Bruce observed after a moment.
“That’s because mugs are important.”
“Hm.”
“That was judgment in rich person.”
“That was observation.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Same thing.”
Bruce’s smile deepened slightly. God. That smile was unfair in normal lighting, but in your apartment with the warm lamps on and rain tapping softly against the windows? Lethal. You turned away before he noticed the effect he was having on you. Too late. Bruce’s hand slid lightly against your waist as you passed him. Effortless. Automatic. Like touching you had already become instinct for him.
“What?” you muttered suspiciously.
“You’re pacing.”
“I am not.”
“You’ve walked in a circle around the kitchen three times.”
“…This kitchen is like four feet wide.”
Bruce hummed thoughtfully. “Still counts.”
You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I’m being perceived.”
“You invited me over.”
“I regret allowing you to have observational skills.”
Bruce laughed quietly then. Actually laughed. Low and warm and fond. And suddenly your tiny apartment felt warmer for it. Bruce leaned back against your counter afterward, watching you plate noodles while soft jazz played faintly from your speaker. There was something deeply surreal about the image.
Bruce Wayne.
In your apartment.
Looking absurdly handsome while holding chopsticks.
You pointed at him suddenly. “You’re too relaxed.”
One brow lifted slightly. “Meaning?”
“You’re acting like you do this all the time.”
“I spend time at your apartment often.”
“You have been here for six minutes.”
“And yet.” You narrowed your eyes harder. Bruce only looked amused. Then, because apparently the universe enjoyed humiliating you, the shitty apartment radiator suddenly let out a loud metallic BANG. You flinched. Bruce didn’t even blink. “…Did it just do that naturally?” he asked calmly.
“Yes.”
“And you live like this willingly?”
“It builds character.”
“I think it builds tetanus.”
You laughed so suddenly you almost dropped your bowl. Bruce looked disproportionately pleased with himself for causing it. A little later, after dinner, you found Bruce sprawled across your couch like he belonged there. Which was insane. Truly insane. Because this was Bruce Wayne.
Billionaire CEO.
And he was currently wearing one of your fuzzy gray blankets over his lap with a green face mask spread across his face. You stood frozen in the hallway staring at him. Bruce glanced up from his phone. “…What?”
“You look ridiculous.”
“You put this on me.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually wear it!”
“You said it helps with dry skin.”
“You’re Bruce Wayne.”
“And?”
“And you look like a sleepy TikTok boyfriend.” Bruce looked entirely unashamed. Worse, he looked comfortable. Feet propped on your coffee table. One arm stretched along the back of the couch. The face mask somehow failing to make him look any less intimidating. You collapsed beside him laughing into your hands. “This is the weirdest moment of my life.”
Bruce looked over at you quietly then. Really looked at you. His expression softened in that private way he reserved only for the people he loved most. “I like it here,” he said softly.
Your laughter faded a little. “You do?”
Bruce nodded once. “It’s yours.”
The simplicity of it hit embarrassingly hard. Because he meant it. The apartment wasn’t impressive. It wasn’t glamorous. But Bruce looked around at your tiny living room like it was something precious because it belonged to you.
You shifted closer without thinking. Bruce immediately opened one arm for you on instinct alone. You curled against his side while rain tapped softly outside and the face mask on his stupidly handsome face cracked slightly when he smiled down at you. “You know,” you murmured, “if Gotham could see you right now, your reputation would be destroyed.”
Bruce kissed the top of your head lazily. “They’d survive.
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