warnings .ᐟ 18+ mdni. sharing gum. mentions of sex. established relationship. makeout sessions.
summary .ᐟ big meanie scott miller sharing his gum with his sweetheart of a girlfriend :0 (+ the 1 time you share your gum with him).
acknowledgements .ᐟ gif creds: @/corensweat
the first time scott does what you’d previously thought of as disgusting and revolting, was during one of your regular storm chasing afternoons.
back then you were just fuck buddies, keeping each other’s beds warm without the commitment, something scott was open about to you when it first started—at first it broke your heart but you learnt to live with it and accept it.
the day wasn’t going as expected, your hair sticking to your skin with rain, the data you were supposed to be collecting coming out all wrong, the storm seemingly disappearing right before your eyes—everyone was on edge.
your chest huffed as you looked down at your reports, the numbers not adding up to the measure you needed them to, only furthering you into an overthinking mess.you’d been chewing chunks out of the inside of your cheek, the the dried skin on your bottom lip not any better as your teeth scraped them off with with each nibble, the stress of the day urging you to nervously gnaw on something.
scott noticed; of course he did, he noticed every little thing about you— from the way you’d nervously tick when anxious, to the meticulous morning routine you had after each and every single one of your rendezvous.
he smacked his gum, scratching at the stubble growing on his jaw as he eyed you, the clipboard with data in his hands at the back of his mind now, too proud to admit with his full chest that he worried about you when you’d get like this, “you good?” he finally spoke up, voice gravelly, his nose twitching as he sniffled, the edge of the clipboard digging into his abdomen.
you looked up from the tablet in your hands, eyes wide as saucers; “what?” you asked, the assault from your teeth onto your already bleeding bottom lip, halted for a moment.
“i asked if you’re good, you’re uh, you’re doing that thing,” he paused, gesturing to your lips, his blue eyes pierced as he studied you, his eyes raking over your almost trembling with anxiety, figure.
you could taste the metallic twang from your bleeding bottom lip, lifting the pad of your fingers to touch it, looking down at your blood stained fingers as you swallowed, his voice echoing in the background as he called out your name.
you cleared your throat, your tongue darting out to wet your lips before humming, “yeah yeah—i’m fine, just really frustrated i guess—i uh-you got any more gum?” you finally blurted out, hoping to stop the assault on your bruised and bleeding bottom lip by chewing some gum.
scott looked at you, passing off the clipboard to someone walking by before checking his pockets, patting himself down. he realised slowly that the one he was currently smacking on was the last one he had, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek as his gaze zeroed in again on that anxious tick of yours, looking around to check if the rest of the team were looking before stepping forward, his face stoic, not at all giving away what he was about to do.
his large hand reached your jaw first, calloused palm tender against your skin before he bent down to accommodate your height, your brain catching up with your body slower than what you’d want it to, lips parted as his other hand moved to the belt loops on your jeans, hooking his index finger into one of them to pull your closer to him.
in a flurry his lips were pressed to yours, your breath catching in your throat as you kissed him back almost instantly, your lips moulding to the shape of one another’s, your body responding to his all too familiar touch as you melted into his embrace, your legs like jelly, the only thing keeping you grounded being his hand on your belt loop.
your skin prickled with goosebumps as your colleagues began staring, but you couldn’t find it in you to care, not with how his tongue prodded into your mouth with urgency, your head spinning as you angled your head so he could have his way, the kiss growing a tad desperate, completely oblivious to how he was manoeuvring the piece of minty fresh gum from his mouth into yours, his hand that had been on your jaw having slid down to the base of your throat, sitting loosely around the delicate skin there.
your eyes shot open as you felt the piece of gum in your mouth, your first instinct being to spit it out immediately, brows furrowed at the soft material on your tongue, until your eyes caught his, the emotions he couldn’t convey with his words shouting out to you from the windows to his soul, blinking as his stare willed you to keep your mouth closed and keep the piece of gum, his gum between your chapped lips.
without even realising you’d begun chewing it, the taste of the gum paired with that distinct taste that was scott miller, making your breathing falter, your cheeks warm as you kept chewing, blowing a bubble before looking over to your colleague’s, some of them mortified from the public display of affection, especially from someone like scott; others who’s motel rooms were right next to yours, having heard every little moan and breathy whimper you made when scott’s cock was buried deep inside, not surprised at all, and javi? poor javi was as confused as ever.
you swallowed, your eyes never leaving scott’s as you chewed on the gum, the anxiety you’d been experiencing seemingly leaving your body. wordlessly he straightened up, lifting his signature blue peak cap from his head, smoothing down his hair as he placed it atop your head, another public claim on you, unconsciously letting everyone know you were his; his eyes speaking to you again, reassuring you.
a classic “mean to everyone but you” scott miller move you guessed.
with a pat to your shoulder he left, busying himself with work as he usually did, leaving your mind (and cotton panties) a mess, smiling to yourself at his display of affection, the gum between your teeth a sweet reminder to it.
the second time he does it is roughly a month later, your relationship public and solidified, the office at stormpar’s headquarters coming to know you now as scott miller’s too sweet girlfriend, often wondering how your dynamic worked seeing as scott constantly looked a grumpy mess.
“god damn it i asked for it to be done today! why can’t anyone get this shit right?!” you heard him yell from down the hall, some intern scrambling back to their desk, scared as a mouse, scott’s presentation for his uncle and a couple of investors in about thirty minutes.
you stood from your desk, downing the rest of your water as you met him outside the boardroom. “you okay? can see the steam blasting from your ears from a mile away,” you attempted to joke, smiling up at him as your hand reached for his, his jaw working as he chewed his usual minty gum.
“fuck—nothings going how i wanted it to go, and those god awful intern hire’s are useless-“ he huffed, running his hand that wasn’t holding yours down his face.
your brows furrowed, picking up on his frustration, “breathe, you’ll be okay - seen you give mean presentations a thousand times before, with a damn good poker face too; this is nothin’ scott,” you hummed, letting his hand fall for a moment to smooth down his collar.
he nodded, about to respond when the intern from earlier scrambled back toward him, apologising profusely as they handed him the correct material, that hard, quite frankly nerve wracking stare of his piercing their skin, the terrified look on their face making you snort, trying your hardest not to laugh as they scurried away.
you shook your head, looking down at your shoes before sighing, “you’re too scary sometimes y’know? gotta be nicer baby,” you giggled, his nervousness disappearing for a moment.
he shook his head, dimples announcing themselves to the world as he smacked his gum, “only person i need to be cordial to is you, fuck the rest of em” he huffed, looking down at his digital watch, that grumpy look you’ve come to know and love back on his face.
you rolled your eyes at his words, looking down at your own watch to see that it was time for him to go; “you’ll do amazing i know it—fore’ you go in there munching away, gum—“ you paused, holding your hand out, palm to the sky as you waited for him to spit out his gum into your palm, so you could dispose of it.
he simply shook his head, smirking briefly before pressing his lips to yours, his kiss hasty but chaste, his tongue prodding into your warm mouth as he passed his gum to you again, already becoming all whoozy at the action.
he pulled away hastily, clearing his throat as he smiled at his handy work, the sight of you chewing his gum always working wonders for his ego—becoming his second favourite thing in the world (first place was loving you of course).
with a soft slap to your ass he entered the board room, the door closing softly with a click. you smiled to yourself as you hovered outside, bowing a bubble as a throat clearing from behind you, disturbed your moment of tranquility, your head snapping to find javi with a disgusted look on his face, only giggling in response.
“you two are disgusting, truly,” javi remarked, grimacing at the idea of you chewing someone else’s gum, his words however, holding no real malice to them.
“don’t knock it till you try it javi,” you giggled, running after him to piss him off further as you held your fingers crossed that scott’s proposal would go well.
the first time you pull his signature move on him is as you’re getting back from the grocery store, his strong arms carrying the multiple bags into the kitchen of your shared apartment, closing the door behind him before locking it as he set the bags down onto the counter.
he went through them, the bubble you’d blown with the last piece of gum you had, popping, masking the sound of his grumble as he sorted through the bag.
“ah fuck,” he mouthed, looking over his shoulder as he watched you pack everything that needed to be chilled, into the fridge.
“we forget somethin?” you hummed, placing the punnets of blueberries and strawberries into the crisper. “yeah—forgot my gum, can you believe it?” he huffed, muttering another “fuck” under his breath as he crossed his arms over his chest, the man not able to function without his preferred brand of gum, only realising then that you’d been smacking on some gum the whole time.
“you got any left sweetie?” he hummed, walking across the kitchen to where you stood, his large hands smoothing around your waist from behind, turning you around in his arms as he smoothly closed the fridge door behind you, softly pressing your back to it.
this was all normal for you, him manhandling you whenever and wherever, your body pliant under his grasp. “mhm? got any left of what?” you furrowed your brows, doing a mental checklist of what you could’ve forgotten.
his hands smooth down from your waist to your ass, squeezing and massaging the flesh as he gestured to the bubble you’d just blown with a nod, effortlessly lifting you up into his arms.
you mentally “ohhhh’d”, prepared to watch disappointment overcome his handsome features as you readied yourself to shake your head, the word “nope” on the tip of your tongue before you remembered you’d been chewing on a piece of gum yourself.
with a smile on your plush lips you pressed them to his, smiling into the kiss as you felt him move you over to one of the counters, the marble countertop cool against your skin, your lips moving languidly against his as you tried to control the pace of the kiss, your body’s urge to let him do whatever he pleased, fighting against the idea you had.
as your arms moved around his neck, deepening the kiss as your tongue danced with his, moving the gum into his mouth, your saliva mixing oh so erotically with his, the gesture making his jeans tighten, your panties no doubt flushed with wetness as he seemed to only grow hungrier now with your gum in his mouth.
he pulled back after a moment, a string of saliva connecting your swollen, kiss bitten lips, his dimples showing cockily as he chewed the shit out of (your) his gum.
“using my own tricks on me now are you? thank you baby,” he guffawed, smirking as his hands moved to the hem of your shirt, goosebumps prickling your skin as he moved his calloused hands over the soft skin of your belly.
you only shrugged, satisfied with yourself as you surged forward to press quick little kisses to his lips, smiling as he continued smacking the gum regardless.
(can i give myself an emoji? If so, I'd take 🐶 if that's free, or either of these if not 🐕🐩)
For Freudian Summerhall AU: Feeding Kink!Maekar. That man wants to provide.
He's constantly making sure Reader eats enough, giving her things from his own plate with a grumpy look (no one's forcing you to do this old man, don't pretend).
It gets to a point where Baelor and Jena are like, "are they gonna? yep his fingers are definitely in her mouth, oh now he's pushing them in, great, this is not sexual at all"
like Maekar even gags Reader on his fingers a bit. He's basically fucking her mouth with them
(yes my dearest 🐶 anon in fact all my sweet anons feel free to assign yourselves emojis i find that so cute and fun)
see here for the beginnings of the freudian summerhall au oral fixation kink
maekar's annoyed at first. he sees you staring wistfully at the orange he'd stolen from the kitchen. he knows there's two more hours until dinner. he knows you're too quiet and polite to ask for a snack, even though baelor and jena make a point of telling you if you need anything, darling, just ask every five minutes. he's about to tell you to be a big girl, just fucking say if you're hungry, but then you're fixing him with those soft, sad eyes of yours and asking are you going to finish that? and that's when it starts.
because oh, the way your hands are shaking from hunger while you peel the skin off, the way you're shoving the slices in your mouth two at a time, the way the juice moistens your lips... he can't look away. it's just eating. but you make it look so sinful. so intimate.
he starts claiming the seat next to you at meals. he watches which part of your plate you clean first. one night at dinner you make quick work of your steak, and so he's cutting you a piece of his. he watches your eyes light up when he drops the slab on your plate. he's still hungry, but he'll bother the cook for another plate later. meals are for watching you instead of eating his own food.
a handful of grapes. an apple he'd been cutting as a treat for caraxes. so many oranges he can never get the smell of citrus off of his fingernails. all of a sudden, he's constantly bringing you some small fruit to peck at. and you accept it each time with your greedy little smile, plucking it from his hands and holding his gaze while you chew.
he finds you in the library one rainy day, while a thunderstorm rattles the windows and keeps everyone cooped inside. you're curled up in an armchair, scribbling something in a notebook, jaw clenching and unclenching as you gnaw away at a piece of gum.
and he knows he's being an asshole, he knows you'll give him a horrible hurt look, but he puts his palm out. raises an eyebrow. don't tell me my brother lets you act like this back in king's landing. you go rigid. i wasn't going to stick it under the chair or anything, you promise, oh-so-earnest, but you obey.
when he leaves, he sticks your gum in his mouth. you've already sucked all the flavor out of it, but fuck, it's sweet.
the weeks pass. you ease into life at summerhall. you get bolder. you explore. he's pacing around one night, the insomniac that he is, when he gets to the kitchen and sees you spoon-deep in a tub of ice cream.
fuck, i'm so sorry. you look like he'd caught you with a dead body. the fear on your face is as pitiful as it is beautiful.
and there's a little dash of chocolate by the corner of your mouth, so childish of you, really. and you're staring at him, a deer in headlights, as he swipes it off and then licks the remnants from his thumb.
it's one searingly hot day that he finds you by the pool. everyone else has retreated inside to the refuge of the aircon, but you're braving the heat, shimmering with sweat in your swimsuit.
you'll burn up out here, he warns you, all deep and gruff. you're not listening, though. you're just eyeing the bowl of strawberries he'd brought out, bright red and fresh-cut, so sweet you can probably smell how ripe they are.
and when he offers one to you, instead of dropping it into your eager palm, he's pressing it to your mouth.
there's a moment where your lips go firm. shocked and still. and then you relent, opening wide, letting him push it onto your waiting tongue.
good girl, he says, feeling like all the air's been punched out of his lungs.
and you just smile. swallow. and open your mouth for another.
later, in his room, he'll stroke his cock and think of how wet your lips had been, how willing and vulnerable you'd looked. he'll slap a hand over his mouth to keep quiet. and he'll smell traces of orange rind still clinging to his fingertips even after washing his hands a dozen times.
so when he sees you peeling an orange at breakfast, that's enough to make him hard.
give me that, he grunts, because he should be the one doing it. he holds it in his lap, takes his sweet time prying apart the wedges. and you're watching him the whole time. eyes flickering down to the bulge in his trousers. he knows exactly what he's doing. so do you.
when he offers you a piece, you lean forward and he slips it in your mouth, pushing further, until your lips close around his knuckles. baelor and jena are talking to each other. maybe they notice. maybe they don't. he fucking hopes they do.
he's so sick of them. he hears them most nights. they think they're being quiet, think they're being subtle, and he might be an old man but his ears work fine.
one in the morning, he's making his sleepless rounds, going anywhere but the bedroom wing where he's sure baelor and jena are still at it, and he finds you in the kitchen again.
and if he thinks he has it bad... he's down the hall. you share a wall with them. and judging from your bleary eyes and the way you're just staring into the white light of the fridge, you've been hearing them too.
i'm so tired, you whimper.
it's not just the long nights, he thinks. there's a weariness to you that he'd noticed the day his brother and sister-in-law had brought you through the gates of the estate. you look like the world has wrung you out. so breakable. so fragile.
you just need to be cared for. provided for. and if baelor and jena can't do that for you, or they won't, he will.
so he nudges you back against the island. makes a choice for you. an orange. of course. he peels it, gets all the pith off, presses one slice into your mouth. and then another. and then another. and then you're opening again, a silent more? please? but instead of another slice, he slides two fingers as far as they'll go.
and gods, you're so good. you close your eyes and suck, humming with satisfaction, gripping his wrist to keep him anchored in place. your throat pulses while your tongue explores his fingerprints.
when he pulls his hand back, you've got a heartbroken look on your face.
open, he says, plucking another chunk of orange, a bigger section this time. you have to stretch your jaw to fit it. you start to chew, but he makes a clicking sound with his tongue. no. keep it there.
you're watching him silently, mouth stuffed, while he runs his sticky hands up your thighs, finding nothing but a pair of thin, damp panties under your oversized tee. he pulls them down, discards them on the cold kitchen floor, eases you onto the island like you're a meal, because fuck, tonight you are.
and your cunt is dripping better than any fruit, and your muffled moans are sweeter than sugar, and he'd gladly starve himself into an early grave if it meant all he could eat for the rest of his life is you.
maekar watches your face while he licks and spits and sucks at your pussy. he watches orange juice dribble down your chin, onto your neck, onto the pristine white marble beneath you. he smells the sharp citrus in the air while his tongue works along your folds. your full mouth might be keeping you quiet, but there's nothing quiet about the way he eats you out. he's loud. he hums and grunts and slurps. it echoes through the kitchen, obscene and decadent.
and when you come, when you soak his face like the burst of a ripe fruit... it's the best dessert he's ever tasted
Yeah this is actually pretty much exactly what is going on. It’s why anti-oxidants are such a big deal. Bonus fact: oxygen oxidizes stuff in your cells or, in other words, it’s not toxic, just setting you on fire very very slowly.
What if there are aliens out there but they subsist on entirely different substances and they’re just scared as shit of us and our crazy ass hell planet? Once in a while some alien anthropologist type suggests checking out the people on this inhabited planet out towards the galaxy’s edge. The other aliens just look at the naive academic with horror. No!! We do not go to that world. That is where the DEATH BREATHERS live. They recreationally consume poisons and are more or less composed of biological fire. Their atmosphere is made of rocket fuel. We must leave the DEATH BREATHERS in peace. Do not go there. Do not.
okay but…that is actually what went down on earth about 2.5 billion years ago.
Earth was doing just fine with a mostly nitrogen/carbon dioxide atmosphere and everyone was happy to go on living in anaerobic bliss and then cyanobacteria suddenly hit the scene, altered the atmosphere composition so that there was a ton of oxygen gas and killed practically everything (97% or more of all species on earth).
We are literally descendants of the DEATH BREATHERS and cyanobacteria is our deadly mother.
The cyanobacteria holocaust is so big, it doesn’t even have a cool name; it’s just called “The Great Oxygenation Event”; the *second* most apocalyptic extinction event in our planet’s history is the one that’s called THE GREAT DYING (the Permian-Triassic event, about 252 million years ago).
This shit makes like the rock-throwing that wiped out the dinosaurs look like kindergarten.
Chapter Three Summary: The walls Lucius has built finally start to crack. As the weight of fear, obsession, and desire reaches its breaking point, so does he. You're caught in the storm.
Warnings: 18+ SMUT, darkish, loss of virginity (so there is some pain), overstimulation, possessiveness, manhandling (oop), power dynamics, obsession, intense emotional themes, explicit language, mentions of blood (non-graphic).
A/N: This is the last chapter of my three-part fic! All my fics are fem!reader, and in this the reader is deff AFAB. This got quite intense and kinda dark, and there is a very thin line they walk, but it is all consensual. If you're triggered by any form of CNC theme, then maybe skip this one. Please comment, like, and reblog; it really helps a lot. Hope you enjoyed this fic <3
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS
WC (Chapter Three): 5.0k
chapter one - chapter two
You're in his bed now.
Not just your now shared chambers, not a second bed next to his. His bed. The sheets smell like him; warm cedar, faint leather, something darker beneath. The scent clings to your skin, seeping into every inch of your being. You lie still beneath the covers, the wound at your side no longer dressed, but still tender, the skin new and still quite sensitive.
It’s nearly healed. You told him that. You told the medic, the guards, even yourself.
But Lucius does not believe in nearly, he wants certainty.
The door opens without warning. No knock, no quiet call of your name. Just the sharp sound of hinges and the heavy tread of boots on marble.
Lucius enters like a man walking into battle.
He’s already removed his outer tunic, sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing the strong muscles beneath his skin. His brow is drawn, mouth set like stone in a thin line. You barely manage to sit up before he’s by the bed.
“I said I’m fine,” you begin, but the words are weak, even to your own ears. You wouldn't even believe yourself, so why in the world would he?
He doesn’t answer. Just sits beside you, so close the mattress shifts beneath his weight. One gloved hand moves to the blanket pooled at your hip, and pauses.
“I want to see it,” he says quietly, matter-of-factly.
You search his face. “Lucius…”
“I need to.”
There’s no anger in his voice. No command. Just something low visceral. As if asking is a formality, not a requirement. As if this is the only way he can breathe. He was never not going to look.
You nod.
The silence is thick as he peels the covers down with aching slowness. His gloves come off. He sets them aside with meticulous care; he’s always precise, but there’s a shakiness to him now, like he’s fighting the instinct to grab you and never let go.
His hands reach for the hem of your nightdress.
And still, he says nothing.
The fabric draws upward, inch by inch. First the blanket slips down, then the linen of your shift, revealing the soft curve of your waist, the faint bruising that’s now yellowed with time. His knuckles brush the side of your thigh, and the breath in your throat hitches.
Then his fingers find the wound.
It’s barely there now. No blood or even a scab, just a pale, healing scar beneath your ribs. But he looks at it like it’s still freshly bleeding. His thumb traces the edge, slow, reverent. Not with lust or want. This is something else.
Grief.
He touches it like he blames himself.
“Does it hurt?” he murmurs.
“No.”
He doesn’t stop touching. His hand flattens just beneath it, spanning your side, his palm warm and solid. You feel his breath hitch.
“You almost died,” he says. “I’ve seen it. Every night. Over and over.”
“I’m still here.” You speak before you can think, desperate to anchor him to something real, to convince him of your health.
His gaze lifts.
And something in his face cracks.
“I know,” he says, broken. “But my body doesn’t believe it.”
You don’t know how to answer that, so you don't. You stay silent whilst his hand moves higher, now splayed between your ribs and your heart, the pads of his fingers brushing over sensitive skin. His thumb strokes absently along the underside of your breast, not quite a caress. But it's not unintentional either.
It steals the air from your lungs.
He leans forward, not to kiss you, but just to be closer. His forehead almost touches yours, but doesn’t. His voice is hoarse now, low enough that it vibrates through your chest where his hand rests.
“I keep thinking-" he gulps down a breath of air. "If I’d been faster. If I’d kept you closer. If I’d never let you be alone then-”
“Lucius-”
“I told them not to touch you,” he cuts in suddenly, sharper. “When I found you there on the floor. I told them I’d kill any man who laid a hand on you, even to stop the bleeding.”
Your breath stutters.
His hand tightens against your side, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that he could.
He has killed with less than this.
You don’t pull away. He looks down at you like you’re a miracle that hasn’t stopped happening.
His touch softens again. Drifts. His fingers ghost down the line of your ribs and back to the scar, tracing it again and again like it’s a wound in him.
And then, he lies back on the bed beside you, propped up by the headboard.
He sits next to you, his arm draped over your shoulders, his head tilted back against the wall.
You don’t speak.
You just lie there, his hand anchoring you, his body wrapped tight around yours. Like he needs to feel your pulse under his palm to believe you’re real. Alive.
Sleep tries to pull you under, but you fight it.
Because the way he holds you, it’s not comfort.
It’s devotion.
You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.
Not peaceful. He is never peaceful anymore. Each inhale is rigid, held too long in his chest. He breathes like a soldier, even in sleep, its like he believes you will shatter if he dares to let go.
But when you wake, he’s gone.
The sheets are cold. The fire is nothing but embers now, pulsing faintly like a dying heartbeat. You sit up, blinking at the dark. The ache in your side has dulled to a memory, but the absence beside you is sharp. You reach for the place he’d been. Still warm. But barely.
Then the door slams open.
You flinch, breath catching in your throat. A gust of cold air follows him in.
His silhouette is wild in the doorway. His shirt is half-open, hair mussed, eyes wide and panicked. He looks like he’s been torn from some battlefield. His breath comes ragged. You can see it in his face even from here.
Madness.
“Lucius?” you whisper.
But he doesn’t answer.
He’s already moving.
Across the floor. Faster than your newly awake state can process. His hands are on you a heartbeat later, dragging the blanket away before you can react, eyes devouring every inch of skin like he’s searching for wounds that no longer exist.
“It’s healed,” you say, but your voice is too small.
He doesn’t stop.
His hands skim your waist, your ribs, your thigh. He's checking the stitches that have long since dissolved. There’s no blood, but he acts like there should be.
“You’re fine,” you breathe. “I’m fine.”
His jaw is clenched so tight you think he might shatter it.
“You could have torn it in your sleep,” he mutters.
“I didn’t.”
“You don’t know that.” The words are cracked and brittle. Like he’s speaking through splinters.
“I would’ve woken up-”
“And what if you didn’t?” His voice snaps like a whip. “What if I’d come back and found you cold? Stiff? What if I was too late, again?”
You stare at him.
He’s kneeling beside the bed now, but it doesn’t feel like he’s beneath you. It feels like he towers over the entire room.
The firelight catches his face, drawn, pale, fever-bright. His hands are still on you, palms flat against your ribs like he's trying to count each breath.
He doesn’t trust what he sees, only what he feels.
“Lucius,” you try again. “You’re scaring me.”
He doesn’t move. Not even a blink. And then, so slowly, almost reluctantly, he lifts his eyes to meet yours.
“I know.”
He says it like an admission. Like a failure.
“I don’t want to scare you,” he continues, softer. “But I can’t- I can’t live like this. Every time I close my eyes, I see it. Your body. The blood. My hands. And I wake up and I don’t know if any of it’s real.”
You shake your head. “It’s not. I’m here. I’m right here.”
“No,” he says, and his hands press harder, like he’s trying to push your soul back into your body. “You’re not. Not really. You’re always leaving. Always bleeding. Always just out of my reach.”
He lowers his forehead to your bare stomach, breath shuddering against your skin. The heat of him is blistering.
“I’ve lost battles,” he whispers. “I’ve buried comrades. I’ve watched legions fall. But none of it, none of it, touched me like this. You dying in my arms, even if it wasn’t real- gods, it was real enough.”
His fingers dig into your waist now, tight. Possessive. Anchoring.
You stay still.
Because there’s something dangerous in him tonight. Something wild and untamed. Not violent, but primal. A wolf circling the last thing it loves.
You open your mouth. Try to say his name.
But then his hands slide up your side, slow, trembling, reverent, and he cups your face like he’s praying to something. His thumbs brush your cheeks. Your lips. Your throat.
“You’re too quiet,” he says. “Say something.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
His jaw clenches. His eyes, a dark blue so wild they're nearly black, search yours for something. A reason to stop.
He doesn’t find one.
“I can’t keep pretending,” he says roughly. “I’ve tried. I’ve stayed away. I’ve let you heal. But I think-” his voice falters, “I think I’m going insane.”
You try to speak, but the words tangle. Because you see it too. The way his hands tremble. The way he’s holding you like a lifeline.
The way his pupils are blown wide, not with lust, but with a need.
“I wake up,” he says. “And you’re not breathing. I hold you, and I can’t feel your heartbeat. Even now, I think I’m dreaming. That you’ll fade if I let go.”
You press your forehead to his. It’s the only thing you can think to do.
“I’m here. I'm yours. Don't worry.”
He exhales, but it’s not relief. It’s a release of tension so great it nearly buckles him.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he says. “But if I already have, if this is just some trick of my mind, then I want to feel it anyway. I want to know.”
Your heart hammers in your chest, threatening to break out of your ribcage.
His hand slides to your throat. His thumb strokes the pulse there. His lips part.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he murmurs. “Unless you tell me not to.”
Your voice is gone. Stolen by the weight of everything between you.
He waits. Just long enough for silence to become answer.
Then he kisses you.
Not gently. He kisses you like a man breaking.
You don’t remember falling back. You just feel the weight of him follow you down, his hands anchoring you, so rough, so fast, too much. The mattress dips beneath your spine, and Lucius comes with it, mouth still on yours, devouring you like he’s forgotten how to breathe without you.
He pulls away once, just once, to tear the blanket from your body, baring you to the firelight. His eyes drag down like he’s committing you to memory, and then his hands are back on your waist, your hips, your thighs, possessive and frantic. He’s trying to map every inch before it disappears from him again.
“Say it again,” he rasps, voice frayed with disbelief.
You blink, still catching up. “Say what?”
“That you’re mine.”
His grip tightens on your hips. Just enough to leave you breathless.
You hesitate. A second too long.
He growls, an animal sound torn straight from his chest, and suddenly you're pinned beneath him, one wrist trapped above your head in a single large hand. The other hand cages your thigh, spreading you open without gentleness. Not cruel, not violent, but desperate. Frantic. The message is clear.
Stay still. Stay with me.
You suck in a breath that never quite makes it to your lungs. You can’t move, not really. His body is a wall of muscle against yours, unyielding and warm and trembling with failing restraint.
“I’m yours,” you whisper, pulse thudding in your ears.
Something in him cracks.
He kisses you again. Rougher this time, with teeth, with fire, his mouth moving fast and hungry. It’s not calculated. Not careful. He’s not seducing you, he’s unraveling. Every kiss is a breaking point.
His hand leaves your wrist to frame your jaw, forcing your head back as his mouth trails hot down your throat, nipping, sucking, claiming. You don’t think he knows what he’s doing anymore. You don’t think he cares.
“You don’t know what that does to me,” he mutters against your skin. “You have no idea- how close I am- how much I-”
He cuts himself off with a sound like a choke, his breath hitching.
Then his hand slides between your legs. No warning, no slow coaxing. Just the heat of his palm and two fingers pressing low and firm, dragging slickness in a slow, possessive circle.
You gasp. Buck. It’s too much too fast.
He doesn’t let up. His hand stays there, stroking you in slow, deliberate movements that feel more like a claim than a caress.
“Lucius-” you breathe, half-begging, not even sure yourself if you want him to stop or keep going.
He doesn’t answer.
He pulls back just far enough to yank his tunic off, and the firelight catches on scars you’ve never seen. His chest is sculpted in violence, in victories. His arms, his stomach, all lean strength and coiled threat. But his eyes are locked on yours like you’re the thing he’s afraid of.
This man is not a dream. Not a fantasy.
He’s war made flesh.
And he’s looking at you like you’re his last salvation. You reach out before you can think, your hand skimming the side of his neck, down the slope of his collarbone. “Lucius…”
He doesn’t speak.
He moves.
In one motion, he grabs you beneath the thighs and drags you closer to him, up the bed, under him, knees parted around his hips. You gasp, the movement too sudden, your body scrambling to keep pace with his.
You feel his length, hard and heavy, pressing against you.
And then you realise, this is happening. Your heart stutters in your chest.
He pauses, just barely. “Tell me to stop,” he says. “Now. It’s the last chance I can give, I won't be able to stop.”
You don’t. You can’t.
Because you see it again in his face, that breaking, frantic need. Like he’s clinging to you to stay alive. Because a part of you also wants this.
So you nod.
Lucius doesn’t need more than that.
One hand braces beside your head on the plush pillow. The other holds your hip, thumb digging into the soft flesh as he pushes forward, and then-
Pain.
A sharp, searing stretch that has your fingers clawing at the sheets, digging into the flesh of his shoulders. He goes still, barely even inside you yet, chest heaving, every muscle in his body locked down like a dam ready to burst.
Your breath catches. He’s watching you again, intently, studying you.
“You’re-” His voice cracks. “You’ve never-”
You shake your head once. Still panting. Still stretched taut.
Something shifts in his eyes. The frenzy falters, but it doesn’t fade.
His grip loosens, just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to let you go. He kisses your cheek, your temple, your jaw, but it’s a broken rhythm, unpractised, erratic.
“You should’ve told me,” he whispers. “I would’ve…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t know how to.
Instead, he touches your face again, almost reverently this time, then lowers his forehead to yours.
“We’ll go slow,” he promises, though he sounds like it’s killing him.
But there’s no time to ask what he means by slow because he’s moving again, inch by inch, trying to keep control, trying not to break. Your body trembles beneath his, breath caught in your chest.
You whimper without meaning to.
His hand covers your mouth, not to silence you, but to ground you. “Breathe,” he says hoarsely. “I’ve got you.”
You nod into his palm. His grip on your hips tightens, forcing you to stay still as he buries himself deeper inside. You can feel him in places you never imagined, and the pain that comes with it is almost too much to bear.
You bite your lip, trying to suppress the sound building in your chest, but it’s futile. You can’t help it. The pain is raw and unforgiving. Your hands clutch the sheets, trying to ground yourself.
Your lungs hitch. Every inhale feels too shallow, your chest rising too fast as the pressure builds. But it’s too hard when his body is pressed so closely to yours, and you feel every inch of him, like he’s carving himself into you.
“Shh,” Lucius murmurs, his voice rough, full of something unrecognisable. “You’re fine, just breathe. It will feel better. I promise.”
His words do little to soothe you. Part of you wants to push him away, tell him to stop, but something in you won’t let you. Maybe it’s the way he’s holding you, the way he’s already marked you, and the knowledge that you belong to him now, in this raw, vulnerable moment.
You don’t understand why it hurts so much. You don’t understand why your body won’t relax, why every time he moves inside you, it feels like too much.
And then, suddenly, the pressure shifts.
It’s slow at first, but as he pulls back and thrusts for the first time, you feel it. The sharpness begins to dull, replaced by something else, something deeper, something hotter that surges from the ache between your legs, curling up your spine. It’s not the pain you felt before. It’s a pleasure, sweeping through you in slow waves, tender at first, but building, gathering speed as he continues to move. It’s like your body is slowly adjusting to him, like it’s finally learning how to respond.
The pleasure comes in waves, gentle at first. You are still overwhelmed by the shadow of pain that lingers in the back of your mind, but the pleasure is growing, building, becoming a sensation you can’t quite name.
You gasp, trying to catch your breath as your body shudders beneath him. There’s a pull deep inside, a coil tightening in your stomach, and you feel yourself melting into him as your body starts to follow his rhythm.
Lucius grunts in your ear, his voice low and desperate. “That’s it... take it... You’re doing so well for me, so perfect.”
As he moves, his hands shift on your body, tightening again, pulling you closer, almost desperately, and you can feel his own restraint slipping.
He groans, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more insistent. “I’m not hurting you,” he growls, his words both an assurance and a plea. “Tell me if I am. I need you to tell me.”
You open your mouth, but no words come out. Instead, you find yourself trembling, your body quivering with an unfamiliar sensation. Your hands grip the sheets harder, and you turn your face into his chest, trying to hide from the overwhelming feelings crashing over you.
You can feel him in every inch of your body, stretching you, claiming you. Your body tenses, overwhelmed by the sensation, the sudden deep thrusts that send waves of discomfort mixed with pleasure shooting through your core. It’s too much, and yet, you want more. You need more.
You try to keep your breath steady, but it comes out in shallow gasps, your chest rising and falling with each powerful movement. He’s relentless, the rhythm of his hips unyielding. His hands are all over you, pulling you closer, forcing you to match his pace, his hunger. But even as you start to adjust, the discomfort doesn't fade. It changes.
He growls against your ear, his voice low and filled with desperation. “You feel so good… so fucking perfect for me.”
You can barely process the words before another wave of pleasure rolls through you, pushing you higher, making your pulse race. You gasp, feeling yourself nearing an edge, but the sensation is so overwhelming, it’s almost too much. You clench your jaw, trying to hold it together as he continues to push deeper.
And then it happens again. The first climax crashes over you, sending your back arching off the bed, your body trembling beneath him.
You cry out, for him? For the gods? You don't know.
The intensity of it all rushing through your veins like fire. But just as you start to come down, he doesn’t stop. His hips don’t slow. Each movement draws a new sound from your throat, his hands branding your skin, and suddenly, the pleasure shifts.
It’s too much. Every nerve in your body screams. He’s not slowing down, not letting you catch your breath, not letting you recover. His thrusts are hard and deep, his body pounding into you like he’s trying to possess you entirely.
His voice is thick with desperation, “No one else will have you. No one can touch you. Not while I’m breathing.”
You can barely focus on his words. The second wave of pleasure hits you before you’ve even recovered from the first. Your body spasms, hands clawing at the sheets as you try to push away the overwhelming sensation. But Lucius doesn’t let you escape. His grip on you tightens, pulling you closer to him, forcing your body to accept more, to take everything he has to give.
You try to speak, to beg him to slow down, but the words are lost in the noise of your breathing, in the desperate gasps that escape your lips.
“Lucius, please…” You manage to gasp out, but your voice is weak, lost in the frantic heat between you.
But he doesn’t listen. He can’t. His only response is a growl, and then his lips crash down on yours in a kiss that is more frantic than ever. He tastes like desperation, like something too powerful to resist, and it only fuels the fire that’s already consuming you.
“You’re mine,” he growls again, but this time there’s something darker in his voice. “And I’ll make sure no one hurts you. No one touches you ever again. I won’t let it happen.”
He’s repeating it, like it’s a mantra, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. His words mix with the rhythm of his hips, pounding into you, making your head spin, your body weak with exhaustion and pleasure.
The overstimulation makes your senses go haywire; every touch, every movement, every thrust is so intense it’s almost unbearable. You’re losing yourself in him, in the feeling, in the power he has over you, and there’s no escaping it.
You can’t even try, you don't want to either.
Lucius is still moving, his hands pushing you back, forcing you deeper into the bed, as if he needs to feel you, to ground himself in the connection. His breath is coming faster now, and his thrusts are desperate, frenzied. You can feel his release building, the way his body starts to shake, his grip tightening even further on your hips.
He’s not letting go, not slowing down, even as you start to squirm beneath him, unable to take it anymore. He is breaking you apart.
“Lucius…” you try to gasp, but he doesn’t hear you, or he doesn’t care. His body is slamming into you, his eyes wild with hysteria and need. His lips are on your neck, on your chest, kissing you feverishly.
And then, finally, with a guttural cry, Lucius pulls you in one last time, thrusting deeper as he finally reaches his peak. His body shudders against yours, his breath ragged, and he holds you there, still inside, as if he never wants to let go.
His forehead rests against yours, his breathing uneven, as you both try to catch your breath. He doesn’t move. His hands are still gripping you, his fingers trembling slightly as they rest on your skin. For a moment, the world is silent, save for the sound of your breathing, and the weight of his body pressed against yours.
You’re exhausted, both physically and emotionally, but something in his words settles in your chest, wrapping around your heart like a chain.
Lucius pulls away just enough to look at you, his gaze softening, though there’s still a wildness in it. His hands move to your face, cupping your jaw with a tenderness that contrasts with the roughness of who he was a minute ago.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he murmurs. “I can’t.”
And just like that, the world slows. The frantic energy, the frantic need, it all melts away. He kisses you softly, testing the waters, as if you’re both trying to come back to something solid.
Lucius’s breath comes in ragged gasps, his body tense as he pulls back slightly, eyes scanning your face for any signs of discomfort.
His gaze flickers down to where you’re still joined, his fingers instinctively trailing over your skin, checking for any sign that the pain has been too much.
“Did I hurt you?” His voice breaks, a soft plea mixed with guilt. He’s still holding himself too tightly, as if the raw intensity of what just transpired has left him struggling to regain control.
You try to steady your breath, your chest still heaving from the overwhelming experience. “No, Lucius. You could never,” you whisper, voice barely audible, betraying the vulnerability you feel in this moment.
His expression darkens again, and his thumb brushes across your jaw. “I didn’t want to hurt you. But now…” His voice falters, and the possessiveness in his gaze hardens.
You feel the weight of those words, the possessiveness in them, the claim he’s made over you. It’s overwhelming, but somehow, beneath the intensity, you feel a sense of relief, like the world has shifted and you’re finally in your rightful place.
He pulls you closer, kissing your forehead softly, trying to reassure you as his hand trails down your side, touching you again with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the earlier desperation.
You can’t speak. Not because you don’t want to, but because there’s a part of you that doesn’t have the words for what you’re feeling. You’re still fragile, still too sensitive. His hands move again, this time more confidently, tracing over your skin, the earlier tenderness giving way to something deeper, more primal.
He doesn’t wait for your answer before his body shifts against yours, his desire still urgent, still consuming. There’s a moment where you feel his eyes on you, dark and possessive, and before you can think, he moves again, slowly this time, gently.
The pain, the sharpness of it, flares again as he pushes further into you, and you wince, but Lucius doesn’t stop. He watches you, eyes searching for any sign of distress, but as the moments stretch on, the pain begins to fade, replaced by an unfamiliar, almost dizzying sensation that makes your head spin.
The tension in your body eases, and for the first time, you feel the full pull of pleasure, the connection between the two of you deepening in a way that feels almost like a dream.
His body moves against yours, and the pleasure swells again, the confusion becomes clearer. You want this. You want him. You want all of him. His touch, his words, the way he consumes you. There’s no more hesitation, no more fear. You’re his.
He moves again, more urgently this time, the intensity of his possession making your breath catch. It feels like a collision of pain and pleasure, a storm that builds between you, and you realize you’ve crossed a threshold.
You’re no longer just a woman in his arms; you are the center of his world.
His hands grip you harder, possessively, and you gasp as the tension tightens again. Lucius doesn’t stop. He’s frantic now, his movements desperate, but there’s something else in his eyes, a look that speaks of something deeper. As he moves inside you again, you feel the tension snap in both of you, the final barrier between pain and pleasure completely dissolving.
When it’s over, the room is heavy with silence, save for the sound of your shared breaths. Lucius pulls you into his arms. His body trembles, and you can feel the rawness of his emotions in the way he clings to you, his hand smoothing over your hair, his lips pressing tender kisses to your forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice softer now, filled with a kind of regret. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I needed you to understand… you’re mine. You always have been.”
You don’t speak. You don’t have the words, not yet. But as he holds you, his warmth enveloping you, you know there’s no turning back now.
You do belong to him, and you agree. In some strange, inexplicable way, you’ve always belonged to him.
There’s nothing more to say. Instead, you let him pull you close again, these last remnants of your union still fresh between you. And as he slips back inside you, his body so close to yours, he holds you tightly as you both drift into an exhausted slumber, his warmth the only thing you feel.
Oh my god, yay! I finished this! It got darker than I thought it would when I started lmao but I really like how this turned out! I hope you like it! I want to write more for Lucius soon, so please request if you have any ideas, I'm open to it all!!!
Summary: In the weeks leading up to your wedding, Lucius swears you’re his. But when a plot to kill you unfolds his protective instincts go into overdrive, and his need for revenge becomes a force that can't be stopped.
Warnings: obsessive love, betrayal, poison, dark romance, hurt/comfort, angst, death themes, violence, mention of needles/medical tools, nudity (no smut)
A/N: This is based off a request from the lovely @londonalozzy, hope its what you imagined. I really enjoyed writing this :)
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS
WC: 3.5k
The city lies below you, gilded in dusk. It's a sprawl of rooftops and marble, with lanterns flickering to life one by one. You can hear laughter from the palace gardens far beneath, and the distant hush of fountains, the clink of goblets and soft strains of music carried by the wind.
But here, above it all, it’s quiet.
You lean on the balcony rail, the cool stone pressing into your hands. Behind you, the doors to your shared chambers stand open, silk curtains dancing in the breeze. The faint and heady scent of night-blooming flowers drifts on the air.
Lucius stands in the doorway, watching you.
He hasn’t said a word since he came in. Just shed his armour, piece by piece. First pauldrons, then chestplate, the belt goes, until all that remains is the linen shirt clinging to his frame.
You don’t need him to speak. You can feel him in your skin.
“You’re brooding,” you murmur without turning.
He doesn’t answer at first. Then the floor creaks under his bare feet as he moves closer. “I’m thinking,” he says, low and rough.
You smile faintly. “Dangerous habit.”
His arms come around you from behind, slow and sure. One hand flattens against your stomach, the other wraps across your chest, holding you flush against his powerful body.
“I can’t help it,” he says, and it isn’t a jest.
You tilt your head to the side as he brushes his mouth against your neck, a kiss that lingers without deepening.
“I saw the way that senator looked at you today,” he says quietly.
You sigh, resting your hands over his.
You twist slightly to meet his gaze. “I’m not a prize to be guarded, Lucius.”
His jaw ticks, eyes burning dark. “You are to me.”
There’s no apology in his voice. No shame in the way he holds you tighter, like he’s half a breath away from shielding you with his entire body.
You reach up and brush your fingers through his hair. It’s unbound now, wind-swept and silvering in the moonlight. “You’re too intense for this world.”
He huffs a soft sound that might be a laugh, or at least something close to it. “You’re too beautiful for this world.”
“You’re biased.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you fully, fingers curling around your wrist. “Utterly.”
The moment stretches, a welcome pause in the chaos of court and crowns. Then, wordlessly, he reaches for the clasp at your shoulder.
You don’t stop him.
His hand is steady, but his eyes search yours, still always asking. Even now when you’re to be his wife in days, even when your lives are tangled like roots in soil.
The fabric slips with a whisper, your gown loosening, sliding down one arm. Lucius watches it fall like it’s a sacred thing.
He helps you turn, facing him. The city is behind you now, but you can still feel it glowing on your skin. His gaze follows the light, tracing the place where your collarbone catches it, the hollow of your throat, the edge of your shoulder.
His hands come up to the other clasp, and you let him undo it, and the silk shudders as it slides down your body.
You should feel exposed. But all you feel is his eyes.
He touches your waist. Then your arms. A finger down your spine. Not lust, not hunger, something deeper.
You raise your hand and press it against his chest. His heart thuds beneath your palm, a steady drumbeat. When you look up, his expression is thunderous—stormy, hungry, aching.
“Say something,” you whisper.
He shakes his head slowly, lips parted. “I can’t. You make words useless.”
“You’re thinking again,” you murmur.
His hands still. His voice is hoarse. “I don’t want anything to take this from me.”
You step closer, bare and unflinching. “Nothing will.”
But he doesn’t look reassured. He looks like a man staring at the edge of a cliff.
His thumb brushes your cheek. “I’ve known war. I’ve known loss. But this-”
You reach up, pressing your mouth to his before he can finish. It’s a soft kiss, one that asks instead of takes. He answers with a sigh, a sound that shudders through him.
You feel his restraint like a coiled spring.
When you break apart, your voice is soft. “Do you still want to marry me, Lucius?”
His eyes flash. “I want to chain the gods if it keeps you safe. I want to carve your name into time next to mine so we can never be parted. I want to wake beside you for every breath I’m given.”
You laugh, almost tearfully. “So that’s a yes?”
He kisses your temple. “Yes. And so much more.”
You stand there like that for a while, bare beneath his cloak, wrapped in arms that have held swords and shields and empires, and now only hold you.
He doesn’t take you to bed, not yet.
Instead, he carries you inside and wraps you in soft linen, his rings cool against your skin. He brushes your hair back and watches you fall asleep like you are something holy.
Like you're far, far too fragile for this world.
The feast sprawls across the garden in a blur of gold and wine and silks. Lanterns are bobbing in the warm evening air, casting lights over noblemen and generals, over perfumed women and simpering lords. Somewhere, a lyre sings.
But Lucius hasn’t left your side. He watches you like he still has his hand on your spine. Like you might vanish between one breath and the next.
You keep your smile polite, easy, soft. You let a duke’s wife compliment your gown. You lift your goblet when a toast is made. You play the part, but there’s a weight to your awareness now. His gaze presses into your shoulder blades.
“Try to enjoy yourself,” you murmur beneath your breath, turning just enough for Lucius to hear.
“I am,” he replies, voice low and unhurried. “You’re here.”
You reach for your wine again, only for Lucius to stop you, two fingers resting lightly against the stem of your goblet. Not forceful, not commanding. But final. Then he lifts the glass himself, sniffs it, and hands it to a nearby guard without a word.
“Too warm,” he says when you frown. “I’ll have another brought.”
You almost laugh. You don’t. Something in his eyes won’t let you.
Across the courtyard, past the music and marble statues and glistening tables, someone is watching you.
A young noble, tall, broad-shouldered, with golden hair and a face carved for vanity. Lord Severan. You’ve seen him in passing, heard his name wrapped around gossip. His family fought beside yours long before your birth.
He doesn’t look away when your eyes catch his. He simply inclines his head, as though he has every right to look at you for as long as he pleases.
He doesn’t see Lucius.
Lucius sees him.
Your future husband doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But the space around him sharpens. You feel his fury the way you feel the storm season rolling in over the mountains, a distant thunder, the scent of earth before rain.
When you glance up, Lucius is already watching Severan.
The younger man falters. It’s slight, almost nothing, a stutter in his stance, a flicker of something uncertain in his expression. But you see it. And so does Lucius. Severan turns away a moment later, voice rising as he joins another conversation, too loud, too bright.
Lucius exhales.
You want to ask, what was that? But you don’t, because part of you already knows.
The garden has always been your secret. A place carved from stone and vines, hidden past the west wing. Lucius insisted the entrance be sealed to all others after you found it together, calling it your little kingdom.
“You should let me build you a new one,” he says tonight, low in your ear. “With statues of you in every corner.”
You hum without turning, leaning back into his chest. “Tempting. But then where would we hide when the Senate bores us to death?”
His arms fold around your waist from behind. “I could banish them for that.”
You laugh. “You say that like you haven’t already threatened half the council.”
He kisses your shoulder, grinning. “Only the slow-witted ones.”
You’re barefoot, perched on the stone bench where he’s draped a throw for you, one slipper forgotten in the grass. The vines above sway gently, scenting the air with jasmine.
Lucius pulls back just enough to press a goblet into your hand. “To your patience, beloved. And your saint-like tolerance of me.”
“Oh, that ran out weeks ago.”
He chuckles, watching you take the first sip. “And yet here you are.”
“Because you’re pretty.”
He arches a brow. “Pretty?”
“Devastatingly. Like a sculpture. One of those marble heroes. But significantly moodier.”
“Moodier?” He feigns offence.
You glance at him sidelong, smirking. “Broodier?”
“I prefer commanding.”
“Mm. You’d still look very commanding as a statue. Naked, obviously.”
He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “If you wanted me naked, love, you only had to ask.”
You swat at him half-heartedly, laughter slipping past your teeth, and he grins like a man completely, stupidly in love.
You drink. A sip, no more. The wine is sweeter than before. Thicker.
The silence stretches, but something shifts.
It happens slowly. A throb behind your eyes. A warmth in your chest that doesn’t spread, just tightens. Like a band drawn too tight.
You blink once. Twice. The moonlight blurs at the edges. Your breath catches.
Lucius’s head snaps toward you.
You try to speak, but the words catch. Your chest rises too fast, then too slow. The goblet slips from your hand and crashes to the stone.
Lucius is on his feet. Hands on your arms, your face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
You don’t answer, you can’t. The garden sways around you, your vision warping. You grip his tunic for balance and feel your body sag against him.
Lucius roars for the guards.
There’s no mask of Emperor now. No calm authority. He lifts you into his arms like you weigh nothing and turns toward the palace, already shouting orders. The corridors blur around you, columns and frescoes and startled faces. Lucius is yelling for Ravi, voice like thunder crashing through marble.
You hear your name. Over and over again.
“Stay with me. Stay with me.”
Then darkness.
A few hours later, Ravi works in near-silence.
His hands are stained with herbs and tinctures, sleeves rolled back to his elbows. A bowl of tainted wine stands on a side table, half-emptied for testing. A copper basin is dark with water and blood.
Lucius has not moved from your side.
You lie on his bed, pale and still, your lips parted as though caught mid-breath. Your skin gleams with sweat. There is a mark on your arm where Ravi injected the antidote, a desperate gamble on what he believes is poison from the south, rare, expensive, slow to kill but brutal.
“She’ll live,” Ravi says at last, voice hoarse. “It was close. It still is close. But I think we caught it in time.”
Lucius doesn’t respond. He only nods. His hand wraps around yours, cold, trembling slightly. His thumb strokes your knuckles like a litany.
Behind him, the guards wait, silent. Tense.
“Find out who brought the wine,” Lucius says quietly.
Ravi looks up.
Lucius doesn’t look away from you. “Every hand that touched it. Every link in the chain. I want names.”
The guards bow and vanish like shadows.
Lucius leans closer, his breath stirring your hair. He brushes it back from your brow and presses his forehead to yours.
“I swear to the gods,” he whispers, “I will find them. I will tear the world apart if I have to.”
The palace is hushed.
Not in reverence, not in mourning. In fear.
Lucius walks the halls like a spectre, draped in crimson. His jaw is locked, his stride steady. The guards who follow don’t dare speak. The scent of iron follows him. His hand is still stained red from the last interrogation.
He reaches the chamber at the end of the east wing.
They'd dragged Lord Severan here after Ravi confirmed it—the poison traced to the noble's house, hidden in a shipment of rare wine, sealed with his signet.
Fool.
Lucius opens the door himself.
Severan turns at the sound. He stands in the centre of the room, straight-backed, still dressed like a man of title. His tunic bears a pale smear of dust, but his eyes are sharp, unreadable. He does not kneel. He does not beg.
Of course he doesn’t.
“Your Majesty,” he says, voice even. “I trust this is a misunderstanding.”
Lucius says nothing.
He steps inside, and the door shuts behind him with a soft click. No guards. No audience. Just the two of them.
Severan lifts his chin. “I’ve served the Empire faithfully all my life. My family-”
“Thought I wouldn’t notice,” Lucius says, low. “Or care.”
A pause.
Then Severan’s face twitches, just slightly. “I’ve no idea what you’re implying.”
Lucius is across the room before Severan can blink, one hand slamming into his chest, shoving him back into the stone wall. The crack of it echoes like a gunshot. Severan grunts, breath knocked from his lungs.
“You poisoned her,” Lucius snarls. “You put your filthy hands on something that wasn’t yours.”
“She was never yours to begin with.” The words spill out before he can stop them, bitter and sharp. “Your engagement is recent. Our families have been allied for years. I expected-”
“You expected?” Lucius’s voice is low, dangerous. “You expected her to fall into your lap like land and cattle? Like shes property?”
“I would have treated her with dignity. She would have been safe with me.”
Lucius punches him. It’s fast, brutal. Bone cracks beneath his fist. Severan chokes on his own blood.
“She was safe with me. The only reason she is not anymore, is you.”
“She nearly died,” Lucius growls, fist curled tight. “She still might. Do you know what it feels like to watch someone you truly love suffocate in your arms?”
Severan coughs, lips wet with red. “She would never have been yours if she had a choice.”
Lucius stills.
Then he smiles. A thin, terrible smile.
He steps back. “On your knees,” Lucius says.
Severan doesn’t move.
Lucius draws his dagger. “On your knees.” This time, Severan obeys. Slowly. Jaw clenched.
“You think you’re the first man to covet her?” Lucius circles him. “You think you’re the only one to look at her and wish she belonged to you? Well you're not.”
His voice darkens. “But you’re the only one foolish enough to try to take her from me.”
The blade gleams in the torchlight. Severan’s breath comes in short, ragged bursts.
“I’m the Emperor,” Lucius says, voice almost soft. “I could have stripped your title, dragged your name through the dirt. But that’s not what you deserve.”
He kneels beside him, dagger at Severan’s throat.
“You deserve to bleed.”
“Wait-” Severan tries, voice hoarse. “Please-”
“No.”
Lucius cuts.
The blade slides across Severan’s throat with surgical precision. No hesitation.
Blood spills fast, warm and thick, soaking into the marble.
Lucius watches him fall. Watches him die.
His face is blank, empty, but his hands are shaking. He stays there a moment longer, crouched over the body.
Then he stands.
Ravi is waiting outside the door, eyes wide, breath held. He nods. “She’s breathing. Still weak, but stable. She’s asking for you.”
Lucius exhales once, sharp and unsteady.
Then he walks. Not like an emperor or a man victorious.
He walks like someone who nearly lost the only thing that ever made him feel human.
And left death in his wake.
You wake to the sound of breathing. Slow and steady. Not your own.
Everything aches. Your bones feel waterlogged, your skin too tight, your lungs not quite yours. The world is heavy and blurred, but not empty anymore.
There’s a hand in yours.
Warm, large, calloused. Gripping so tightly it’s almost painful, as if letting go might kill him.
Lucius.
You don’t say it aloud. You try, but it comes out as a whisper of breath, just enough. A ghost of his name.
His head jerks up.
He’s slumped in a chair beside you, his hair mussed, eyes bloodshot, his tunic stained with something darker than dust. There are bruises along his knuckles, dried blood in the grooves of his rings. But none of that matters.
Because the moment your eyes meet his, it’s like the whole world crashes into place.
“Lucius,” you rasp, barely a sound.
He’s already moving.
He doesn’t shout, doesn’t call for servants. He just presses forward, sinking to his knees beside the bed, wrapping both hands around yours like he’s trying to feel your pulse with his whole body.
“You came back to me,” he breathes. His voice is hoarse, wrecked. “You- fuck sweetheart, I thought I lost you.”
You manage a faint smile. “You’re the one who looks like death.”
He huffs a sound that’s almost a laugh. But his eyes are wet, his shoulders trembling as he bows his head against your arm.
Your fingers twitch, reaching, despite the fire in your muscles. You reach for him, your hand dragging against his jaw. He lifts his head instantly, eyes wild.
“You shouldn’t move-”
“I need to touch you,” you whisper.
Lucius leans into it, closes his eyes as your fingers brush the side of his face. His stubble scrapes your skin. He’s so warm. Solid. Alive.
“Ravi said it was close,” you murmur. “I remember his voice.”
Lucius nods slowly. “You stopped breathing. Twice.”
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. You can see it in him, in the smudged shadows beneath his eyes, the twitch in his jaw.
“How long?” you ask.
“Three days.”
You blink. “You haven’t slept.”
“No,” he says, without shame.
Silence falls.
Then, quietly, “You don’t get to die before I marry you.”
You smile, weak but real.
You glance at him properly now. The blood on his sleeves. The state of him. “You found out who it was.”
His jaw clenches.
“I didn’t just find him,” Lucius says softly. “I made him confess. I made him beg.”
You don’t ask for details. You don’t need to.
But he gives them to you anyway. “Severan thought you were promised to him. His family assumed your hand would be theirs by alliance. No contract. No vow. Just... pure entitlement.”
You close your eyes.
There’s a pause. You open your eyes to find him watching you, ruthless, wrecked, and so full of love it almost hurts.
“I didn’t kill him quickly,” he says. “I wanted him to understand. I wanted him to feel what it means to steal what’s mine.”
You swallow. “Lucius-”
“No. Don’t ask me to regret it.” He brushes your hair back, gentle as a prayer. “If I hadn’t been holding your hand when you woke, I’d still be out there, finding the rest of them.”
“You think there are more?”
“There are always more.”
You study his face. The darkness in it. The desperate, burning edge that hasn’t softened.
He’s not the same man who teased you on the balcony. Not quite.
But he’s still yours.
“Come here,” you say softly.
Lucius hesitates, just for a second.
He climbs onto the bed carefully, lying beside you atop the covers, his arm beneath your neck, drawing you gently into his chest. You can feel the tension still thrumming through him, like a wild animal only half-caged.
You press your face into his throat. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He holds you tighter. “You’d better not.”
“I’ll marry you,” you whisper, half-dreaming. “Even if you look like a ghost.”
He chuckles into your hair. “Then we’ll make it soon.”
“I want the dress with the pearls.”
“You’ll have it,” he murmurs, lips at your temple. “You’ll have everything.”
For a moment, there’s only the sound of his heartbeat, steady against your cheek. The warmth of him. The safety in it.
And the sense, finally, that the worst is over.
But even now, as you drift, his grip doesn’t loosen. He’s still watching the door. Still ready to kill.
Still yours.
I had a lot of fun writing this, please comment/like/reblog is you enjoy, and as always requests are open <3
What about a Scenario of JL members think that batman have a crush on bruce wayne's wife and there that awkward atmosphere in the watch tower every time Bruce's wife's name is mentioned (It would be even more ridiculous if they thought he had no chance bc y/n love her husband so much)
The Watchtower's Worst Kept Secret
navigation , dc navigation
requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
It started, as most things did in the Justice League, with Superman trying to be helpful.
"Batman," Clark said, floating over to where Bruce was reviewing security footage at the Watchtower's main console. "I was wondering if you'd looked over the gala schedule for next month? There are three charity events that could use Justice League representation."
"Hn." Bruce didn't look up from his screen.
"The Wayne Foundation is hosting one of them," Clark continued, pulling up the calendar on a nearby screen. "It's for the new children's hospital wing. Says here it's being organized by Mrs. Wayne herself. She's done incredible work with—"
Bruce's fingers stopped typing.
Clark paused, noticing the sudden tension in his friend's shoulders. "Batman?"
"I'm aware of the event." Bruce's voice was even more gravelly than usual.
"Right. Of course." Clark cleared his throat. "I just thought, since you work in Gotham, you might have... insights into the Wayne family's charitable work. Mrs. Wayne especially seems very hands-on with—"
"She is." The words came out clipped. Bruce's jaw was tight as he pulled up a different screen, but not before Clark caught a glimpse of what he'd been looking at: a news article about the hospital wing, featuring a photo of you, smiling warmly as you spoke with young patients.
Clark's eyes widened slightly. "Oh. Oh, I see."
"You see what, Kent?"
"Nothing! Absolutely nothing." Clark backed away slowly, but his mind was racing. Bruce had been looking at pictures of Bruce Wayne's wife. Bruce never looked at anything that wasn't mission-critical. And the way his voice had changed when talking about her...
Oh no.
"I'm telling you," Clark whispered to Diana in the Watchtower's rec room the next day. "He's got it bad."
Diana frowned, setting down her tea. "Batman? Having romantic feelings? Clark, are you certain? He's so..."
"Emotionally constipated?"
"I was going to say 'private.'"
"Same thing." Clark leaned forward. "But I saw it, Diana. He was looking at articles about her. And when I mentioned her name, he got all tense and monosyllabic. More than usual."
"He's always monosyllabic."
"Exactly! This was advanced monosyllabic."
Diana considered this. She'd known Bruce for years, fought beside him, trusted him with her life. But she'd never known him to show interest in anyone. "Mrs. Wayne is supposed to be quite remarkable. I've read about her philanthropy work. And she's apparently very devoted to her husband."
"Right?" Clark slumped in his chair. "Which makes this whole thing kind of sad. Bruce Wayne is one of the most eligible bachelors in the world, and by all accounts, he and his wife are crazy about each other. Batman doesn't stand a chance."
"Should we... say something?"
"Absolutely not. Can you imagine? 'Hey Batman, we know you have feelings for a married woman, want to talk about it?' He'd glare us into oblivion."
"Point taken."
Unfortunately for everyone involved, Barry Allen chose that moment to speed into the rec room, having caught approximately half of the conversation at super-speed.
"Wait, wait, wait. Batman has a crush? On who?"
Clark and Diana exchanged glances.
"On Bruce Wayne's wife," Barry said slowly, piecing it together himself. "Oh man. Oh man. That's... that's rough, buddy."
"We're not supposed to talk about it," Diana said firmly.
"Right. Totally. Vault." Barry made a zipping motion across his lips.
He told Hal within the hour.
The next Justice League meeting was excruciatingly uncomfortable, and Bruce couldn't figure out why.
"The Gotham sector has been quiet," he reported, pulling up crime statistics. "Robin and I have been working with GCPD on—"
"How's the Wayne Foundation doing?" Hal blurted out, then immediately looked like he regretted it.
Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Fine. Why?"
"No reason! Just making conversation. Community outreach, very important. Mrs. Wayne seems to do a lot of that, right? The community outreach?"
"Yes."
The single word hung in the air like a thundercloud.
"She seems nice," Hal continued, apparently unable to stop himself. Barry was making frantic cutting motions at his throat. "Very dedicated to the children's hospital and—"
"Is there a point to this, Jordan?"
"Nope! No point. Just saying. Nice lady. Very married. Very happily married from what I hear. To Bruce Wayne. Who she loves. A lot."
Clark dropped his head into his hands.
Bruce stared at Hal for a long, uncomfortable moment. "Are you having a stroke?"
"Maybe!"
Diana smoothly interjected. "What Batman means to ask is whether there are any concerns about the upcoming charity gala. Several of us have been invited to attend as Justice League representatives."
"I'll be there," Bruce said curtly. "I've already coordinated with Wayne's security team."
Another awkward silence fell.
"That must be... nice for you," Barry offered. "Getting to see...I mean, getting to ensure the safety of....what I'm trying to say is—"
"Spit it out, Allen."
"Nothing! Nothing. Just that security is important. For everyone. Especially important people. Like Mrs. Wayne. Who you probably see a lot. Because of security. And Gotham."
Bruce's expression suggested he was reconsidering his no-killing rule.
It came to a head two weeks later when Bruce was working late in the Watchtower. He'd been coordinating response times for Gotham's patrol routes when his communicator lit up with a personal call.
Your name flashed on the screen.
Bruce accepted it immediately, his entire demeanor softening in a way that would have shocked anyone who saw it. "Everything alright?"
"Hi honey," your voice came through warm and affectionate. "Everything's fine. I just missed you. Are you going to be much longer?"
"Another hour. Two at most."
"Okay. Don't forget to eat something. Alfred left you a sandwich in the usual spot."
The corner of Bruce's mouth twitched up. "I know. I saw it."
"Did you eat it?"
"...I will."
"Bruce Wayne, I swear—"
"I'll eat it right now."
"That's what I like to hear." Your laugh was soft, intimate. "I love you. Come home soon?"
"I love you too. I'll be there before you know it."
"You better be. Someone needs to keep me warm."
"I think that can be arranged."
Bruce ended the call, and the smile that had been threatening finally appeared, soft and genuine and completely at odds with his usual demeanor.
He turned to grab the sandwich Alfred had packed...and froze.
Superman, Wonder Woman, Flash, and Green Lantern were all standing in the doorway, staring at him with expressions ranging from confusion to dawning horror.
"Batman," Clark said slowly. "Was that... Bruce Wayne's wife?"
"Yes." Bruce unwrapped his sandwich, completely unfazed. "Is that a problem?"
"You have her personal number," Barry said.
"I have everyone's personal number. I'm Batman."
"But you...she called you honey," Hal protested.
"She did."
"And you said...you told her..." Diana was actually struggling for words. "You told her you love her."
"Yes."
"But she's married!" Hal exploded. "To Bruce Wayne! And she loves him! Everyone knows she's crazy about him! You can't just—"
Understanding dawned.
Bruce closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to ten. Then to twenty. "What exactly do you all think is happening here?"
"We know you have feelings for Mrs. Wayne," Clark said gently, using his diplomat voice. "And we understand that's difficult, but she's married, Bruce. Happily married."
"I'm aware."
"Then why were you looking at pictures of her?" Clark pressed. "Why do you tense up whenever someone mentions her? Why do you have her personal number and why does she call you—"
"Oh my god." Bruce set down his sandwich. "You think I'm in love with my own wife."
Silence.
"Your what?" Barry squeaked.
Bruce reached up and pulled back his cowl, revealing his face fully. "Bruce Wayne. Pleasure to formally meet you all. Again."
The silence that followed was deafening.
"But you...you're..." Hal was turning an interesting shade of red. "You're Batman. Bruce Wayne is a playboy billionaire. You're nothing alike!"
"It's called a cover identity, Jordan. I thought you of all people would understand that."
Diana's eyes were wide. "All this time..."
"Yes."
"And Mrs. Wayne..."
"Is my wife. We've been married for six years."
"The phone call," Clark said weakly. "She called you honey."
"Because I'm her husband."
"And you said you love her."
"Because I do. Was that not clear from the marriage?"
"I feel faint," Barry said. "Is anyone else feeling faint?"
Bruce pulled his cowl back up. "Now that we've cleared that up, I'd appreciate it if you could all stop making it weird every time someone mentions my wife. It's been extremely uncomfortable."
"WE were making it uncomfortable?" Hal's voice went up an octave. "You let us think...for WEEKS..."
"I didn't let you think anything. You all jumped to the most ridiculous conclusion possible and ran with it." Bruce picked up his sandwich again. "I'm going to finish my work and go home to my wife now. We're not going to discuss this again."
He paused at the door.
"And for the record? Yes, I do 'have a chance' with Mrs. Wayne. We have a vacation home in the Bahamas."
The charity gala was even more awkward than the Justice League meetings had been.
Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, philanthropist, definitely-not-Batman, stood with his arm around your waist, looking utterly comfortable in his tailored suit and public persona. You were radiant in a gorgeous gown, laughing at something he'd whispered in your ear.
Across the ballroom, Clark Kent adjusted his glasses and tried not to make eye contact with his colleagues.
"That's Batman," Barry muttered, staring at Bruce Wayne as he pressed a kiss to your temple. "That's Batman being... being..."
"I can't believe we thought he was pining," Hal groaned. "He's probably the least pining person here. Look at him. He's besotted."
They watched as Bruce guided you onto the dance floor, his hand settling at the small of your back with casual possessiveness. You said something that made him laugh, actually laugh, not the fake playboy chuckle he used for the press, and he pulled you closer.
"They're really in love," Clark said softly. "I mean, I knew the Waynes had a good marriage, but..."
"But you didn't know one of them was Batman," Diana finished. "None of us did."
"Do you think she knows?" Barry asked suddenly.
They all turned to stare at him.
"About Batman, I mean. Does Mrs. Wayne know her husband is—"
As if to answer his question, you pulled Bruce down for a quick kiss, then whispered something in his ear that made his eyes darken in a very familiar way. Even from across the ballroom, they could see him murmur "Later" before spinning you in a graceful turn.
"Yeah," Hal said. "Yeah, she definitely knows."
"I need a drink," Clark muttered.
"Make it two," Barry agreed.
Diana just smiled, watching as Batman, stoic, paranoid, emotionally-constipated Batman, looked at his wife like she hung the moon and stars. "I think it's nice. Everyone deserves happiness. Even Batman."
"Even Batman," Clark echoed, finally smiling. "Though I wish he'd told us sooner. Would've saved a lot of awkward meetings."
"Where's the fun in that?" Hal grinned. "Besides, now we have blackmail material. Batman: secretly a devoted husband."
"If you value your life, you won't use it," Diana advised.
"Oh, I'm definitely using it."
Across the ballroom, you looked up at Bruce with a curious smile. "Why do your coworkers keep staring at us?"
"They recently discovered I'm not actually an emotionless robot."
"Ah." You leaned into him as the music swelled. "How's that going for them?"
"They're coping. Barely."
You laughed, the sound making him smile that soft, private smile reserved only for you. "Well, I could've told them you're secretly a big softie. Didn't even need to blow your secret identity."
"I'm not a softie."
"You are with me."
"That's different."
"Is it?"
Bruce pulled you closer, swaying to the music, perfectly content for once to be Bruce Wayne, devoted husband, philanthropist, and definitely not Batman.
"Yes," he murmured against your hair. "With you, everything's different."
From across the ballroom, they heard Hal's voice: "Oh my god, he's being ROMANTIC. Clark, are you seeing this?"
Bruce sighed.
You grinned. "I like your coworkers."
"They're going to be insufferable about this."
"Good. You could use a little teasing. Keeps you humble." You pressed a kiss to his jaw. "Besides, it's kind of flattering. They thought Batman had a crush on me."
"Everyone has a crush on you."
"But Batman has more than a crush." You smiled up at him, eyes sparkling. "Batman has me."
"Yes," Bruce agreed, all pretense falling away as he looked at you with open adoration. "Yes, he does."
The song ended, but neither of you moved, content to stand together in your own little world.
At least until Barry's voice carried across the ballroom: "Do you think they coordinate their patrol schedules around date nights?"
"I'm going to kill them," Bruce muttered.
"No you're not." You tugged him toward the exit. "You're going to dance with me for one more song, make a generous donation to the hospital, and then take me home. In the Batmobile, if you're feeling adventurous."
Bruce's expression shifted into something dangerous and promising. "I can work with that."
"I know you can." You winked. "That's why I married you."
Behind you, the Justice League was probably having a collective breakdown about secret identities and workplace dynamics.
But that was their problem.
You had Batman to yourself tonight, and you weren't sharing.
BONUSSS: The Group Chat
Justice League Secure Channel
Flash: So are we just not going to talk about how Batman is MARRIED
Green Lantern: And has been for SIX YEARS
Superman: I think we've embarrassed ourselves enough
Wonder Woman: Agreed. We should let this go.
Flash: But does Robin know? Do the OTHER Robins know? Is Nightwing his son??? I HAVE QUESTIONS
Batman: Stop.
Flash: DOES MRS. BATMAN PACK YOUR LUNCHES
Batman: Her name is Mrs. Wayne. And if you value your kneecaps, you'll drop this.
Green Lantern: He's deflecting. That means yes.
Batman has left the chat
Superman: He's going to kill us all in our sleep.
Wonder Woman: Worth it. Did you see how he looked at her?
Flash: RIGHT??? That's TRUE LOVE right there
Superman: I'm happy for him. Genuinely.
Green Lantern: Same. But I'm also never letting him live this down.
Wonder Woman: None of us are.
Batman has returned to the chat
Batman: My wife wants me to tell you she thinks you're all sweet and you're invited to dinner next month.
Flash: ...really?
Batman: Really. Fair warning: she's going to show you my baby photos.
Batman has left the chat
Green Lantern: I love her.
Flash: BATMAN HAS BABY PHOTOS
Superman: This is the best day of my life.
Wonder Woman: Mark your calendars. We're not missing this.
summary: Being rejected from Metropolis University? Humbling. Your boyfriend of four years dumping you a year later thanks to his dead parents? Even worse. But when your friend tries to get you out of your dorm after two weeks spent bed-rotting and takes you to a photoshoot audition — "Just to try something new!" — you find yourself with a lot of attention you didn't want and a billionaire playboy on your tail.
pairing(s): bruce wayne x reader, (ex) clark kent x childhoodsweetheart!reader
word count: 21.7k (my longest fanfic yet)
warnings: inaccuracies regarding the position of the towns (used this map for reference) and college admissions, if you don't really understand why reader is beware of bruce then you might want to go and read a little sumsum about epstein island (my girl is right not to want anything to do with a billionaire), bruce is so not nonchalant, he's also kinda bi (OF COURSE HE IS HE'S A SLUT!!! AND OF COURSE IT'S WITH HARVEY), no trouple sorry, blood, one (1) gunshot as well as one (1) scott pilgrim reference, bruce and reader trauma bond over their weird exes, merry christmas/please don't call trope, suggestive maybe, swear words, angst and fluff, dick makes an apparition at the end (if there's anything I'm forgetting pls lmk)
author's note: credits to @lovingyoulovinme for the concept, taken from this post! bruce and clark can be imagined as any transposition of their characters, but honestly I tried my best not to think of david corenswet while writing this cuz I'd NEVERRRR let that man go. EVER. english isn't my first language so construcitve criticism is always welcome!!
dividers from @uzmacchiato! <3
You’ve known Clark Kent all your life.
That happens when he’s the only kid in a three-mile radius near the house you were raised in — and that also happens when your mothers have been best friends for more than twenty years. There are pictures of him, barely one year old, sitting on the couch of your parent’s living room while cooing at the pink bundle in your mother’s arms — you. From then on, it’s unusual to see a photo of the two of you not together.
He’s there when you start crawling, clapping his hands in encouragement, a picture showing him smushing his cheek against yours in triumph as you smile with the only two teeth you have. He holds you steady as you take your first steps, a bit wobbly himself, and you both fall into a fit of uncontrollable laughter as you crumble down to the floor. He teaches you his name as soon as you start talking, and when he’s over to your farm you end up following him like a lost puppy, chanting ClarkClarkClarkClark! loud enough for your father to take a peek out of the living room to make sure you’re okay.
You’re four when you participate to your first dance recital, grinning wildly while wearing the pinkiest tutu your father could find at the only costume shop Smallville has, and when you get off stage after a choreography only the parents of the kids doing it could enjoy, you find a red-cheeked Clark holding a bouquet of flowers almost bigger than him. Your parents watch with knowing smiles as you squeal and topple him to the ground, smooshing your cheek against his.
“You shouldn’t have, Jon,” your mother whispers to Pa Kent, “I know flowers are getting expensive these days.”
He barely brushes her comment aside, “Oh, shut it, woman, he wanted to. ‘Sides, Eleonor from the flower shop already owed us a favour.” he chuckles quietly, “Why, you tellin’ me it bothers you to see her so happy with her itty-bitty pink tutu and her bouquet?”
By this point, both you and Clark are back on your feet, and you’re jumping around — showing off your flowers to the friends you’ve made in the dance class while dragging Clark along by the hand. The kid is as red as a tomato, shuffling his feet awkwardly as you hold the bouquet like it’s an infant.
Safe to say, you and Clark are thick as thieves growing up: it’s rare to see him around without you and vice versa, aside from school hours — and even then, you’re always together during breaks and such, and given that you take the same school bus and even get down at the same spot there’s never a day where the seat next to you or next to him is empty.
Since the Kent farm and yours aren’t that far away you’re both often found wandering in the fields between your houses, sometimes even bringing your lunch lovingly wrapped in an embroidered cloth by your mum, who — same as Ma Kent — always packs not one but two meals; one for you, one for Clark. Of course, you both take advantage of the situation and always end up eating the whole feast without leaving a single crumb, only to then pass out for usually two or three hours after the ordeal on your little beaten up blanket.
When everybody starts picking on him when he gets glasses — horrendous, thick-lenses ones — you just hold his hand while laying together on the hammock that hangs on two of the trees outside his farm, probably older than Pa Kent himself. “Who cares?” you mumble over his muffled sobs, hugging his side tight. “They all suck anyway. Besides, if they think the glasses look bad on you, maybe it’s their eyes that need fixing.”
You’re nine when you first see him fly. It’s an accident — he thought you were in town with your parents, but opted to stay home instead and went to the Kent farm for a surprise visit — and he doesn’t talk to you for a week, too scared of confrontation. Things slide back in place as soon as Martha understands what happened and gives him a stern talk about friends and secrets; not even an hour later you’re aware of all his history — the meteor shower of ten years ago actually being his space pod entering the atmosphere, him coming from another planet and having freaking superpowers.
You’ve always known Clark was special — always thought that he was one of a kind, a boy too gentle to be like everyone. You just didn’t know that special would have meant from another galaxy.
Not a lot changes by the time you start going to middle and then high school — Clark’s one of the few boys in town that growing up didn’t have a phase or permanently turned into a dickhead. The Kents raised him well, making sure he never disrespected anyone without a good reason to, and even then he’s often too nice to act on it — unless it involves someone other than him. If there’s someone who’s being given trouble at school, he always finds a way to help — even if he himself isn’t really one of the popular kids either.
That’s what you like about Clark. The ability to look bigger than he is if needed to and a heart of gold that would make the nicest man on Earth look pale in comparison.
Of course, it’s not a surprise to anyone when you two start dating — it was just a matter of time, clearly. The only visible change is the hand-holding and kissing; when you tell the Kents, as Martha squeals and jumps up to hug you, Jon just sits there with a confused look on his face while scratching his chin. “You tellin’ me you two weren’t together this whole time?”
Those are definitely the best years of your life, you think one summer evening as you lay on the same battered blanket of ten years ago in the same tulip field with the same boy. It’s just that this time he’s double the size and officially your boyfriend, who holds you tight against his chest while basking in the blazing sun.
“Will you ever take me flying?” you ask, eyes barely open — just what you need to look at him, golden and smiling. He chuckles, “You’d like me to?”
You nod enthusiastically. You’ve rarely ever gotten out of Smallville, aside from school trips and a couple of vacations with your parents, so it’s safe to say that you’ve never even gotten on a plane in your entire life, with the closest airport being in Metropolis. Clark, you guess, is the next best thing you have to a plane.
“Dunno, sweetheart,” he presses a kiss to the crown of your hair, “If Pa saw me fly with you, he’d yell at me to get down and start a long lecture about being seen and the dangers of it. Maybe when they’re out of town, mh?”
You hum, almost half asleep, lulled by his hand gently caressing your back under your shirt and the warmth of the sun. “I’ll hold you to that one.”
But as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end — and just two years after that conversation in the field you find yourself in Clark’s room, holding back your tears as you help him pack his things for college. You should be happy for him — he’s been accepted into the Journalism course, which has been his dream for years — but you just can’t shake the thought of him being so far away in the big city while you’re still stuck here for another year.
You like Smallville — you love the farm, the animals and the constant fresh air — but there’s basically nothing there aside from fields and the school. You and Clark have never been so far away from each other for so long — you honestly don’t know how you’ll manage without him around. Sure, you have other friends, but nobody could ever make up for his absence.
And that’s why you’ve been spending the last two weeks tied to his side — helping him get ready for his move and packing old shirts and jeans. You almost burst out in tears when you see him sneaking an old picture of you in a tutu and a bouquet in one of the boxes.
He notices you staring — of course he notices. He’s already noticed how on edge you’ve seemed in these last few months, and if he’s right the dam is about to break in a million pieces right in front of him.
Clark gets up from his place on the floor, wiping his hands on his jeans, “Everything alright?”
You look at him– really look at him. Your lips tremble, tears begin to form in your waterline and judging by the rapid beats of your heartbeat you’re about to have a complete breakdown. Finally, you whimper, “I don’t want you to go,”
The dam breaks. You start ugly crying, full-on sobbing as Clark hugs you and holds you tight against his chest, “No– I mean– I want you to go, it’s– it’s a great opportunity– but I don’t want you to leave me here all alone–” your sobs rattle against his chest and your words are barely understandable, but for someone with super empathy — you’re sure that’s a real thing and an actual true power of his — and super hearing it’s pretty understandable.
His eyes soften. “I wouldn’t leave you here if it was my choice,” he murmurs, “I’d take you with me in a heartbeat, but we’ll have to start somewhere if we want to eventually move out of here together. In a year you’ll finish high school, and until then I’ll still visit constantly.” he smiles sweetly, “You could come to visit me too. Did you know that they just finished building the railway connecting Midvale to Metropolis? How convenient is that?”
His heart breaks even more when you don’t stop crying. His shirt is damp by now, and you are starting to hyperventilate — sobs becoming more drawn and hoarse. “Hey, hey,” he takes your face in his hands, wiping away your tears with his thumbs, “we’ll be okay, alright? Nothing will change. We haven’t been friends for seventeen years only for things to change because of– what, a hundred miles of distance?” he starts peppering your damp cheeks with kisses, managing to get a strained laugh out of you. “I didn’t come all the way here from another galaxy just to forget about you the second I move out of town.”
You’re back in the Kent’s farm two days later to say goodbye to Clark along with some close friends of his, and you cry more than you’d like to admit — but for now it doesn’t matter, because he’s still here and still able to wipe your tears with a gentle hand and dry the dampness on your cheeks with kisses. The real problems will arise when he won’t be able to do that anymore — and it happens soon after: he and Jon get on his truck and start driving towards Metropolis.
You stay seated on the Kent’s porch until Clark’s truck isn’t visible anymore, and Martha gently puts a hand on your shoulder. “Want a slice of pie? Lemon blueberry tart, your favorite. I made it… well, I kind of knew this sadness was coming.” she gives you a tight-lipped smile, teary herself. “I’ll miss him too. But it’s not the end of the world, is it? It’s just a new beginning. Besides, a couple of months and it’ll be Christmas. And you know we always spend Christmas together, hun.”
The next few months are spent between your studies for the admission tests for University and hours-long calls with Clark, who’s enthusiastically adapting to life in the big city as you try not to give away too much that you’re rightfully sulking back at home. Christmas is a nice break from your longing, and you barely spend any time apart from each other, but after that it’s back to square one.
Much to your displeasure, the calls start to become less and less long — and you really don’t want to be the type of girlfriend that stalks her boyfriend’s every step, but you really miss him, and it’s hard staying in Smallville without him when you’ve only known the town with him in it. He’s just starting to make new friends and getting to know the city, and you know that, but you wish you could be there with him instead of being stuck in the middle of nowhere.
Spring break comes, and with it your train ticket from Midvale to Metropolis and your hunk of a boyfriend waiting for you at the arrival station. You nearly tackle him to the ground — and that says something, because he played football in high school — and kiss him fervently right here and there, not really caring about being in public. He takes your luggage like the real gentleman he is and tries not to laugh when you take his hand and start skipping like Heidi as he leads the way to his apartment.
It’s definitely the shortest week of your existence — you get to have a preview of the life you’ll have with Clark in Metropolis, but not really the whole thing. You try to forget about how soon you’ll have to be back home as he shows you around and introduces you to his friends, and try to ignore the fact that while you’ve been wallowing in your own pity and having breakdowns weekly he seems to be just fine — peachy, even. As you barely manage to adapt in an environment without him, he’s thriving without you — and you know it’s not specifically because of your absence, but still. It drives you crazy, the way you seem to cling on him for everything as he manages to handle even the most complicated things alone.
The week ends, and you go back home — maybe it’s for the best, you try to reason with yourself. You’re not sure of how much you could go on without going crazy while seeing him being perfectly fine without you as you’re spending every day missing him, and you’re starting to doubt yourself. Maybe he just doesn’t need you as much as you need him, and that hurts, because you’ve spent all your life by his side and don’t really know how to change that.
You still try to put up a brave face when talking to him on the phone, even though you’ve been counting the days that remain until your graduation — and thus Clark’s next visit — and try to hide your anxiety about your college applications. Veterinary Science, you’ve chosen — pretty predictable for a farm girl who was raised around animals, really. Metropolis is your first choice, of course, but what you haven’t really told Clark are the other options — Gotham University, Central City College, and countless others that you don’t really want to mention to him.
Truth is, you’re not sure you’ll be accepted into Met U, and even if you did — you’re still not sure it would be the best option. Clark seems to be holding up the fort just perfectly without you — and since you’ve visited him in Metropolis, you’ve had this horrendous itch that you just aren’t able to actually scratch. Would you be able to create the life he’s having, alone? Are you melancholic just because you’re in Smallville, and to you Smallville has always meant Clark Kent? Would it be the same if you weren’t here but somewhere else, like Gotham?
Graduation day comes and goes, and not even Clark’s presence is able to bring you out of the existential crisis you feel you’re living in — because the thing is, you don’t really know how you would manage in a new city alone. You’ve never explored the idea because you’ve always taken for granted that Clark would’ve been there for you, but seeing the acceptance rate at Met U really gave you a reality check.
You spend the day throwing mostly fake smiles at everyone that congratulates you and going back to frowning at your shoes once they notice Clark at your side, not able to ignore the pit that’s formed in your stomach at the thought of not being accepted at Metropolis University anymore. But why do you really want to go there, anyways? Because there’s Clark? As much as you love him, you don’t want to live your life tied to his side only to then discover you can’t actually function without him.
And when, inevitably, the admission letters come back in, you try to act like you can keep it together — like you’re not nearly combusting at the mere idea of opening them. Clark comes over in the evening and you open them together, hearts thumping and feet tapping nervously against the ground. The first one you open, of course, is from Met U.
Dear miss, this is in regard to your application to the Veterinary Science program at Metropolis University, Delaware; we regret to inform you that…
You don’t even want to read the rest of the letter, immediately dropping it on the table and getting up from your seat to go take a breath of fresh air on the porch — trying to avoid the inevitable nervous breakdown waiting for you if you dare to look into Clark’s eyes. You don’t want to see the disappointment in them — you know he’d never really blame you, but you’ve been waiting for this moment for a whole year, and despite all your doubts you still wanted to be admitted. It’s, honestly, so humbling.
Clark is smart enough to give you a couple of minutes to yourself, coming to sit beside you on the porch when he’s sure you won’t burst out crying as soon as he mentions the subject, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “It’s not the end of the world,” he hushers, pressing a kiss to your temple, “you’ve been accepted to GCU, which is still closer to Metropolis than Smallville. Or– or Star City, too, even if that’s a bit far– whatever makes you happy, I’ll support that.”
You sniffle, rubbing the palm of your hand on your face. “You opened the other letters?”
He chuckles quietly, “Wouldn’t rob you of the experience. X-ray vision, remember?”
A small, broken laugh escapes you. “Oh, you and your outer-world powers.” he shares the laugh with you, the air lightening for just a moment before it goes back to heavy. “I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?”
He flinches. “You– oh, sweetheart, no,” you can tell that he’s, for maybe the first time in his life, at a loss for words. “It’s… it’s just a mishap. They happen. It’s not your fault.”
You hide your face in your knees and hug them tight against your chest. “I was already imagining us two happily living together in Metropolis.” you're now imagining yourself not able to live alone without him and ending up all alone in the new city, whatever one it’ll be.
“And it will happen,” he assures you, “just, in… a couple of years. As soon as they let you transfer to Metropolis University.”
Life goes on. You choose to pursue Gotham University, even if your parents are a little worried about the percentage of violent crimes there, and find a little apartment near campus in a complex that’s owned by the School Department and offered to the students for a modest price in one of the relatively safest areas in town. Clark helps you pack and even drives you all the way to Gotham when it’s time for the semester to start, unloading all your things in his truck and carrying them up the stairs to your unit.
That being said, your roommate’s already there when you enter. “Jenna,” she introduces herself, enthusiastically shaking your hand as you let Clark do all the work in the background. She’s got a shirt with the drawing of a bat on and looks already settled in. “Heard you weren’t from around here, so I got you a little welcome present!” she passes you a glittery pink box with a bow on it, smiling excitedly.
You blush, hesitantly accepting the gift, “Oh, there was no need–”
She brushes you off with an easy smile, “Nonsense! Now, open it and tell me if you like it,” she’s buzzing with joy, and Clark curiously joins your side while wiping inexistent sweat from his forehead. You cautiously untie the ribbon, then open the box to reveal the gift, “It’s a…” you’re trying your best not to seem rude, but you’re really confused. “...A weirdly shaped bat?” Clark tries, not unkindly.
Your roommate doesn’t seem too disheartened by the inexistent recognition of her gift. “It’s a Bat-taser!” she says it like there could be no doubt ever about it. “They’re really popular these days. Trust me, you’ll need it.” a fucking taser. Shaped like a bat–
Clark perks up, “Oh, yeah– is it from the guy that goes around dressed like a bat?”
Jenna claps like he’s won the lottery. “Batman, yeah!”
You frown, “I’ve heard of him. Guys playing dress-up are getting really popular these days, aren’t they? Heard about a guy floating around in a horrendous green suit in Star City.” you lower your voice, making sure only Clark can hear you, “You sure he isn’t from your planet?”
“I sure hope not,” he whispers back, “would really taint the whole mysterious thing about being from an unknown planet, you know?”
Bat-taser aside, you find out pretty soon that Jenna’s actually really cool. She was born and raised in Gotham, apparently, and lunged at the idea of moving into a safer area of the city when given the opportunity. “Things are actually crazy around here,” she tells you as soon as Clark leaves — thank God, because the last thing you want is a far-away worried boyfriend that shriekes in fear every time you have to go out. “Got even crazier when Batman started going around. We’ve got so many insane criminals that a whole island’s basically dedicated to them.”
“You mean Arkham,” you recall, slouched on the couch beside her, “so the stories about the asylum are true?”
“Probably even watered down,” she muses, “the city’s had more lockdowns than sunny days these last few years.”
Well, isn’t that exciting. Something tells you that soon, you’ll learn exactly why Bat-tasers are so popular these days.
You adjust to life in Gotham pretty well — to be back home before the sun sets, to use all the locks on the door even if it’s still just noon and never ever leave a single window open. You and Jenna have the disadvantage of the balcony — a tiny little crane that looks onto the street below —, disadvantage, you learn confusedly, because apparently Batman and his friends (aka the lunatics that he follows around in the city) often swing by those and either break the rails (in Batman’s case) or straight up break-in (in the lunatics' case).
Adapting to Gotham is hard — but still easier, you must say, than adapting to a Smallville without Clark. It’s a new city, after all, void of any memories and full of new things, and soon enough you’re too immersed into your studies and the new city to constantly miss your boyfriend's presence.
It’s not that you don’t miss him — you do — it’s just different than in Smallville. It doesn’t feel like something — someone — is constantly missing, and you have enough things on your mind to keep Clark’s absence out of your mind until mid to late evening, when usually one of you calls the other to talk about how things are going.
Jenna helps, too — you find yourself being more close to her than you could ever imagine. It’s more like having a sister rather than a roommate, really. She manages somehow to get you a job at the same animal clinic she works at, and you've discovered more things that people can do in the last few months in Gotham than in your eighteen years of life, and that’s probably where farm life has stunted you.
She offers you your first cigarette — not really a cigarette, she specifies, it’s made out of natural herbs that should taste like strawberry or something like that — and soon enough you purchase two ten-dollar fold-in chairs from Target just for the thrill of sitting in your little hazardy balcony while gossiping about the other students or one of her fifty family members.
“And you?” she asks during a Saturday night in October, spent happily freezing outside while bundled up in a blanket each, “I bet at least one interesting thing happened in your eighteen years spent in your little farm town.”
You think about Clark flying and holding up cows and tractors like they’re berries, “The most interesting thing that can happen in Smallville is a particularly nice harvest. Even though I do recall that the milkman’s wife cheated on him with the mailman a couple of years ago.”
For Christmas, obviously, you go back home. Jenna tells you that she’ll take care of the plants and make sure that nobody dares to break in, even if she’s back to her parents in Chinatown. Clark picks you up at the Metropolis' train station, greeting you with a tight hug and a loving kiss, and you make the two-hour drive to Smallville together, chatting quietly about how the last few months have been. Not surprisingly, even with the distance between you two shortening to eighty-seven miles rather than the hundred from Smallville, you haven’t really had the time to see each other.
Something’s going on with Clark. You’re not really sure what it is, but the look in his eyes troubles you. He looks dazed, almost dull, and he isn’t anything like your usual loverboy Kent is.
“Hey,” you whisper to him on Christmas Eve night, as everyone chatters happily while waiting for midnight to open the presents, “everything alright?”
“Mh?” he looks taken aback. “Oh, yeah, I’m just…” he sighs, slumping his head against your shoulder, “lost in my own thoughts, I think.”
“Well, what about them?”
His brows furrow. “Not sure yet.” he looks up at you, pretty blue eyes shining under the dim light of the living room, “Do you ever think that my powers should be used for good?”
You stay silent for a moment. “I think you’re too kind to use them in any way but for good. Why?”
“I don’t mean ‘helping my parents in the farm’ good,” he nuzzles his nose on your shoulder, leaving a faint kiss there. “I mean, like, ‘helping citizens during a crisis’ good.”
You blink. “You’ve got a heart of gold, Clark Kent,” you hush lovingly, pressing a kiss into his curls, “but as much as I love that about you, I don’t think you should put that burden on your shoulders. If you could, you’d help everyone, but that can’t really be possible. There’ll always be an old lady you couldn’t help walking the street, or a girl you couldn’t save from a mugger.”
His eyes are so soft that they might melt you too. “Why are you telling me this?”
You frown in the most gentle way possible. “Because I’m worried that if you start being like Green Lantern or– or Batman, you’ll never be able to come to terms with the people you weren’t able to help.”
“I still could try to help,” he argues without any spite.
You study his face — oh, your sweet, sweet boy… “Jenna told me stories,” you murmur, “about Batman having to crawl back to his car, bloodied and barely alive, and sometimes even fainting in some God-forgotten alley — saved only because of some good samaritans that helped him get back up on his feet. I… I know that you might feel like you have a mission, Clark, but you have to consider the downsides of it.” you shake your head gently, “I don’t want you to be the man lying half-dead in a dark alley while I wonder why you’re so late to dinner.”
Of course, none of you knows the true extent of Clark’s powers — that happens when someone has to hide them for all of his life. When the winter break comes to an end, you go back to Gotham with Clark like always, but this time the car ride is silent. He drops you off at your apartment, carries your luggage up the stairs and kisses you goodbye like nothing’s wrong — like the air isn’t heavy with something.
Your days go on like always — you listen to your lessons, study, have a half-decent lunch with Jenna, listen to some more lessons, do your shift at the animal clinic and get back home before the sun goes down. The calls with Clark have slightly lessened, and you’d like to think that the blame can be put on the shoulders of the exam season, which — you are sure of it — is kicking both of your asses. Everything continues just fine until April comes.
Clark calls, which by now it’s unusual because it’s always you that calls him. “Hello?” Your reply comes after a few rings, because it’s 10 a.m. on a Sunday and you sure as hell weren’t thinking about getting out of bed before it was time for lunch. Silence meets you on the other end. “I said, hello?”
“Hi,” Clark’s voice is the tiniest squeal, a very unusual thing for him — he’s never insecure about something, and when he is, you talk it out like the responsible people you’d like to think you are.
You sigh softly on the phone, already fighting back sleep, “Hi, baby,” you yawn loudly, “what’s up?”
“I, um…” he stutters for a bit, maybe unsure of where to start. “I’m in town for a couple of commissions. Are you up for a coffee?”
Well, if that doesn’t wake you up, you don’t know what would. “You’re here? In Gotham?”
“Yeah.” you do hear the ever persistent GCPD sirens screech on his end of the line.
“Not that I’m mad about it, but why?”
Another weird silence. “I told you, had a couple of commissions to run.”
It confuses you — what kind of job would Clark have to do in Gotham, and why didn’t he even tell you about it before coming here? — but you just shrug it off, taking for granted that he’ll explain everything about it when you see him. You get ready to meet him downtown quite happily, thinking about maybe a surprise, but nothing could really prepare you for what’s about to come.
“I think we should break up.”
The words ring in your ears. You’ve never pondered about the option of Clark and you breaking up — honestly, you’ve known him for so long that it just wasn’t even a thought in your head. Ever since you were little, you’d dreamed of the day you’d finally be able to marry Clark Kent and have the life you’d always fantasized about with him.
The café he told you to meet him in is nice. Not one of the fancy ones in uptown Gotham, but not even one of the worst ones down in Crime Alley. You’re pretty sure you’d actually be able to enjoy it if it wasn’t for the fact that your boyfriend of four years is dumping you in it and you have no idea why. You can’t even form an actual thought, let alone an intelligent one, so the only thing that escapes your mouth is, “Uh?”
He doesn’t look so comfortable either. It’s your first time getting dumped, but it’s also his first time dumping someone, you guess. “I just think it’s not working anymore between us. That we may need some time to figure things out on our own.” the shock must be written on your face, because he almost flinches. “Don’t look at me like that, please.”
“A cappuccino, an espresso and a croissant,” the waitress pretends not to listen as she brings you guys your order, but you saw her staring earlier. You shake your head in disbelief as soon as she leaves, pinching the bridge of your nose to try to make sense of anything that’s happening right now. “So you mean to tell me that the commission you had to do in Gotham… was to break up with me?”
He grimaces. “Don’t say it like that,”
“How else should I put it?” you hiss, “Clark, we’ve been together for four years — friends for all my existence even before that. You’ve been in my life since I can remember and you want to break up with me with the whole ‘I don’t think it’s working anymore’ bullshit? No, my guy, you’ll have to tell me a lot more than that. What is up with you?”
He presses his lips together for a brief moment, “I managed to get my degree earlier than I expected,” he almost stumbles over his words, “I… it was always my intention, but I didn’t think I’d actually manage to do so in such a brief period of time.”
You blink. “You never told me that.”
“I– I never told anyone, actually.” now he’s actively avoiding your eyes while nervously playing with his fingers, “Clark, it’s not a thing you just casually avoid to mention. You turned a three to four year program into a year and a half course. That’s a big thing. You should’ve told me– I would’ve done my best to support you.”
His eyes are shiny, and it’s not just because of the light hitting them in just the right way. “I’m leaving.”
You blink. “What?”
He gives you a sad smile — and that makes you shudder, because in your entire life you’ve never ever seen Clark Kent smile like that. It’s honestly scary; he’s made for happy smiles, not for sad half-crapped ones. “I’m leaving,” he repeats gently, “I want to find out more about my biological parents — about my home planet. I think I’ve just found a way to do that, and I don’t know exactly for how long I’ll be gone.” he blinks away the tears, “And I can’t leave if I know that I’ve left you behind waiting for me.”
“How long will you be gone?” you almost don’t hear yourself asking — it’s like that’s not even your voice. You have no idea how you still haven’t started crying.
His voice is almost as little as yours. “I don’t know. I’d like to think it could be just a few months, but… something tells me it’ll be years.”
You’re not sure how you get back home, but you somehow do. Jenna is on the couch, eating ice cream for breakfast, and chirps happily when she sees you. “Hey, I was getting worried! How did it go with Prince Charming?" you make it to your room before you throw yourself on the bed and start ugly crying uncontrollably.
You don’t know life without Clark Kent. You’ve been inseparable since forever, and you always thought he’d be one of the only constants in your life — turns out, he had other plans. Yes, it’s true that you wanted to experience life in the big city without him, but that doesn’t mean you wanted him completely out of your life — you just wanted to see how well you’d do. (Ditched for unknown and dead parents, by the way? That has to be a new low.)
Jenna tries her best to boost your morale — even buys you that one Ben & Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream that she hates with passion but that you love— but in the end, everything proves to be useless, and you end up going on with your life while trying to pretend that you have it all together.
Class. Study. Lunch. Class. Work. Back at home. Repeat.
Of course, you barely manage to keep it together. Every hour not spent doing the things you have to do is spent in bed contemplating your life and the exact moment where it got real shitty. Somewhere along the first week Ma Kent calls, probably alerted by your mother about the break up, but you really don’t have the heart nor the strength needed to respond to her call. You’re relieved when she avoids calling a second time — probably knowing that you need some space and that she’s not the first person you’d want to hear after something like this — because you don’t really know how you could’ve avoided to reply for a second time while watching her name grace the screen.
Week two passes and things get even worse for you, so much so that you have to call in sick to work thanks to the sore throat that you find yourself with after crying uncontrollably for almost all night every night. You can tell Jenna’s fed up, because even with all her strength, it seems as if she can’t help you at all.
“You know, I once broke up with an italian guy over distance,” she tries to reason, sprawled on your bed as you lie face down as if dead — you have yet to actually explain to her why you and Clark broke up, so she’s still thinking that it was because of all the miles separating you. “He has yet to tell his mother– and it’s been two years. She still sends me a whole box of Italian cheeses for every holiday.” she suddenly perks up, “Maybe I’ll be graced with some of the famous Ma Kent pie one day. I hope she sends a piece for your birthday.”
Your hiccup is muffled by the pillow. “Right, yeah, sorry. Not the best thing to say right now. You don’t need to mourn Ma Kent’s pie too. You’ll do that once you’re ready.”
“I’ll never be ready to mourn Martha’s pie,” you groan. You could get over Clark Kent, but not his mother's pies. Your ma's still friends with her, so you doubt that you’ll never eat it again, but you’ll have no reason to come over to the Kent’s farm as much as you did before.
Two days later, entering the third week post break up, Jenna has had enough — and she barges into your room with a plan. “We’re going out.”
As always, your reply comes out muffled, “Ion wan’ to.”
“I didn’t ask if you wanted to,” she tears off the duvet from your body and takes a hold of your ankles, literally dragging you out of bed as you shriek, “I just said that we are going out!”
She makes sure you dress up decently before dragging you out of the house and into her car, making sure the child lock is on — wouldn’t want you to jump out of the vehicle as she’s driving — before starting the engine. “I signed you up for an audition.”
You look at her, frowning, pretty sure your ears have betrayed you and made you hear wrong. “I’m sorry, what?”
Her smile is so genuine that it would be hard to find the will to smack her. “I signed you up for an audition,” she repeats without any sign of remorse, “you know Flowers n’ Kisses? The shop uptown? They’re looking for new models to renew the brand, make it younger. And you, my dear, with your little sad eyes and red cheeks from all the crying, will be perfect.”
You stare at her, bewildered. “Are you well?”
“What? It’s true that you look your best right after crying!”
“Are you saying I should be sad more often?”
“Of course not! I’m just saying that at least one good thing should come out of this situation — besides, don’t look at me like that, you know you’re already sad all the time. I just think that we should take advantage of your puffy, irritated, cute face. Besides, it’s just to try something new! Who knows, maybe you’ll like the lights of the camera and having to pose and all the pretty dresses they’ll put you in.” you highly doubt that, but you let it go in favour of your remaining sanity.
There’s at least twenty other people at the audition when you arrive to the location — and this is only the three PM slot, Jenna whispers to you conspiratorially — and you raise an eyebrow when you see the other girls there, because they’re gorgeous and you’re starting to wonder if there were any demands for this interview. “Jenna, are you sure there aren’t any requirements for this kind of thing?”
“Oh, there were,” she assures you, “I had to put a couple of your pictures in the form before they gave me a time for your audition. I tried to apply too, but they rejected me.” she sighs dramatically, clinging to your arm, “But if I can’t chase my dream of marrying a ninety-year-old multi-billionaire and living the rest of my life filthy rich, then you might as well follow up for me! And don’t forget about me when you’re going on vacation to Tenerife with your boyfriend’s super expensive and huge yacht…”
“You’re sick,” you mutter, completely fed up, “and not in the good sense. I’m sure there’s people in Arkham down on the worst levels that are much more reasonable than you.” you sigh, feeling the by-now familiar punch to the gut that follows every single thought about him, “I don’t care about yachts. I would’ve been just happy with a little apartment in Metropolis with Clark.”
She groans dramatically, “Oh, please! What was so great about this guy? Was he the genie of the lamp or something? Was he that good in bed?”
You sniffle. “You’re so cruel. He was my everything.”
“He’s a guy! An average one, at best!”
“You take that back–” you’re about to strangle her because Clark Kent is definitely above the average male population but get conveniently stopped by the call of your name. It’s the PR manager, you assume, and he smiles kindly at you when Jenna takes your hand and raises it up like he’s a teacher making a difficult question and you’re a student eager to reply. “Please come with me, this way.”
You find out his name is Roy and he’s better at make up than you are — you stare at his perfect eyeliner with envy as he leads you to a room with a camera set up and a table with other people quietly chatting. You already feel awkward just by standing there, and you’d be lying if you said that you were ready for this thing, so you find yourself thinking about Jenna’s dreams to force yourself to go on. Think about Tenerife and a yacht. Think about Tenerife and a yacht. Think about–
“So, miss,” a redhead at the center of the table smiles at you, leaning her chin on her intertwined fingers, “are you ready to start?”
You'd be lying if you said that you got out of there without feeling stupid. They made you walk into a straight line with music in the background, asked you to pose, took a few pictures and then just started asking questions about your life, saying something about wanting to know the personality of the candidates. You feel so relieved when you walk out that room that suddenly being single doesn’t look as bad as staying ten minutes more in that hell hole.
Jenna doesn’t seem to be too worried about your relief about being out of there. “So?” she asks excitedly, “How did it go?”
“I doubt they’ll call back,” you weren’t that terrible, but you’re sure that much more qualified people auditioned for this thing — and even if they didn’t, you’d seen at least fifteen girls that look like they could rock the style of Flowers n’ Kisses way better than you, “but if they do, I’m not replying. Please don’t make me do that again, like, ever. We don’t need an ancient husband to have a yacht, we can just steal one. Seems way more doable to me.”
Except that they actually call back. And you hadn’t put into the equation the fact that while registering you for the audition, Jenna was smart enough to put her cellphone number in it instead of yours.
“You signed me up for another thing?”
“I had to! They were happy about your audition and wanted to schedule the day for the shoot of the campaign!”
“What campaign–”
“The one for the summer collection! Aw, c’mon, they’ll pay you eight hundred something dollars and give you some free clothes too–”
You want to smash your forehead into the wall — but then again, she wouldn’t let you do that, because your forehead is on your face and your face will be on an ad of some kind. “I wouldn’t risk having a restful sleep if I were you,” you hiss, “because I think that one of these days I’ll become one of the many maniacs that help the violent crimes rate be so high, and rest assured that you’ll be my first victim.”
Jenna doesn’t seem to worry about that, and as it turns out she’s right to be — because on the day pre-established you still make yourself presentable and head to the studios where the photoshoot’s supposed to be at 7 a.m. sharp like requested.
The same PR guy you met at the audition greets you first with a smile and a hand shake, “Roy Chamler,” he introduces himself — you only notice you didn’t know his full name when he says it. You were so nervous at the audition that you barely introduced yourself, let alone asked the name of the other people there. “PR manager and guy in charge of the campaign. Is this your first time participating in something like this?”
You cringe. “Yeah, is it that obvious?”
He shrugs, smiling at you. “I’ve made it work with worse in my hands. You were chosen in the end, weren’t you?”
The day starts with a worryingly high stack of paperwork in need to be signed. “Your contract,” Roy explains, patting it, “the rights for your image and copyright, parties involved, payment times, everything.”
You frown, “Is it normal for employees to sign their contract on the first day of work?”
It’s his time to cringe. “No. It’s just that… the owner of the brand — Mrs Livvie, she was at the audition — is a very demanding woman. She called me a month ago about making the campaign and I have barely a week left to organize the rest. So, please, even if the conditions of this job are weird, please bear with me.”
You sigh. “Alright. Where will the pictures of the shoot be exposed, exactly?”
He cringes even more. “I… it’s all in the contract. You know, before Mrs Livvie, it was her father who thought about the brand. Then it was passed down and she wanted to do a lot of things, but it’s clear that she still doesn’t really know her way around. So, the thing is, it will depend on how much her and the other owners like the shoot.” he tilts his head, “I wouldn’t say more than a couple of posters around town and maybe some internet ads, though.”
You sign the contract while not trying to overthink too much about your face being splattered around the internet, and as soon as Roy gets his hands on the paperwork you’re dragged into a room that positively looks like a spa. A girl gets immediately around to work on your hair as another worries about your nails, and you have to admit that if submitting to this thing meant a free manicure and hairdo you’d have gotten here even earlier than needed to. The make-up is the last thing on the list, right after the clothes, and then you’re ready for the shoot.
The whole ordeal lasts about five hours — five grueling hours, during which you have to change outfit, make up and hairdo one time too many for the day to still be considered relaxing. You go back home with your hair still in the last slickback they gave you, mascara a little smudged from all the times you rubbed your eyes during the train ride, and a bag full of clothes to wear this summer. Roy tells you that the ads should be up somewhere between next week and the one after that, takes your actual phone number and promises to call you if any problem with the campaign emerges.
Meanwhile, you're surprisingly starting to accept the fact that Clark dumped you and probably will never get back with you, that he’s now who-knows-where doing who-knows-what with who-knows-who. Actually, you’re starting to get mad — how dare he not tell you about his plans? For how long was he thinking about just disappearing? You were out there dreaming about a future with him and he just–
“Yo,” oh. Is your mental health that bad that now your dreams are angry about Clark, too? Because you’re in bed, it’s been a little over a week since the shoot and Jenna is shaking you awake. “Yo. You did not tell me the campaign was so serious.”
Still groggy, you barely find the strength to raise your head from the pillow, “Whatcha mean?”
“The billboard,” she hisses, “you didn’t tell me they were going to put your pictures on a billboard.”
That wakes you up instantly. “They what?”
Sure enough, there’s a big ass billboard with a picture of you in a strawberry shirt and a pair of low-rise jeans while subtly smiling at the camera from the side (under the brand’s name and motto, of course) right in the middle of Union Square — literally the most trafficked place in all of Gotham. You’re about to slap yourself in the face because there’s simply no way they actually put a whole billboard of you when they said it was gonna be just a couple of ads online and maybe some posters around town. You suddenly fear what they’ll do with the pictures of you in that one blue tankini.
“Dear God,” you utter in disbelief.
Jenna blinks. “If it reassures you, you do look good. It’s the sad eyes, I think. They give you depth.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to show my face around ever again,” you’re on the verge of tears, “how will I manage to get around on campus again? No, Jenna, I’m finding a house in the Appalachians and hiding there for the rest of my life–”
“But you can’t! This is one picture and you’re really shining in it– why can’t you embrace this? Maybe it’s a good thing! Do you know how much models make–”
“Jenna!” you shriek, “My photo is on a fucking billboard right in front of Wayne Tower! Can’t you understand I just want to bury myself in the ground and die?”
“Well, maybe it’ll make Bruce Wayne fall in love with you as he’s forced to see your face every day.” she jokes, “And then I’ll be able to get my vacation on a yacht–”
“We are not going on vacation with Bruce Wayne,” you hiss, “have you seen one footage of him with any woman? God knows what he puts in their — and his — drink to act like that.”
“I think of him as someone who’s actively drunk all the time without even drinking, and his company is surely not better than him.” she shrugs, “Besides, he’s not that older than you. You would be happier with him rather than with the ninety-year-old billionaire."
You blanch. “I’ll be happy if they both leave me alone.”
They will, unfortunately, not leave you alone, you find out soon. Because thanks to the spike in sales, not even two weeks after the ads are made public the management of Flowers n’ Kisses organises a gala with all of its associates and investors, and you — just like the other models who do runways and are the face of previous campaigns — are contract-bound to participate, because– well. Your face is scattered all over the city while wearing their clothes — it would be weird if you didn’t show up, no?
And guess who is one of the biggest associates of Flowers n’ Kisses? Exactly. Fucking Wayne Industries. Guess your dream of not becoming one of Bruce Wayne’s victims as the latest coming model — not that you would describe yourself as one, but you guess that his definition of model is much more wider than yours — in Gotham may be a little more difficult to achieve, since if they could talk, he would probably try to have one-night stands with walls too.
Roy calls again to arrange for you to get a dress, one from the newest collection that you hadn’t had the chance of trying out, and thankfully he doesn’t seem too mad about the last time you called him — you had insulted him so much about the billboard that you almost discovered new curse words. “You know, I got a few calls about you,” he says, ecstatic, “people love you! I’ve got the list of a few other brands that would like a contract with you–”
You shut the idea before it gets a little too deep into his head. “No. Bye, I have an exam to study for.”
The event’s in some fancy, fancy rented mansion’s ballroom — incredible that they still have those, by the way — and the timing’s just right, because tomorrow morning you have a test, and you’re already mumbling names and descriptions under your breath before they even get you in that evening dress. And about the dress– it’s dark blue, with little embroidered silver stars around your hips, tight where it needs to be and softer as it reaches your legs. They give you a pair of silver kitten heels to match the stars around the dress, and even if they do kill your feet a little, you have to admit that you look good.
Getting out of the room where they dolled you up, you immediately notice another woman at the end of the hallway — probably one of the other models of the brand, hopefully one more experienced than you. She seems to notice you too, and waves a hand up to catch your attention, “Hey! You must be the new girl they told me about,”
She’s stunning, with chocolate skin and honey eyes and a dress that — you guess — is made to be worn right next to yours, because while your gown resembles the night, hers resembles the dawn, with an embroidered red sun on her waist. She offers you her hand, which you shake without any questions, “I’m Kelly,” she introduces herself, “Roy asked me to keep an eye out for you — didn’t want you to feel lost. She knows these types of gatherings can be scary, and I’m happy to help a new recruit out.” Kelly does look a bit older and experienced than you — early thirties, at most, even if she does carry them well.
“Thank God,” you can’t really hide your relief, “I was afraid I had to do all of this alone.”
She giggles, “I remember being this scared too. You’re doing it well, though, from what I have seen — you came out perfect in the pictures, I really couldn’t believe it was your first shoot,”
You feel your face get hotter at her words, “Thanks,” you manage to squeal out as she guides you into the ballroom, where the main event is held, “It’s the sad eyes, I think.” she adds. You’re one more comment about your sad eyes apart from imploding. “I don’t tend to like these events, but usually the food is pretty nice, so that’s a plus. I’d avoid any drink already served if I were you, though,”
Thankfully, you soon find out that you two were put at the same table — great thing for you, because you really don’t want to socialize more than you actually need to. The other people around the table are mostly boring investors and owners of shares, who don’t seem interested in asking anything more than what’s expected in a common conversation — your name, age, what do you do in life. One kind old lady asks you more about university and looks actually interested in hearing you repeat the subject of your exam tomorrow, until you are rudely interrupted by a voice calling out for you just as the dessert is being served.
“Oh, there she is!” you’ve only seen her once, but you do recognize Mrs Livvie from the audition — you did not forget those striking red hair of hers. Beside her, your latest possible obstacle: in all his striking glory, Bruce Wayne. “This is our latest golden girl, miss…” it’s clear that she has forgotten your name, which you kindly suggest to her, “Right! A real sweetheart. Anyways, this is Kelly Th–”
“I know Kelly,” he interrupts her, giving her and your — hopefully — latest friend a kind smile. “I remember her from the runway for the autumn collection.” he turns his gaze to you, “I’ve never met you, though, which is really a shame because you’re stunning. You know, the billboard with one of your photos is right in front of my office, which is the motivation to get on time around the office I just needed.” well, if this isn’t your nightmare come true.
“As I’m sure you’re aware,” Mrs Livvie looks at you, “this is Mr Wayne–”
“Please,” he looks directly at you in a way that would normally have you swooning, but that from him just makes you quite worried. “Just Bruce will go.”
You give him a tight-lipped smile, “Sure.”
“Weird that I have never seen you before,” he continues, “usually models start young, but I’m happy that Nina found you — you’re a real jewel, miss. May I ask why you — or your parents — never thought of putting you out there?”
“Well, I never knew about this talent of mine until now.”
He smiles, chuckling quietly, “Well, you don’t sound like you’re from around here, either, am I right?”
You nod. “Yessir — I’m from Smallville, a little farm town a couple of hundreds of miles from here.” you hope that being the daughter of farmers will scare off a playboy that is known to socialize with rich people. It doesn’t.
“Well, if you ever need anything,” he takes out a business card from his breast pocket with a pen and scribbles something on it, then gives it to you, “please don’t hesitate to call me. I’m at your disposal.”
You don’t reply, getting a weird look from all the people on the table before Mrs Livvie quickly brings his attention elsewhere — hopefully away from you. Kelly looks at you, delighted, “Well, miss girl, that is the offer of a lifetime.”
You snort, looking unamusedly at the private number scribbled on the card. “I doubt I’ll ever use it.”
Summer break comes a lot faster than you’d expected.
You’re not sure it’s a good thing. You still haven’t exactly come to terms with what happened with Clark now almost three months ago and the thought of seeing your parent’s farm draped with pictures of you and him from when you two were kids nauseates you. Besides, you just know that your mother talked to everyone who willing to listen about your newfound talent as a model, even if you only did one shoot. It’s also your first time doing the trip from Gotham to Smallville alone, and you opt to just use the train after seeing the whopping prices for a taxi.
Your father picks you up at the Midvale train station, teary eyed and with arms wide open to hug you. “My baby,” he says trembly, once you are in his arms “oh, it seems like it’s been years since Christmas,”
You laugh tearily. “Oh, trust me, I know.”
The car trip is filled with conversation and love. “Oh– did your mother tell you we adopted a dog?”
You perk up. “Oh, did you, now?”
Your father nods, “Dunno what kind o’ dog he is. All I know is he’s yellow. We found him on the side of the road to the farmer’s market a coupla’ weeks ago and he won’t leave your mother's side since then. We tried to ask around, see if he was someone’s dog — nobody knew anything, so her resolve was just to take him home.” he looks at you, cracking up with laughter. “You wanna know what she called him?”
You grin, loving to see your father so serene. “Do tell me.”
“Batman!” his laughter gets even louder, “Batman, you get it? Said, it’s after the psycho that runs around in a Halloween costume and makes sure that my daughter’s city doesn’t burn down. I really owe him. Have you ever even seen him, or is he just some kind of urban legend?”
You crack up with laughter too, half from hearing him laugh so openly, half for the actual story, “No, no,” you wheeze, “never seen him, but I do know people that have. I just don’t get out late enough for him to be running around yet, I fear.”
It’s with relief that, once you enter the farm, you notice that all the pictures of you and Clark have either disappeared or been replaced. You know your mother’s too much of a sentimentalist to get rid of them, so they’re probably carefully hidden in some drawer — but that doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate her gesture. She hugs you tightly and kisses you on both cheeks before calling out for the dog — which you find out is a golden retriever — to meet you.
The next three weeks are spent helping your parents around the farm and bringing Batman — or, as your mother calls him, Battie — in the fields so that he can run as much as he likes. You gotta admit that you also do it to try to form new memories of the place — because you simply can’t spend the rest of your life brooding as soon as you go back there to visit your parents.
You avoid the old classmates to prevent any questions about Clark. You don’t visit the Kents. You’d like to, but honestly, you are ashamed — ashamed because Martha had called back when you and Clark had just broken up, and yet you never called her back or replied. Or sent a message. Or a postcard. Did you really ghost a nice old lady? Because that has to be some kind of new low.
It’s your mom that tries to get you back to sanity. “Martha and Jon did nothing to you,” she tells you, angered, when you refuse to take the muffins she’s just baked to their farm, “and you are going to say hi to them because they’ve always been nothing but nice to you!”
That’s how you end up at the porch of the Kent’s farm, a tray of still steaming muffins in your hands as you anxiously wait for either of them to answer the door. You almost burst out in tears when it’s Martha that greets you — because, you have to admit, you’ve missed them too. And as she invites you in and calls Jon down to say hi to you too, not mentioning that call you had completely ignored — you thank the universe that at least you didn’t lose them too with Clark.
You return to Gotham feeling shittier than ever, but, hey! At least you got some nice pie while you were in Smallville, since you can’t really say that you and Jenna cook real food when you have to eat. The University’s not back open just yet, so you spend most of your days picking more shifts at work so that people that actually go on vacation can do it without any remorse or trouble.
You’re worrying about getting every animal at the clinic fed when the bell of the door rings out in the waiting room. “I’ll be there in a minute!” you call out, petting a cat and putting him back into his carrier as he meowles happily around the meat stick you just gave him — a good enough treat in exchange to being neutered, you hope.
You exit the backroom and go back to the front desk, “So, how can I help–” your eyebrows raise. “Mr Wayne?”
In all his glory, surely. He’s right in front of you, smiling, hair slicked back and sunglasses hanging from the neckline of his shirt. “I thought I asked you to call me Bruce,” he says, not unkindly.
You try not to grimace. The last thing you wanted for him was to find out where you worked. “Yeah, sorry,” you press your lips into a thin line, “how can I help you?”
“I was thinking about adopting a dog.” this actually surprises you, because you didn’t think billionaires had the time for animals — and even if they did find the time to get them a petsitter, you’d taken for granted that they would buy the fancy breed ones. “I was thinking about getting a german shepherd, I told your friend Kelly at last week’s Prada runway and she suggested coming here since apparently this clinic collaborates with the local shelter.”
“We do,” you nod, “they’re running out of space and we have a decent sized backyard for them to play in and some rooms for the animals to stay in.” you open a drawer on the desk, taking out a folder with all the registered pets, “We mostly have the injured ones that are recovering, but I’m not sure about german shepherds. I do think there’s a mixed one though– there!” you stop at one of the pages and turn the folder for him to see the picture of a dog with brown fur and a star-shaped white patch on his forehead.
“This is Ace– he’s a retired K-9, mixed german shepherd. He’s just two, but was shot during an inspection and has been limping ever since. Nobody in the police department could adopt him, so we took him in. He’s been doing well with the recovery and we’re trying to rehabilitate him to normal as to our best abilities.”
He nods, “Looks like a cute dog. Can I see him?”
You show him the way to the backroom with all the strays, stopping at Ace’s crate. He immediately raises his snout from his paws, tail wagging as he sees you, “Well, this is him,” you sneak a hand between the rails to give him a pet, “one of the nicest dogs we have here — if you want, you could take him on a walk today or when you want. Usually we ask for at least four outings before permitting the adoption — to see if the owner and the pet are compatible, y’know.”
He nods, “So, I can take him out today and then come back in the next few days to later on adopt him?”
You lean your head, “If everything goes well, yes.”
“Perfect– I’d like to take him on a walk right away, then, if possible.”
You get a collar for Ace and a leash for Bruce after getting the dog out of its crate, then put a couple of treats in a little paper bag with some toys. You attach the leash to Ace’s collar and give it to his aspiring owner with the paper bag, “Wait a moment, I’ll tell my coworker that I’m going out and then we can go,”
Mr Wayne perks up, suddenly interested in something else rather than the dog, “You’re coming with us?”
You raise an eyebrow at him, “Of course. The outings before adoption are always supervised.”
You come back after alerting your coworker that you’re going out, then exit the clinic with Bruce — who's handling a definitely too excited Ace — on tow. It’s weird seeing a blue Rolls Royce parked right in front of where you work, as usually the most expensive thing that’s parked there is a FedEx van. “There’s a dog park just around the corner — we often bring customers there for supervised outings.”
Bruce Wayne looks so out of place in such a funny way at the dog park that you barely manage to keep your laugh in; in his Armani tailored coat as Ace, finally without a leash in the dog fence at the park, looks thrilled to play with him, it’s so obvious that he’s never been in this kind of situation. “Are you sure he’s still in rehab?” he squeals, as the dog tackles him to the ground and licks his whole face clean. “He’s– aargh!– definitely in better shape than me!”
Your laugh finally blesses his ears. “That just means he likes you, Mr Wayne! Be nice to him, or he’ll think you’re friendzoning him.”
Ace is a good dog. It’s like he’s got a sixth sense for bad people — he never barks at kind customers, only at the rude ones, so you guess that’s kinda his talent. And since it’s never betrayed you, you admit that maybe — just maybe — Bruce Wayne isn’t that bad of a person as you thought he would be.
He comes back to the clinic for three days in a row, just what he needed to be able to adopt the retired K-9. He always suspiciously shows up during your shifts, with mysteriously not a single paparazzi on sight and always the same Rolls Royce. On the second day he got there with brand new toys — some for Ace, some in donation for the other pets awaiting a loving owner — and a new collar with a bone-shaped metal tag with a bold ACE engraved on it.
Saturday’s the last day of the supervised period, and just as the last three days, you find yourself leaning over the railing of the fence that limitates the unrestrained dog area, watching them play like they’ve known each other for years. It’s a rare connection to see forming with a guard dog — they usually need time to adapt to new people, but apparently Ace didn’t. He took one look at Bruce and thought yeah, I want to munch on his atelier shoes for the rest of my life.
“You know, I think it really was love at first sight,” you tell him as you walk back to the clinic.
Bruce looks at you like for a second he forgot you were talking about his dog. “You really think so?”
You laugh, “Yeah, I mean, have you seen him? He’s wagging his tail like crazy and he met you three days ago. It’s like he knows you’re taking him home today.”
His shoulders deflate a little as he understands that you’re talking about him and Ace. “Yeah, well, I’m happy that he’s happy.”
“Why do you want a dog, by the way?” you realise just now that you hadn’t asked, having taken for granted that he just wanted one for show, but now it’s clear that it isn’t.
He shrugs, “To keep me company. I guess I just want someone other than my butler greeting me at the door when I get home. Besides, I liked playing with him — it’s a win-win: I get to destress about work and he gets to play catch.” he pets Ace’s head as you reach the clinic, “Don’t you, boy?”
You go behind the desk and immediately get to work, preparing the paperwork for the adoption, “So– here, fill out this form and this one. There’s a ten dollar fee on every adoption, but I guess it shouldn’t be a problem for you.”
He chuckles. “I should have a fifty dollar bill in my wallet — you can keep the change.” he coughs a bit as he starts to fill out the paperwork, “You know, I, uh… I didn’t come here just because I wanted a dog. I wanted to talk to you.”
You square him up and down. “Yeah. We talked the last three days.”
“Oh, no, I mean–” he looks honestly embarrassed, “I was… I was wondering why you didn’t call me back after the event.”
You blink — you had completely forgotten about the business card rotting in your bedside drawer with his private number written on it. You must be the first girl that doesn’t call him back after receiving such an opportunity. “Well, you told me to call if I needed anything, and I have yet to be in need of anything.”
“I–” he sighs, “I was hoping I’d see you at the following Flowers n’ Kisses event, but you weren’t there.”
You raise an eyebrow in the politest way you can muster up. “Yeah. It was a lunch on a Monday. I had an exam.” you actually started ghosting Roy as soon as he started suggesting coming to events not included in your contract, but that’s a story for another time.
It seems you aren’t really getting what he’s trying to say, Bruce understands. He takes a deep breath, “What I meant to say is… that I was wondering if you wanted to grab a coffee one of these days.”
You stare at him, bewildered, then point to yourself. “Me?”
He looks even more bewildered than you. “…Yeah. Would… would you like that?”
“I mean, I,” you aren’t really understanding if he’s interested you in a romantic sense — which would be absolute bonkers, by the way — or if the conversations of the last few days just made him want another friend. “Sure. As… as friends, right?”
He winces. “Yeah, of course.” he’s losing count of how many awkward yeahs he’s mumbling. Alfred’s right; he, terrifyingly so, has a crush.
“Wouldn’t, like, paparazzi follow us?” you really don’t want your face splattered all over the news again.
“I honestly doubt it.” he wouldn’t waste his little chance because of a couple of gossip-hungry journalists. “When I don’t want to be noticed I use my butler’s car, so that if anyone passes by they think it’s him around rather than me, and the staff of the places I frequent can be very discreet.” he looks down to Ace, “Besides, could you really say no to seeing this cute face again?”
No, you couldn’t. You do raise an eyebrow, though, “Your butler… owns a Rolls Royce?”
He nods like it’s the most common thing in the world, “Yeah, it was my gift for his fiftieth birthday.”
And that’s how you end up having coffee with Bruce Wayne in some high-end uptown cafè two days later. Then two days later after that. Then, someway, somehow— fucking everyday. And thank God that he’s the one paying, because you doubt you can even afford one of the smallest macarons they have on the menu.
You have to give it to the man — he’s trying really hard to be nice. It’s clear he’s not good at courting — not the kind that doesn’t let him bring a woman into his bed an hour after he met her, at least — but he’s doing that while also doing his best to respect your boundaries.
“I don’t think it’s really a great time for a new relationship as of now for me,” you explain, a little embarrassed, over the first coffee you share. “I just got out of… one of the most important connections I’ll ever have in my entire life.”
Bruce isn’t one to give up easily, and surely not on the first person he’s actually interested in since years. Even if it will take decades — and he’ll be just as happy being just a friend during those — he won’t give up. Even if he has to be just a friend for all eternity — you and your accent really did a number on him.
Just as he promised, no articles come out about you two, even if a couple of curious waiters do ask if you’re that one girl from the billboard in Union Square — much to Bruce’s sincere delight, because it’s probably the first time in his life that he gets overlooked in favour of his date. What’s so special about your ads to overlook a billionaire, you’ll never really understand.
It goes on for months, and before you can really assimilate it, It’s November and it’s been eight months since Clark broke up with you, seven since the terrific Flowers n’ Kisses campaign and four since you started seeing (you’re not sure how to actually describe it, because you’re kinda warming up to him despite everything) Bruce.
You cave in to Kelly’s constant nagging, and finally accept her invitation to go out for dinner, just the two of you, to her favourite Thai restaurant down the street from her apartment — even after almost a year in Gotham, you’re reluctant about going out at night, still a bit scared after Jenna’s horror stories about her outings during the evening.
It’s a fun night — you chit chat about anything and everything and she makes sure you’re updated about the latest rumors going around in the modeling world (apparently, Linda Reynolds is pregnant, and the father is supposedly the son of the sixty-year-old CEO she should be marrying in a few months). You both laugh as a teenager from one of the other tables comes over and asks you if you’re the girl from that one Flowers n' Kisses photoshoot, and you almost forget about the dangers of going out at night as you exit the restaurant because — c’mon, you’re with Kelly, her car’s just a few feet away from you two and she’s Kelly, she just knows how to deal with things. That is, until–
There’s a man. He’s in front of you. He has a gun. You barely even register all that happens next.
She pushes you behind her as he screams to give him all the valuables you have, gun trembling in his hands — is he drunk or just a schizo? — and just as she reaches for her purse — to take out her wallet, she says as she feels around for her taser — he panics and pulls the trigger.
You don’t know when you start screaming, nor register your hands pressing on her bloody shoulder, nor the cashier from the Thai restaurant going out in the street after hearing the shot and calling the police. You barely feel Commissioner Gordon’s hands around your shoulders as he gently pulls you away from Kelly and gets you to his car while two paramedics get a stretcher ready and lift her into the ambulance, nor notice when he pulls a blanket over your shoulders and a mug of hot chocolate into your hands at the police station. “You’re trembling, kid.” you think you started when the man took out the gun, but it could be when he shot Kelly. You’re not sure.
“Can I call anyone?”
You snap out of your trance, looking at Commissioner Gordon with eyes that could only be described as haunted. “Huh?”
He presses his lips into a thin line like he’s been in this situation one too many times. “Can I call anyone?” he asks again, not unkindly. “To come and pick you up and stay with you for the night? It would be better for you not to be alone.”
You blink. “Is Kelly okay?”
Gordon sighs. “The paramedics said she should recover without any trouble. You can go visit her tomorrow, if you want.” he leans forward, putting a gentle hand on your shoulder, “Can I call someone for you?” he asks for the third time.
You sniff — you hadn’t even realized you’d been crying. You can’t call your parents — you know they’d drop everything and come here, but you don’t want them to worry. Jenna’s out of the city for a week, having gone to visit a cousin in Blüdhaven, and terrifyingly so the only person who comes into your mind is Clark Kent– wherever he is, he does know how to fly, and if he wanted to he could just zap here. You manage to scribble his number in the post-it that Gordon hands you, and then he’s off to make the call — only to return defeated ten minutes later.
“I’m sorry, nobody’s replying. Can I call someone else for you or would you like to try to make the call yourself?”
You try to swallow the lump in your throat, “Can I try? With my phone?” Clark’s never ignored your calls. And, sure, you haven’t heard from him in months, but you don’t think he’d actively avoid you — he has to know that you wouldn’t call unless it was strictly necessary. Besides, he’s never turned you down in the time of need.
Gordon nods, “Sure. I think I left your bag in the car, though, so I’ll be right back,”
He brings your purse, and as soon as your phone’s in your hands you press onto Clark’s number and try to reach him. The Commissioner leaves you in his office, probably to try to give you a bit of privacy, and you’re quite thankful he’s not there to witness you start crying as Clark not only doesn’t reply to the first call, but also to the next five you make.
“Clark, I know that maybe you don’t want to hear from me but — could you just please, take up the phone?” you try not to sob as you leave what must be the third message in a row, “I wouldn’t call unless I really needed you and– and I’m trying my best not to sound hysteric but please, just pick up the fucking phone.”
You try and try and try, but lo and behold, it always goes straight to voicemail. Gordon knocks on the door of his office, opening it hesitantly when you don’t reply, “I– it’s been twenty minutes.”
“I,” you huff tearily, slamming your phone on your thigh, “he just won’t reply.”
You don’t want to look Gordon in the eye, because even now you can feel the pity in this voice. “Is there anyone else you can call? If… if there isn't, I could have an agent escort you home,”
“No, I–” you really don’t want to cry in front of him, even if your cheeks are already tear-streaked and your eyes are puffy, “I guess I could call someone else.”
You hadn’t even thought about calling Bruce, having taken for granted that Clark would have replied and knowing about the late hour, but it’s not like you have any other choice. Besides, he did say to call him if you ever needed anything. You dial his phone number and have to hold back a sob as he replies in two rings, voice hoarse, “Hello?”
“Hi, um, I…” you stumble over the words, not managing to hold the tears at bay anymore as your voice breaks. “Hi, Bruce, could you…” a hiccup interrupts you.
“Hey,” his voice is alarmed even if it’s clear that he either just woke up or is hungover from the roughness of his voice, “is everything okay? Did something happen?”
“I…” your throat betrays you again as you let out an embarrassingly loud sob. You hear Bruce’s worried questions on the other side of the line, but you aren’t really able to respond to any of his questions, and Commissioner Gordon holds his hand out for you in a way that says ‘If you want, I can talk to him for you,’. You don’t ask many questions and just pass him the phone.
“Hello, this is Commissioner Gordon from the GCPD…”
Not even twenty minutes later Bruce rushes into the office, accompanied by Gordon, and holds you tight as you rise from your chair and crash into his arms. You’ve never hugged before, but that doesn’t really matter as of now, because he’s rubbing your back and pressing his cheek on the top of your head and suddenly you feel safe. “I was so scared,”
“It’s okay,” he whispers, and something on the back of your mind whispers that it’s not fair to cry to him about your friend getting shot but surviving when he had to watch his parents die when he was just a kid, but he doesn’t say anything. He just holds you tighter, thanking Gordon and leading you to his — his butler’s, technically, as it’s still the blue Rolls Royce he came here with — car. Well, if the media didn’t know you two were seeing each other before, now they probably know, because Gotham’s cops are the most gossip hungry people in the city.
He helps you get into the car as you sniffle, making sure your seatbelt is on before jumping on the driver’s seat and going back to look at you. “Are you okay?”
You nod. “He shot Kelly on the shoulder. Looked crazy, like a schizo maniac on drugs.”
He sighs, a bit disheartened, “I mean, does a schizo maniac need drugs to look crazy?”
“I guess he doesn’t.” a beat passes before he reaches over to your side, opening the glovebox and reaching for wet wipes — the kind you use for babies’ butts. “Here,” he murmurs softly, “you might want to get the blood off your face.”
You didn’t even know you had blood on your face. You look at the picture of the newborn on the wipes pack, puzzled, “Is there anything you might want to tell me?”
He chuckles and starts the car. “I told you this was my butler’s car. He carries a pack of those anywhere.”
You look at yourself in the sun visor mirror, acknowledging the fact that you look like absolute crap and definitely have splatters of blood as well as smudged make up all over your face. “Sorry I made you come all the way here so late,” you mumble, trying to wipe the now dried blood off of your face.
“Nonsense,” he assures, “Commissioner Gordon said it would be best for you not to be alone tonight — would that be okay for you?”
You nod. “Yeah, my place’s a bit cramped but I can sleep on the couch.”
He frowns, “That’s not a problem, I’ll take it. You need a good night’s sleep. We could always go to the Manor if you want.”
You shake your head, “I need a shower and to eat the leftover ice cream in my freezer.”
Bruce smiles the tiniest bit. “Okay. Where to, then?”
You wouldn’t say the apartment’s cluttered, but you weren’t expecting any guests over so it’s a given that it’s not tidy either — if Bruce notices it, he doesn’t mention it, something you’re grateful for. Instead, he puts a hand on your shoulder, smiling softly, “You should go take that shower. Don’t worry, I’ll be right here.”
You take a good look at yourself in the mirror and almost start crying again. You had seen that you were covered in blood, but you also didn’t think it was so much blood — the cardigan your poor mother had hand-stitched for you is awaiting a brilliant future in the trashbin, because there’s no way that the stain will ever wash out.
The water is soothing, even if it takes you a good half-hour to scrub away all the dried blood from your hair and neck — so much so that the skin is left red and sore. It’s your first time witnessing one of the violent crimes Gotham’s so famous for, and you gotta say, it’s even worse than you thought.
You put on an old ratty sweater — that after a year of living together neither you nor Jenna are too sure of who it belongs to anymore — and a pair of cozy sweatpants that are definitely Jenna’s, because you would never buy such a thing as yellow pants with the bat signal print on them.
You exit the bathroom with your damp hair still wrapped in a towel, eyes barely managing to stay open thanks to the aftermath of the shock you had been in. You find Bruce sitting on the sofa, maybe a little too interested in the news broadcast playing on the TV. “And it’s game over for Harvey Dent, also known as Two Face, who was arrested just yesterday by the GCPD thanks to an ambush coordinated by none other than Batman…”
“Wasn’t Dent the district attorney?” you’d lie if you said you were informed about the latest coming criminals of Gotham City. “Man, in Smallville the craziest guy we’ve had was Samuel Comell and that’s just because he ate nothing but corn. We’ve got clinical psychos guiding the law here.” it actually would’ve been Clark if anyone knew he was an alien, but you avoid talking about that. You aim for the refrigerator and take out the ice cream, bringing it and two spoons with you to the couch. “Ice cream?”
Bruce grimaces as he takes one of the spoons, “You couldn’t be more right about madmen in Gotham, but Harvey wasn’t one of them until less than a year ago.”
You raise an eyebrow at his soft tone. “You knew him?”
“We grew up together.” his face falters, “He was my friend– still is.”
You blink. “Man, the universe must be laughing really hard right now, because the boy I grew up with is also kinda weird.” sure, not a mass-murderer type of weird, but a little weird still.
He leans to take a spoonful of ice cream from the tub you’re holding, “What do you mean, kinda weird?”
“Oh, you can’t even imagine,” you can’t even tell him — you swore to Clark that you wouldn’t have told anyone his secret, and you don’t plan on breaking that promise now. “Remember the guy I told you I was trying to get over?”
“It was him?”
“Yeah,” you try to laugh it off, “Clark was… pretty much everything for me. Then he dumped me to, I don’t know, disappear to find himself or something like that.” it’s much more complicated than that, but you can’t just tell him that your ex-boyfriend is an alien — he’d freak.
Bruce’s eyes soften a bit. “Well, it’s always more complicated than that, isn’t it?” this time you can’t exactly handle your emotions well, and sputter as your eyes widen. Did he just read your mind? He laughs, “What? I know a thing or two about relationships. Well, about how they end, at least. You know, uh…” he rubs the back of his neck, “I haven’t really said this to anyone, really, but me and Harvey… let’s say we were more like you and your old friend rather than simple friends.”
You squint, then force the ice cream tub in his hands. “Here. You probably need it more than me.”
He stares at the tub. “It’s been years. I’m sure you need it more than me.”
“Well, my ex hasn’t just been arrested,” your face drops, “for what I know, at least.”
Bruce raises an eyebrow at you. “He really just disappeared?”
You shrug. “Could be in Alaska right now and I wouldn’t know about it.”
The night starts off easy. You finish the ice cream, then put away the towel you had around your hair and get a blanket because it’s getting a bit chilly, then one thing leads to another and suddenly your cheek is resting on his shoulder as Criminal Minds is playing on the TV.
“You know,” you mutter at some point, almost half-asleep and too cozy to muster an actual, coherent thought. “You should be detestable. You’re ugly rich, live in a mansion up on the hill and have a butler that has a car that’s probably worth more than my parent’s farm.” you poke his cheek as he turns his head to look at you properly, his arm going around your shoulder, “And instead, you’re nice — and worst of all, relatable.” you raise a hand to curl a lock of his hair around your finger, and he makes that face that men do when they’re about to kiss you — the blank stare that makes them look dumb in the head. “Now, one evil ex’s down. Do I have to defeat the other six or can we just get this over with?”
His lips slosh over yours with unexplainable easiness, like they’ve wanted nothing but to do this their whole life, and maybe you should feel a little guilty about eating Bruce Wayne’s face in your little beat-down couch, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. It’s the first time your mind finally manages to shut down — to stop worrying about anything and everything, and think about just one thing: Bruce.
Tomorrow, he’ll worry about catching the guy that shot Kelly, he says to himself. Tonight, he worries about you and tries to make sure you’ll be alright. And he does.
You wake up the next morning with an absolute sight — infamous Bruce Wayne, untouchable playboy and known for his one night stands, standing in your small ass kitchen in a pair of hot pink pajamas — the only thing you had that vaguely fit him — trying to cook pancakes. Key word: trying, because you weren’t woken up by the birdies singing outside of the window, but by the smell of burnt food. Badly burnt food.
You come up from behind him, hugging his back, “Have you ever even made pancakes?”
He purses his lips like a kid. “No. What is so terrible about wanting to try?”
You chuckle. “Nothing, nothing,” you tug him down to kiss his cheek, “I just think it’s really funny of you to try to cook when you’ve clearly had problems just with getting the stove on.”
He rolls his eyes, “Okay, okay, I wasn’t that stunted.”
He turns to take a good look at you — and apparently, notices your pants just now. “What’s with you and Batman?” he asks, amused. You shrug, ”More like, what’s with Jenna and Batman. When I tell you she’s obsessed with him, dude. She keeps a med kit in the bathroom just in case he falls on our balcony and we have to stitch him up.”
He shudders. “That does sound a bit manic.”
After a definitely too cheesy breakfast and quickly getting dressed, Bruce accompanies you to the hospital — not before going to the flower shop, of course, to get the biggest bouquet you’ve ever seen and a couple of Get well soon! balloons.
“What?” he asks. You’re not saying anything, but still clearly judging him, “I thought Kelly was your friend. She has to enjoy the flowers, especially since they’re from you.”
“Technically, they’re from your wallet,” you retort. He shrugs, “Same thing.”
Kelly’s still a bit pale, but happy to see you and Bruce. She gives you a look as you apologise for what happened, eyes teary as you remember that she got shot while protecting you. She swats a hand in your way, laugh full of not suggestion but knowledge — absolute certainty. “Honey, if what you two needed to get it on with was me getting shot, I’ll get shot another hundred of times.” she lowers her voice as your face burns red, “Besides, you might want to raise a little that scarf you’ve got — a hickey’s still showing. Just remember me when you’ll go on vacation with his big-ass yacht.”
What is it with your friends and yachts? You really need to make Jenna and Kelly meet — just kidding, you take that back, the consequences of their team up for your psyche would be devastating.
Time passes quickly when you’ve got one exam after another, and suddenly — before you can actually register it — it’s December, you and Bruce have been together for a month and it’s time for the Christmas holidays. While Jenna goes as soon as she can back to her parents in Chinatown, you, of course, need to go back to Smallville — without Bruce, as it’s still too early in the relationship to meet the parents. He doesn’t look too beaten up about it — just before you told him you wanted to go visit your parents, he had suggested a skiing trip in the Alps in an all-paid-for resort. Poor him, having to go on an exclusive resort with all the comforts in the world all alone! How will he manage without you, you wonder? How will he thrive?
(Just kidding, of course. You’re pretty sure it’ll take all of his restraint not to go back to his old playboy ways and try to seduce the first female that approaches him. He’ll be just fine.)
There’s two trains for Metropolis on the 22nd of December: you plan to take the first one, the one that leaves Gotham’s station at 8 a.m. sharp — and so you tell Bruce, who unfortunately has a plane to catch and can’t give you a ride — and of course, you just had to miss it. You wake up twenty minutes too late, and by the time you’re at the station the train has just left.
You go back home to take a nap while waiting for it to be time for the 4 p.m. train, and wake up just two hours later with an emergency broadcast for all Gothamites going off on your phone — God forbid you have a happy holiday in the arms of your loved ones, because the corridor that connects the prison’s main structure to Arkham’s left wing — the one holding captive the major crazed maniacs — has just blown up, and now years and years of captures and police operations have ended up in a massive breakout that will probably pulverize the city in a matter of two days. You’ve never been happier to not be a police officer than now.
The downside is that the whole city’s on lockdown. Commissioner Gordon appears on TV, warning all citizens to remain home unless strictly necessary and inevitable. A quick call to your parents later you’re fuming about your own stupidity while laying on the couch, wondering why you didn’t just wake up earlier — because now you’re condemned to a Christmas and probably New Years all alone, as all trains and planes are canceled to avoid the passengers turning into hostages or worse, victims.
Later that night you receive a call from Bruce, voice unusually rough, who says that he’s grateful that you’re already back at home in Smallville and not in Gotham because, if you hadn’t heard, a massive breakout happened. You really don’t want him to worry, so you lie and tell him that you’re relieved too that you took the 8 a.m. train — that your parents say hi and hang up.
The following days are weird. There’s barely anyone but cops in the streets — you wonder why — and your only interactions with a human are the ones with Nelson, the guy that works at the 7/11 right beside your apartment, and you both try your best to ignore the shotgun he’s keeping behind the counter as he scans your items and wishes you a happy Christmas.
You spend Christmas Eve eating instant noodles and watching the old Harry Potter DVDs that Jenna left behind — Ron’s just been dragged into the Whomping Willow by Sirius when your phone starts ringing.
You pause the movie and frown — because you’ve already heard both your parents and Jenna, who could be the only people calling at such an hour. It could also be Bruce, you guess, but you haven’t heard much from him considering the six hour difference between Gotham and wherever he’s staying in the Switzerland Alps. Except when you take your phone, you see an unknown number on the screen.
“Hello?” you reply tentatively — you really don’t want to be blackmailed by the Penguin or one of his friends on Christmas Eve. No one responds to your hesitant greeting, so you try again, “Hello? Is anyone there?”
You’re about to close the call when you hear it — barely there, the whisper of your name by a voice you know too well. You put the phone back against your ear, eyes already twitching, “Clark?”
“Hey,” his voice is the tiniest you’ve ever heard from him, “I, uh… wanted to know how you were holding up.”
Your hand starts trembling — if in anger or disbelief, you’re not sure. “You know, you’ve got some fucking audacity calling me now,” you manage to keep your voice steady only by some weird miracle, “when just a month ago I called you about twenty times and cried in the voice messages begging for you to come and get me.”
He doesn’t reply, but you can almost see him grimacing. “I… I got busy. I’m sorry about that.”
You pinch the slope of your nose, “Clark, I get it. You need to find yourself and all that but– but I needed you. Like, really needed you. Even if we broke up, I thought you would’ve always been there for me.” a grumble escapes from your throat, “I would’ve always been there for you. But you weren’t there, even with your flying abilities and supersonic speed.”
He sniffles. God, is he crying? “I just… I thought you would’ve been able to handle it alone. I know you’re strong enough to.”
“Well, if I call you at an ungodly hour an ungodly number of times then maybe I’m not able to handle it alone. Where are you, anyways?”
You hear a shuffle on the other end, “Somewhere in the Arctic. Not sure I can exactly tell you where.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure your dead parents would be really offended if you did.”
Ouch. That was a low blow. He says your name as if to try to calm you down, but you shake your head even if he can’t see you, “Why exactly did you call, Clark?”
“I told you, I wanted to see how you were doing–”
“Please, we both know that’s just an excuse you invented right here and now. Why did you call me, Clark?”
Silence meets you on the other end. “I… it’s Christmas. We’ve never spent a Christmas apart.”
You check the hour on your phone, and it’s true — it is Christmas. Has been for only a few minutes, but still. “So what, Clark? It’s not like it was me who decided to break it off between us.”
Another sniffle on his end. “I guess I… I just wanted to wish you a happy Christmas.”
You sigh. “Merry Christmas, Clark. I loved you, and I’ll always love you– but I’m trying to get over you, and you need to understand that. I can’t do that if you call me just now after ghosting twenty of my calls and voicemails. I’m sure we’ll find a balance in some years when you get back — maybe even be friends again — but please… don’t call.”
You press the red END CALL button almost as soon as a crash comes from your balcony. You shriek and jump up from the couch, running from your purse and the Bat-taser — finally, his moment to shine. Jenna’s hard earned ten bucks will serve their purpose, maybe. You also eye the metal baseball bat sitting beside the entrance in case you’ll need it, but choose against it in case your opponent is way too strong for you to kick him out.
You try to peek outside and see nothing but darkness. So, you do the only thing you can think of: hold the Bat-taser in front of you like it’s a gun, slowly open the door to the balcony and yell (probably sounding more shrill than you’d intended to): “GoawayorIswearI’llcallthepolice!”
A pained groan comes from the ground, “Please don’t.”
You have to hold onto all the self control you have not to shriek again, “Batman? Is that really you?”
Another pained groan — from the dim light, you notice him holding onto his side and trying to get back up– and also that he crashed one of Jenna’s beloved flower pots while falling here. “The one and only.”
Now, Jenna had told you about him ending up on civilian’s balconies, but you didn’t actually think he did it. You let the taser fall from your hand and rush to his side, helping him up and then inside the apartment. “What the hell, dude? You scared the shit out of me.”
He slips from your grip pretty easily — he’s built like a tank, of course he does — and maybe you should worry about getting him back up to his feet, but rather think about closing the balcony door behind you. “Well, my guy, I sure hope you haven’t dragged one of your nemesis right here in my poor little apartment — because I might just lose it.”
He just groans — again. He must be a real sweet talker. “You don’t happen to have something to stitch me up, do you?”
And that’s how you end up hunched over Batman’s limp body on the tiles of your bathroom floor — you had begged him to at least get there before the living room’s carpet was ruined without any means to salvage it — with an All That You Need If Batman Crashes Through Your Window! medical kit — a wonder that they make these and that Jenna paid a whopping thirty bucks to have it — while watching the shortest video you found on Youtube teaching how to stitch an open wound. Because while you’re a vet student, you still haven’t exactly gotten to this part of the practice just yet.
“It’s scary that you haven’t even flinched since I started sewing your side close,” you murmur — the first thing you say to him after managing to get him laid down decently. You say it just to try to break the ice, feeling kinda pressured by the awkward silence. “Sorry, man, I’ll have to cut your suit open again. You’ve got a nasty cut on your ribs.”
“What’s scary is that you’ve got all these Batman themed things,” he replies curtly. “The Bat-taser? The Bat-signal pants? This… abomination of a medical kit? I didn’t even know they made those.”
You would’ve laughed loudly if you weren’t trying to make the stitches as even as possible. “That’s not on me– that’s on my roommate Jenna. She’s a big fan of yours. I’ll need you to sign her limited edition iridescent Bat-popcorn-bucket before you go, by the way.”
He blinks. “A Bat… what?”
“Bat-popcorn-bucket. It’s iridescent. It makes it look like you’re wearing a rainbow and she keeps it in a display box in her room just in case.”
You take the scissors and cut away some more fabric, only to stop and squint at his abs. Now, don’t they look familiar… “So, Batsy… how are you holding up in these fantastic days of freedom for all the Arkham prisoners?”
He grunts — does this man know how to start a phrase without an animalistic sound? “Just what I needed for Christmas.”
You hum, scanning his abdomen as if to understand how to better close the rib wound while you try to understand if your mind’s playing some trick on you or not. “It was just so nice of them to ruin Christmas for everyone, wasn’t it?”
You dab some hydrogen peroxide on the cut on his ribs, “Don’t you have someone to spend Christmas with, anyway?” his response is kinda quipped, and if your suspicions are true, you might just know why — after all, Bruce does think you’re in Smallville as of now. Who knows what he’s thinking right now.
You decide to test your theory. “Oh, yeah. My boyfriend’s in the bedroom, he was so tired from cooking all day that he just collapsed after dinner.”
His entire body freezes, and as he tries to sit up, you get your answers. “I have to go,” he mumbles hurriedly, “Scarecrow’s still out there–”
You place a firm hand on his chest, smirking as you inch closer to his face. “Huh-huh,” you tut, his eyebrows twisting in confusion, “where do you think you’re going, Bruce? I just started stitching this cut right here, and you’re not getting out of here unless you take a good nap.”
He raises an eyebrow, “I don’t know what you’re talking about–”
“Please,” you push him back onto the floor, “I would recognise these abs anywhere. By the way, the only thing sleeping in the next room is Jenna’s elderly hamster. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t even have the social skills needed to cheat on someone if I wanted to.”
He sighs, then presses a hand to his forehead and decides to drop the act. “What gave me away?”
“I told you,” you tap his abdomen, “those abs don’t lie. Besides, the way you reacted when I told you my boyfriend was in the bedroom sleeping? Whoof, you slipped right into my trap. Now, can I look into your baby blues or will I have to converse all night while looking at those ugly white lenses?”
He rips off his cowl, rising to his elbows — and there he is, your handsome, so-tired looking loverboy. “I’m mad at you, by the way,” he says while glaring in your direction, “you told me you were in Smallville. I thought you were safe, and here you are — do you know how many home invasions I had to stop just these last two days in this area?”
You blanch. “I’d prefer not to, thanks.” but you also raise an eyebrow, because you’re not about to lose an argument to a guy that outed his real identity because of abs and jealousy, “You told me you were in the Alps, by the way. In Switzerland. About… what, four-thousand miles away?”
Bruce sighs, resigned. “I received word of the breakout just as I was flying above the Atlantic.”
You tie the last stitch and cut the excess string, pressing a kiss on the wounded skin. “Well, I lost the 8 a.m. train but was too embarrassed about it to tell you. I guess we’re even.”
You lean down to his level as he holds out an arm to brush your hair off your shoulder, “Oh, sweetheart, we’re always even.” his hand rests on the back of your neck as you two kiss hard, all spit and tongue — so much so that you lose yourself in the moment and press your side a little too hard on his cuts.
He jumps, yelping in pain as you stare bemused. “Oh, so you do feel pain,”
He raises an eyebrow, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Thought you were some kind of robot programmed not to feel soreness for a second.”
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “I’m still mad at you. You could’ve gotten hurt.”
“Thank goodness then that the guy crashing on my balcony wasn’t one of the Joker’s henchmen, no?” you frown, “Besides, why did you come here? For all you knew I wasn’t home.”
“Well, missy, I wasn’t looking for you,” you feign a gasp of disbelief, “I was hoping to find that horrendous medical kid you told me about.”
You pinch his side — one of the parts not wounded, at least. “You were thinking about breaking in? What are you, a criminal?”
He purses his lips. “I would’ve forced the lock, but I would have repaired it before you got back.”
“Is that how you spend your fortune?” you murmur, defeated. “Fighting bad guys in your free time? That’s a pretty expensive hobby.” you suddenly remember something you had said to Clark — I don’t want you to be the man lying half-dead in a dark alley while I wonder why you’re so late to dinner. Would you look at that — you ended up with the same guy you told your ex to please not be. You’re not even too surprised about it — because sometimes, it does feel like Bruce is faking being dumber than he actually is.
You let him go as soon as the sun peeks out from the horizon with a kiss on the lips and the promise of coming back later in the day, to autograph Jenna’s popcorn bucket, and while he later on keeps his promise, he makes sure to make you another Christmas gift other than the too-expensive necklace he already got you — and somehow manages to get all the criminals back in their cells by the time New Year’s Eve comes around.
The lockdown ends, but all means of transportation are still off-limits thanks to a few well-placed explosions that went off in the last few days. That’s why you’re confused when Bruce tells you to pack a bag and come with him to the Archie Goodwill International Airport. “I mean, Bruce, we should be somewhere opening champagne bottles — not in a completely deserted airport looking for– what exactly are we looking for?”
He chuckles, going for one of the hangars present at the launch track, the number 18 plastered on it. “Have you ever flown on a helicopter?”
You frown, “I’ve never flown like, ever.” you don’t have the heart to tell him that it’s because your ex-boyfriend knew how to fly and you’d always hoped he would be the first one to take you flying.
He takes out a key and opens the sliding door of the hangar — revealing, surprise surprise, a helicopter. “Well, get ready for your first flight, then.”
Flying is much more scary than you would’ve thought — especially because you really don’t know if you should trust Bruce at the wheel. All you know is that you’re holding onto the armrest for your life, hoping that he actually got the licence for flying and didn’t randomly purchase it one day. “Wh– where are we going?” you ask him, trembling, not even managing to look down from the window.
He sends you a look, “Don’t worry, I would never crash the helicopter with you in it. About the place where we’re going, however– it’s a surprise.”
Barely an hour up in the air later you look out the window to see the helicopter landing in a familiar — too familiar — field, with the grass cut weirdly low. “Bruce, are we–?”
“In Smallville? Yeah, we are.”
Your whole face lights up. “No, you didn’t,” you jump on him, kissing everywhere you can reach, “oh, Bruce, thank you, thank you, thank you– mwah! You’re a real sweetheart, I don’t know how I ever managed to think that you were any less of a person than you are–”
Needless to say, your parents are elated to see you — they did know about Bruce’s plan, hence why the grass was cut so short where you landed: they were his accomplices and made sure the soil was decent to land on. You’re so happy when you take a bite out of your mother’s pie that you could cry, and your boyfriend — is he? You still haven’t really talked about labels and such — looks not too far away from tears either.
You spend at least two hours chatting away happily with your parents before Bruce coughs, taking his coat back from the hanger at the entrance. “Well, I think it’s time for me to go.”
Your mother raises an eyebrow, “Oh, but you can’t go! I’ve just put the sweet potatoes in the oven– besides, it’s already dark out there, you seriously wouldn’t want to fly that thing in complete darkness!”
Bruce looks at you, waiting for your approval — well, it was you who said that spending the holidays together at your parents’ was a step a little too big for just a month-long relationship — but you nod, smiling. “You were the one who brought me here, Bruce. C’mon, you gave Alfred the week off– surely you don’t want to be all alone during New Years’ Eve?”
He relents, “Well, if you say so,”
That’s how he ends up staying at your parent’s house against all predictions — and you won’t forget the kiss he gives you when the clock strikes midnight for a long, long time, that’s for sure.
You two spend one week at the farm and another one in the Alps’ resort Bruce had planned to spend Christmas in, spending your time either skiing — tripping over the snow, in your case — or, an activity you appreciate much more, cozied up in the jacuzzi of your private suite. It’s also during this vacation that your relationship gets leaked, but surprisingly — apart from a call from an absolutely fuming Jenna (you had somehow managed to keep the relationship a secret from her) and one from a triumphant Kelly — you take the new wave of publicity suspiciously well.
Because for the first time in months, you’re truly happy.
It’s the summer of the year later when he appears again.
You’re on one of the Wayne's biggest yachts in Tenerife with Bruce, Kelly and Jenna — just as the prophecies predicted!, the latter had shrieked when you’d shared Bruce’s invite with her — sunbathing on the boat’s deck as your friends play mermaids in the water when you notice an unusual silence from the upper deck.
You get up from your sunbed, raising your sunglasses up to your hair as you look for your boyfriend. “Bruce? Honey, is everything alright?”
You find him seated on the plush couch of the lounge room, staring intently at the TV; you hug him from behind, leaving a kiss on his temple, “Did something happen in Gotham?”
He takes the remote and raises the volume, turning to look at you with a puzzled face. “Not exactly in Gotham.”
Looking up at the screen, you frown when you see the broadcaster. “DPN? Isn’t that the Daily Planet News channel?”
“And things apparently just keep getting weirder in Metropolis, because after scarce apparitions and helping for some minor crimes the man that the citizens have lovingly dubbed as ‘Superman’ has just shown the public what he’s really capable of by preventing a building from falling onto the passers-by after an explosion cut the structure in half…”
Your heart skips a beat, and suddenly you begin to wonder what you must have done wrong in your life to end up not only with a vigilante boyfriend, but also a vigilante ex-boyfriend. You have to hold back not to slap your forehead in disbelief — really, Clark, and the glasses should be your mask? It’s the stupidest disguise you’ve ever seen, and you have no idea how no one connected Clark Kent — just starting his career as a reporter in the Daily Planet — and Superman — just starting his career as… you don’t know what he’s trying to be.
You seem to have a magnet for too good-hearted guys, apparently. Bruce presses a kiss on your cheek, “I’ll worry about it when we get back. Don’t think too much about it, okay?”
You’re not ready to tell him your ex-boyfriend is the guy saving old ladies from having to carry their groceries alone — that would be a conversation for almost six months later, when the Justice League is formed — so you just smile at him and pretend to your best abilities that you don’t know anything.
The first time you see Clark Kent again after that morning at the cafè is five years after the start of his crusade as Superman.
He’s one of the six reporters who were granted permission to be inside of Wayne Manor during the engagement party, briefly interviewing anyone he can talk to and taking notes of everything he thinks valuable on his little notepad.
You? You’re the one who’s getting engaged.
You’re wearing a silky white dress that fits you like a glove as you stand next to Bruce, talking to some WE associates, Dick patiently waiting for the conversation to end as he stays glued to your side, hugging your waist and pressing his cheek into your hip as you gently run your hands through his hair. Clark is expecting a one-of-a-kind rock on your ring finger, but is instead surprised with a simple white pearl adorned with two smaller ones on its sides — he did hear something about Bruce proposing with his mother’s ring, now that he thinks about it.
Lois’ gone off to interview Lucius Fox when you notice him standing awkwardly to the side, scrambling with his notebook and looking around. You excuse yourself from the conversation, giving a little smile to Bruce, nudging Dick with a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to come and meet an old friend of mine, bubba?” he nods, eager to please, and lets your waist go in favour of your hand.
You approach Clark with the confidence of someone who doesn’t hold any grudges when they should. “Hi, Clark,” you greet him like you two are old friends that meet again — and even if you technically are, you’re also so much more than that. You hold out your hand — again, like you were just good old friends catching up — and he has to force himself to shake it instead of tackling you into a hug. “Have you seen my parents? I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you– it’s been a while.”
You nudge Dick from behind you, gently holding him by the shoulders in front of you, “Dick, this is Clark, the old friend I was telling you about. Clark, this is Dick, my son.”
As the child holds out a hand and excitedly says “Hullo!”, Clark tries not to think about how weird it is that he’s still trying to figure out his life while you just have a whole ass kid — adopted, but still. It’s clear how much you have taken into the role of mother. “Hi, Dick,” he says as kindly as possible, not really believing that the Robin who beats up criminals during the night beside the fearsome Batman is the same kid who hides behind his mother during formal events.
Said kid raises his eyebrows in curiosity, looking up at you, “What kind of friends are you, anyways?” he asks, knowing all too well about your distaste for reporters and journalists alike.
“The kind that goes way back,” you reply easily with a chuckle, “me and Clark grew up together, bubba.”
“Oooh,” he ushers, “does that mean you also know nana and gramps?”
Guessing that he’s talking about your parents, Clark chuckles a bit before nodding, “That I do, champ.”
“Aren’t they the coolest people you know?” Dick rambles excitedly, “last time gramps took me a ride on his tractor and it was so fun! Besides, they have this dog–” he turns to look at you, “Batman’s here, isn’t he?”
Clark’s eyebrows shoot up to his airline. He knew the kid was talkative, but he didn’t think he would be able to out Bruce like that. You laugh, “Yeah, I think I saw him earlier somewhere in the garden with Ace. It’s a miracle the both of them still have their tuxedo collars.” you then look at your old flame, a playful smirk on your face, “Don’t worry, Batman’s my parents' golden retriever.”
“Ooh,” he sighs in relief, “for a moment there I wondered why Gotham’s most famous vigilante was playing with Bruce Wayne’s dog, and how exactly to phrase it in my article,” a terribly awkward silence follows.
You shift your gaze to Dick, “Hey, Dickie, why don’t you–”
“Hello! Good evening!” a man with blazing red hair and a whole lot of freckles on his face runs up to the two of you, nudging Clark with an elbow as if clearly saying, please please pleaseeeee introduce me. He’s one of the reporters, you notice, with the press pass and a Canon slung over his neck. He kinda looks like a kid in a candy shop — eyes shining with excitement and almost jumping up and down on his feet.
Clark sighs, “This is Jimmy Olsen, one of my coworkers from the Daily Planet,”
The guy grins and holds out his hand, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” his fingers are a bit sweaty, “I’m a great fan.”
You have to bite the inside of your cheek to avoid bursting out in laughter, “Oh, I’m flattered,”
“May I take a picture of the two of you?” it’s clear it was what he had wanted to ask since he saw you and Dick talking to Clark. You look at your son, and he grins up at you with glee. You smile, “Of course,”
You lower yourself a bit and cross your arms over his chest while pressing your chin to the top of his head, smiling widely — and you don’t doubt that he’s smiling with all he’s got too, hands holding your forearms, showing the window his last canine that fell out left. Jimmy snaps a little more than one pictures, but gets interrupted by a voice from behind you, “I hope you aren’t hogging the missus too much, boys,”
It’s Bruce — of course it is, he’s been staring since you got out of that conversation twenty minutes ago — and he slings an arm around your waist as you rise from your position. Jimmy sits up straighter like his drill sergeant just entered the room — you’re surprised he doesn’t do the salute. “Sir,” he starts, “it is an honor–”
“Clark,” Bruce casually shakes the man’s hand, to his coworker’s utter disbelief. Technically, Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne don’t know each other, but it’s another story for Batman and Superman. “A pleasure to meet you — this pretty girl right here told me a lot of stories about the two of you growing up together."
Jimmy’s mouth falls open. His gaze turns to his coworker with an accusation that could only be described as treacherous. Clark smiles awkwardly, “Yeah, well–”
“You’re a photographer, aren’t you?” the Brucie Wayne persona isn’t trained to hold his attention on just one person at once, so he immediately switches his charming smile to Jimmy, “Why don’t you take a few photos of us? We’re a real nice picture to see,” he draws you closer to him by the waist, “Especially my soon-to-be wife.”
Jimmy doesn’t let him repeat that, snapping a couple — more like a dozen — of pictures of Bruce holding you close to him while his other hand is as occupied as yours, sitting on Dick’s shoulder as he stands between the two of you, grinning ear to ear.
“So, Clark,” you start when Jimmy stops snapping pictures, eyeing the other reporter from the Daily Planet — was it Lane? — from the other side of the room, “is that your girlfriend? You two looked pretty close earlier.”
It’s meant to be a friendly remark, said with nothing but a happy tone, but Clark almost chokes on his saliva. “Oh, I mean–”
You raise an eyebrow, “Please,” you laugh out, “Don’t tell me she’s just a friend, because I’d be nearly as devastated as she would.”
He huffs with a little smile. “I’m… working on it.”
You smirk. “That’s a good thing. Bruce here has got something for you that could help in your romantic quest.” you nudge your fianceè with your elbow as Dick snickers, “Don’t you, honey?”
He grumbles, looking with a frown at Clark — it’s not that their relationship isn’t good, it’s just that… he wasn’t really the happiest with your decision. “I do, actually,” he takes out an envelope and passes it to Clark with gritted teeth. “I’m… delighted… to invite you to our wedding.”
“As a friend, and with the possibility to bring a plus one,” you add, hand squeezing Bruce’s bicep, “not as press– there won’t be any, by the way.” you roll your eyes towards your boyfriend, “He’ll insist on making you sign an NDA, but I’m sure that you wouldn’t write anything about it nonetheless.”
He blushes deep red, “Oh, no, no, I would never–”
“Clark.” you giggle as you interrupt him, “It was a joke. Nobody’s going to make you sign an NDA,”
“Yet,” Bruce grumbles.
You ignore him. “It was a joke between friends,” you aren’t implying anything in your words — you’re sincere. After all these years, that’s what you see Clark as, and it would be sad not having him or his family at the wedding. You’ve already sent the invites to the Kents: only Clark was missing.
You hold your hand out to him, hopeful. “We are friends, aren’t we?”
I loved you, and I’ll always love you– but I’m trying to get over you, and you need to understand that. I can’t do that if you call me just now after ghosting twenty of my calls and voicemails. I’m sure we’ll find a balance in some years when you get back — maybe even be friends again — but please… don’t call.
He takes your hand and shakes it with a soft smile. “Friends.”
if you've managed to read all the way down here, congratulations! have some memes:
⤿ BRUCE WAYNE gave you shares in wayne enterprises the moment you got married, which means sometimes you have to go to some meetings. Meetings which you hate, and Bruce sees why when you rant to him.
!! fluff. fem!reader. wife!reader. mentions of men. business men are so misogynistic. implied sunshine!reader. bruce is your number one fan and defender. taglist open as always. ENJOY.
You were usually sunshine in human form, aka your husband's opposite. Bright voice, quick laughter, a running commentary on everything from elevator music to bad coffee.. you had the kind of presence that made rooms feel lighter just by existing in them. People at Wayne Enterprises joked that if morale had a face, it would be yours, always smiling, always kind, always willing to smooth things over.
That was why Bruce noticed immediately when you walked into his office without knocking and didn’t smile at all.
You shut the door behind you with way more force than necessary, heels clicking sharply against the floor as you crossed the room, dropped your folder on the side table, and exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for an hour straight.
Bruce didn’t look up right away, fingers moving steadily over the keyboard, posture relaxed but attentive in that way of his that suggested he was aware of everything even when he seemed buried in work.
“They were awful,” you huffed finally, arms crossing over your chest as you leaned against the edge of his desk. Your voice wasn’t loud, but it was tight, the usual warmth dulled by something sharper underneath. “Just… genuinely awful.”
“Mhm,” Bruce murmured, eyes still on the screen, typing uninterrupted.
And that was all the encouragement you needed to keep going. That was the good thing about being with him for so long, you knew exactly noises men "I need to finish this up, it's do or die." and what noises meant, "I'm listening even if I'm not looking."
“I mean, I know it was a ‘boys’ club’ type of meeting going in, but, like, wow,” you continued, pacing now, your words tumbling out faster as the frustration found somewhere to land. “They talked over me, Bruce. Like, fully talked over me. I’d start a sentence and suddenly it was like I wasn’t even there. And when I did finish a thought, one of them would repeat it five minutes later like he’d invented it.” You scoffed, shaking your head. “And the looks. Ugh! The damn looks they kept giving me! The smiles. That condescending little nod like I was a kid playing dress-up in corporate strategy.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened almost invisibly, but he still didn’t interrupt.
“And I know I’m good at this,” you went on, gesturing vaguely toward the folder you’d dropped. “I mean, you had no obligation to loop me in just because we got married, so I know I am smart enough to work. I know I handled it professionally. I smiled, I redirected, I stayed polite. I always do. But it’s exhausting, y'know? Being the nicest person in the room just so they don’t decide you’re ‘difficult or bitchy. You remember last time I actually voiced an opinion that was somewhat different! Those investors started whispering the second I stepped away to answer the phone.” You laughed once, humorlessly. “One of them actually called me ‘sweetheart.’ In a boardroom. Like, what the fuck?”
That did it. Bruce’s fingers paused for half a second before resuming their steady rhythm.
You sighed, the anger ebbing into something closer to self consciousness as the silence stretched. You glanced at him, noticed how focused he looked, and suddenly felt a twinge of guilt. “Sorry,” you added quickly, already stepping back. “You’re working. I’m just… I'm just rambling. I’ll let you get back to it-...”
His hand shot out, firm but gentle, catching your wrist before you could take another step.
“No,” Bruce said firmly, low and calm, finally lifting his eyes to meet yours. “Come here.”
You barely had time to process the command before he tugged you closer, guiding you between his knees as he leaned back in his chair. Strong hands settled at your hips, lifting you effortlessly until you were sitting sideways on his lap, the sudden closeness knocking the air from your lungs in a startled little breath.
“Bruce,” you started, half laughing, half flustered, “what are you-..”
“Shh,” he murmured, one arm securing you against his chest as the other reached for the mouse. “You weren’t rambling.”
He turned the monitor slightly so you could see it.
Your eyes widened as you took in what was on the screen.
Multiple windows were open, neatly organized profiles, articles, and corporate filings. A highlighted list of names you recognized immediately, men from the meeting you’d just escaped. One of them had his LinkedIn pulled up, complete with a sidebar of connections. Another tab showed a recent HR complaint from a company he’d sat on the board of. Another showed an old interview, a quote circled in red where he’d dismissed women in leadership as “a trend.”
You stared, stunned.
“Babe,” you whispered, equal parts horrified and impressed, “is this… are you cyber stalking them?”
“I prefer ‘due diligence,’” he replied calmly with a shrug, tightening his arm around you just slightly, grounding, protective. “You came back upset, so that makes it my concern.”
Your throat tightened as you leaned back against him, the earlier frustration shifting into something warmer, steadier. “You didn’t even say anything,” you murmured. “I thought I was just venting into the void. Not that I mind... I mean, your whole thing is shadows and the void.”
“You were venting to me,” he corrected, eyes scanning another page as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “And they were unprofessional, dismissive, condescending, and frankly douchebags. That behavior tends to follow patterns.” His lips curved faintly. “Patterns are easy to track.”
You let out a soft, incredulous laugh, resting your head briefly against his shoulder. “You know I don’t need you to… dismantle them, right?”
His gaze softened as it dropped to you. “I know,” he said quietly. “But I want you to know that when someone disrespects you, I notice, and that isn't taken lightly.”
You swallowed, emotions tangling in your chest, and nodded once. “Okay,” you murmured, then added, teasing despite the lump in your throat, “but if any of them mysteriously lose their careers, I’m pretending I don’t know you.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched. “That would be smart.”
You smiled then, finally, curling a little closer on his lap, the weight of the meeting easing as you realized that even when you thought you were just talking into the air, he had been doing so much more than listening all along.
hey so whatever you do don't imagine ryland with a literature teacher!s/o who, when going through the odyssey in the curriculum, said in passing that if they were penelope they personally wouldn't have waited for odysseus for twenty years (or wouldn't have managed to) and when ryland gets forced into the hail mary and sent off to space they end up waiting for him for the rest of their life... don't you dare imagine it...
✶ i think i went a little overboard… oh well… hope you guys like this! it’s probably the most heavily request part 2 i’ve ever had so fingers crossed it meets the expectations 🙃
word count : 3,3k
For a while, you convinced yourself that nothing had changed.
You still came into work on time, still picked up Clark’s coffee order from the café downstairs out of pure habit, and still smiled when Lois made some half-sarcastic joke across the bullpen. Everything looked the same from the outside. You spoke when people expected you to, you laughed at the right moments, you even asked Clark about his latest story with the same polite enthusiasm as always.
But the truth was that everything felt off.
It was as if the newsroom had grown colder overnight. The air felt thinner, your desk somehow farther from his. You tried to ignore it, tried to pretend that the bruise inside your chest was only temporary, but even silence has a sound—and yours was deafening.
Of course, it was wishful thinking that no one would notice the change, but Clark noticed.
He noticed the way your eyes drifted toward the window when Lois called his name, or how you flinched slightly when he said good morning like nothing had changed. He told himself it was better not to bring it up, that space would help. Yet every time he caught that careful smile of yours—the one that never reached your eyes—he felt the guilt pressing a little heavier on his ribs.
He’d meant what he said that night. He valued you. And yet, somehow, he had broken something delicate between you.
Days passed. Then weeks. And one night, while the city slept, he saw you again—but not as Clark.
It was late, well past midnight, the kind of quiet that only existed between storms. The streets below were slick with rain, reflecting the blur of passing lights, and somewhere far beneath him, Superman’s gaze caught on a faint glimmer of movement. A rooftop light. A familiar shape.
You.
You were sitting on the edge of your apartment building, a blanket wrapped tightly around your shoulders, hair sticking slightly from the mist. There was a book open in your lap, but your eyes weren’t on the page. They were distant, glassy with the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but from feeling too much for too long.
He hesitated before landing. He told himself he was only checking that you were safe. That was what Superman did. But something in the way you were sitting—small, folded into yourself, staring into the dark—made him descend a little faster than he meant to.
The soft sound of boots touching concrete startled you.
You turned sharply, breath catching, eyes widening as the cape brushed the ground and the symbol caught the moonlight.
For a moment, you just stared, frozen.
Your lips parted, but no words came out. He could hear your heartbeat quicken, could see the way your fingers clutched at the edge of the blanket like you needed something to hold onto.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said gently. His voice was deeper than you’d expected. It was calm and warm, like it could steady the wind itself.
You blinked, struggling to find your voice. “I—I’m not,” you lied, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just—you’re—” You stopped, letting out a shaky breath. “You’re really here.”
He smiled faintly, the expression softening the sharp lines of his face. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”
You shook your head quickly, though your pulse was still racing. “No, it’s okay. I just… didn’t think Superman visited apartment rooftops.”
“I don’t, usually,” he admitted. “But I saw someone sitting up here alone and thought maybe they could use a little company.”
That made your chest tighten for a reason you didn’t understand. You dropped your gaze, trying to hide the flush creeping up your neck. “I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep.”
He took a careful step closer, the rain misting lightly between you. “It’s been a hard week for the city,” he said. “Sometimes it’s easier to think above the noise.”
You managed a small, nervous smile. “You go to a rooftop to think too?”
“Sometimes,” he said, glancing out toward the skyline. “It helps to remember what I’m trying to protect.”
You followed his gaze. The city stretched out below—silver and gold and endless.
“It’s beautiful,” you murmured.
“It is,” he said, but he wasn’t looking at the city anymore.
You didn’t notice. You were still trying to make sense of what was happening. How one minute you’d been sitting alone, thinking about everything you couldn’t say, and the next, Superman himself was standing beside you, his cape rippling quietly in the breeze. You didn’t know what to say, or what he expected you to say.
He glanced at the untouched book in your lap. “Good story?”
You laughed softly, embarrassed. “I’ve been staring at the same page for fifteen minutes. I think the story’s given up on me.”
“Maybe it’s just waiting for you to start again,” he said, voice low and thoughtful.
You looked up at him then—really looked—and for the first time, you realized that up close, he didn’t seem larger than life. He seemed almost human. His eyes weren’t distant or godlike; they were warm, familiar somehow, tired around the edges like someone who understood what it meant to care too deeply.
“Do you always talk like that?” you asked quietly. “Like every sentence belongs in a book?”
He chuckled softly. “Occupational hazard.”
You smiled at that, a small genuine one this time. The kind that made something flicker in his chest.
“Thank you,” you murmured after a moment, your voice softer.
“For what?”
“For stopping,” you said. “For saying something. I think I forgot what it felt like to be seen lately.”
He didn’t reply immediately, just let the quiet stretch between you until it became something gentle instead of heavy. Then, finally, he said, “You deserve to be seen.”
The rain had slowed to a whisper by the time he straightened, ready to leave.
“You should get some rest,” he said. “It’s late.”
You nodded, though you didn’t want him to go. “Will I—will I ever see you again?”
He paused, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “Maybe,” he said. “If you look up at the right time.”
And then, before you could think of anything else to say, he was gone in a blur against the night sky, leaving only the faint rustle of wind where he’d stood.
You sat there for a long time afterward, heart still racing, eyes tracing the stars. You weren’t sure if it had really happened, or if you had imagined it—the kindness in his voice, the calm in his eyes. But when you finally went inside, you felt a little lighter.
For the first time in weeks, you slept without dreaming of what you’d lost. You dreamed, instead, of what you’d found.
The next few days passed differently.
You still went through the motions: same desk, same deadlines, same coffee that went cold too fast. Yet something inside you had shifted. The world didn’t feel as suffocating as it once did. The weight that used to press on your chest each morning felt lighter, though you couldn’t say why.
Maybe it was the memory of that night. Maybe it was the sound of his voice that still lingered in your mind whenever the city felt too big and too lonely. Whatever it was, you caught yourself looking up more often, eyes tracing the skyline as if hoping to find him again.
It became a quiet sort of routine. Superman began to appear on your rooftop every few nights, always with that faint, knowing smile, like he could tell you’d been waiting. Sometimes he’d ask about your day; other times he’d simply sit beside you, watching the city breathe beneath the stars.
There was a comfort in the budding relationship you unexpectedly found in Superman. It was the small push you needed to begin to get over Clark and his rejection of your feelings.
You never asked too many questions—who he really was, why he kept coming back. In all honesty, you were afraid that if you did, the spell would break.
He learned quickly that you didn’t talk much about yourself unless asked. That your silences meant thought, not distance. That your laugh, when it came, was soft and unguarded, worth every second it took to hear.
He noticed the smaller things too. The way your fingers trembled when you were nervous. The way your eyes always lifted to the stars before answering something difficult. The way you listened, fully and without interruption, as if the world slowed down just to make space for someone else.
It was weird for Clark to notice who you really were. Behind the politeness and shyness of being coworkers, because while you were fairly open with him, it didn't hold a candle to how you were with him when he was Superman.
Somewhere between those rooftop conversations and the mornings spent pretending nothing had changed, something inside him began to shift as well.
He told himself it was friendship, admiration for your strength and quiet kindness. But the truth was that when he looked at you, he felt something he hadn’t in a long time: peace. For a man who carried so much, that feeling was rare, and dangerous.
It frightened him more than he cared to admit.
Clark Kent could keep his distance. Superman couldn’t.
He found excuses to check in, telling himself it was about safety, that he was only making sure you were all right. But deep down, he knew better. He wasn’t protecting you from danger. He was protecting himself from what he felt when you smiled at him like that.
Telling himself each visit would be the last. Yet every time the city fell quiet and the night air turned still, he found himself back on that rooftop again, drawn by something neither of you dared name. For a while the quiet, the warmth, the unspoken understanding between you both, it was enough.
Until the world shifted again.
Because then came Bruce Wayne.
You met Gotham’s most infamous bachelor at a charity event you’d been assigned to cover for the Daily Planet. It wasn't at all your scene, in fact you were counting down the seconds until it was acceptable to leave.
You’d only accepted to go because Perry insisted on having a writer there who could “make rich people sound interesting”, and how could you turn down the huge career implications being specifically chosen for this event had.
The droning voices, clicking of champagne glasses had turned into background noise, while you'd been halfway through mentally outlining your article when someone stopped beside you.
“Tell me,” a low, steady voice said, “how many of them do you think are actually listening?”
You turned, startled. Bruce Wayne stood next to you, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the podium where the mayor was droning on about civic responsibility. He looked almost bored, though there was something sharp and assessing behind his eyes.
You blinked. “I think most of them are just waiting for dessert.”
That made him glance at you properly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “An optimist, then.”
“Hardly,” you said, suppressing a smile. “Just observant. Comes with the job.”
He nodded toward your press badge. “Daily Planet. Let me guess—you drew the short straw on this one?”
“Something like that. Perry—my boss—wanted someone who could make rich people sound interesting.”
Bruce chuckled quietly. “Good luck with that.”
“You’re one of them.” You raised an eyebrow, finally taking the time to really look at the man beside you. A man who could be talking to much more important attendees and yet was sharing casual conversation with a reporter.
He tilted his glass slightly. “That’s what makes it ironic.”
You laughed then—an actual, unrestrained laugh that startled even you. The sound felt strange in your own throat, like it belonged to someone lighter, freer. His eyes softened at the sound, and suddenly the room didn’t feel so suffocating.
“See? You’ve already made this night more bearable,” he said.
“I’m sure you say that to every reporter you meet.”
“Only the honest ones,” he replied easily. “And you don’t seem the type to flatter people for a headline.”
You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe that’s why Perry keeps assigning me the boring events.”
“I don’t think you could make anything boring,” he said. It wasn’t flirtatious—not exactly. Just quiet, sincere, and disarming.
You found yourself smiling despite your best effort not to.
Bruce had that effect on people, you quickly learned. There was an ease to him, a quiet confidence wrapped in charm, with a kind of warmth that didn’t demand anything from you. His words were deliberate, his humor subtle, his eyes sharp. He listened when you spoke, not like he was waiting for his turn, but as though he actually wanted to understand you.
At one point, you found yourselves standing near one of the tall windows overlooking the city, both of you holding half-empty glasses, both silent for a while.
“Metropolis looks different from up here,” you said quietly.
He glanced at the skyline. “Everything looks different when you’re too far above it.”
You turned to him, curious. “That sounded philosophical.”
He smiled faintly. “Occupational hazard. Comes with spending too much time thinking.”
“About what?”
He hesitated. “About how easy it is to lose sight of what matters when you’re surrounded by people who only pretend to care.”
Something about the honesty in his tone caught you off guard. You didn’t know him, not really, but you recognized that kind of weariness. You’d felt it, too.
“For what it’s worth,” you said softly, “you don’t seem like one of them.”
He looked at you then, really looked, and for a second you thought you saw something flicker behind his calm expression—something thoughtful, maybe even vulnerable.
“Careful,” he said finally, his voice quiet but warm. “People might start thinking you’re a good judge of character.”
You smiled. “Maybe I am.”
It wasn’t until much later that you realized you’d been talking to him for almost an hour. By the time you finally left, your article outline was forgotten, replaced by the strange feeling that something had shifted in the air.
It didn’t stop at that one night.
For the first time in a long while, you didn’t overthink it. You let yourself talk. You let yourself be.
It didn’t end with that night. You started seeing him more often—at interviews, press conferences, and fundraisers that seemed endless. Sometimes he’d catch your eye in a crowded room and offer a faint nod that made your pulse quicken. Other times, he’d linger after events, walking you out under the pretense of concern for your safety.
It wasn’t serious at first. It was slow, unspoken, something you didn’t want to define. Labels meant expectation, and expectation meant pressure. But people noticed.
Clark noticed.
He noticed the way you started checking your phone more often, the way you hesitated before replying to certain messages. The way you stayed late at your desk, typing with a distracted smile. He noticed when Lois teased you about your “billionaire friend” and you blushed instead of rolling your eyes.
He laughed with you. He even joined in on the jokes. But every smile felt a little tighter, every chuckle a little forced.
Because Clark knew Bruce. He knew both the man and the mask. He knew Bruce Wayne wasn’t just a charming billionaire. And though he trusted him more than most, seeing you near him stirred something deep and uneasy in Clark’s chest.
Still, he said nothing.
Until the night of the Metropolis Foundation Gala.
The event had taken over half the city block. Cameras flashed like lightning, reporters shouted over each other, and the red carpet glittered beneath chandeliers strung from temporary arches. The air buzzed with money, fame, and the quiet hum of calculated generosity. Clark stood outside with Lois and Jimmy, pretending to focus on his notepad while his eyes kept drifting toward the arriving cars.
“You think Bruce Wayne’s gonna show?” Jimmy asked, adjusting his camera lens.
Lois smirked, tugging at the strap of her clutch. “He always shows. Especially when there’s a spotlight.”
Clark said nothing. He only adjusted his glasses, though unease tugged at his chest, heavy and unshakable.
Then the sleek black car pulled up.
The crowd shifted like a wave. Flashes erupted, security tightened, and Bruce Wayne stepped out first—composed, confident, every movement deliberate.
Then you followed.
And for a moment, Clark forgot how to breathe.
You looked radiant. Not loud or ostentatious but so quietly magnetic, it was devastating for his heart. Your dress shimmered under the lights, catching soft gold with every turn. The air itself seemed to bend toward you, just slightly. Bruce offered his arm, and you took it, smiling at something he murmured near your ear. It was a small, effortless gesture, but it was enough to set the crowd murmuring.
Jimmy gave a low whistle. “Guess Bruce Wayne’s off the market, huh?”
Lois elbowed him sharply. “Maybe keep your voice down before you end up quoted by the gossip column.”
Then her gaze flicked to Clark, trying to decipher the look in his eye. “You okay, Smallville? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Just surprised, that’s all.” He said with a forced smile, small and polite.
But it wasn't a surprise. It was that quiet, hollow ache that comes from realizing too late that someone you once reached for has learned how to be happy without you.
And yet, he couldn’t even bring himself to be sad. You deserved this—all of it—even if it wasn’t with him.
Inside, the gala buzzed with champagne and chatter. You’d excused yourself from Bruce’s side for a moment to find a quieter corner near the press tables, fingers brushing the rim of your glass just to have something to do with your hands.
That was when you heard him.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here tonight.”
You turned and there he was. Clark Kent. The same soft eyes, the same familiar, unshakable warmth. For a heartbeat, you forgot how crowded the room was.
“Clark.” You smiled, genuine but careful. “Covering the event?”
He nodded, pen tapping lightly against his notebook. “You know Perry. If there’s a billionaire and a buffet in the same room, he sends the entire team.”
You laughed softly, the sound surprising you. “Sounds about right.”
A pause settled between you—comfortable, almost nostalgic. You could hear the orchestra tuning up in the next room, the clinking of silverware, the soft murmur of Bruce’s voice somewhere across the hall.
“You look… happy,” Clark said finally. It wasn’t an accusation. Just an observation.
You hesitated, then nodded. “I think I am.”
He looked down, smiling faintly. “Good. You deserve that.”
Something in your chest tightened. There was still that strange, unspoken connection—threadbare but unbroken. You wanted to say more, but then Bruce appeared at your side, his hand resting lightly against your back.
“There you are,” Bruce said smoothly, his tone low and warm. “I was beginning to think I’d have to send out a search party.”
You smiled, teasing. “You’d enjoy that too much.”
Clark stepped back slightly, giving the two of you space. Bruce extended a hand toward him. “Kent, right? Always good to see the Daily Planet taking interest in something other than alien sightings.”
Clark managed a polite chuckle. “Always a pleasure, Mr. Wayne.”
As Bruce guided you back toward the ballroom, Clark stood there for a long moment, notebook forgotten in his hand. You laughed at something Bruce whispered, the sound soft and bright against the music.
And though Clark smiled faintly, it never quite reached his eyes.
Because for all his strength, for all the ways he could move mountains and fight intergalactic threats—this was the one thing he couldn’t save: the version of you that once could have belonged to him.
having sex with clark who has literal super strength has its downsides… essentially clark breaking your bed for the third time this month.
cw: vaginal sex, unprotected, fluff
ֺּׅ⏦ﾟ ֺּׅ ⋆ ࣭ masterlist — clark kent masterlist
CLARK SWEARS THAT he’s not even putting all of his strength on you, but yet your bed frame said otherwise. the headboard slamming against the wall roughly to the point you were convinced that it was going to make a hole and your neighbours would see both you and clark butt naked having sex.
“gentle clark,” you gasped as you clung onto him, nails digging into this broad shoulders as his cock ploughs into your cunt, almost splitting you in half.
clark’s dark bushy brows furrowed, almost confused. “i am gentle,” he muttered, acutely aware of every little thing he did, the pressure he applied to your hips, the strengths of his thrusts and how deep he buried himself in you.
but him being gentle was like fighting is natural instinct.
sure he was a gentle giant in the streets, always opening the door for people, never pushing or shoving in the streets no matter how late he was, or trying to make himself seem smaller to accomodate to other people’s needs.
but not in bed.
there was something about you, that made his mind go feral, almost haywire. the moment he sank deep into your cunt, your warm gummy walls clenching around him he didn’t feel like clark anymore.
“clark the bed is creaking,” you patted his shoulder, but he didn’t even register it, a small groan escaping his mouth as he thrusted inside you.
“it’ll be fine, the bed always creak.” he reassured, though he knew how wrong he was.
and not long after that comment, the bed broke.
both you and clark groaned when the mattress under you fell, clark cradling you in your arms.
“are you okay?” he panted, deep blue eyes scanning your figure, making sure you were okay.
“i’m fine,” you sighed, wincing slightly when you pulled yourself up, his cock still buried deep inside you.
the bed was utterly obliterated.
“guess we’ll get a new bed then,” he commented, not even caring about the scenario before planting a kiss on your forehead, a boyish dimpled smile on his face when he saw your scowl.
(1) "Are You Scared Yet, Laika?" by Gus Gresham // (2,3,4) Combined quotes of the scientists who sent Laika to space, nitter.net/yo_adrianididit // (5) "First Dog In Space" by Brennig Davies, Combined quotes of the scientists who sent Laika to space, nitter.net/yo_adrianididit // (6) "Are You Scared Yet, Laika?" by Gus Gresham // (7,8,9) "Laika" by Claire Williamson // (10) Combined quotes of the scientists who sent Laika to space, nitter.net/yo_adrianididit, THE SAD, SAD STORY OF LAIKA, THE SPACE DOG, AND HER ONE-WAY TRIP INTO ORBIT, Smithsonian Magazine // (11) "Are You Scared Yet, Laika?" by Gus Gresham
Do you ever think about how canonically there was a camera rolling in the cockpit during the entire Taumoeba Fishing scene, and the footage might've made it onto the Beatles. The people on Earth might've seen it, seen how close it was. "The sky is just slightly on fire." The alarms starting to blare. Rocky screaming in horror as Grace almost dies retrieving the collector. The moment the fuel starts migrating. Grace losing consciousness. Rocky risking everything just to save him. I am going to SCREAM can you imagine watching that and it being real???? Watching with baited breath, knowing it was all okay in the end but not knowing yet how scary it was for them, how dangerous, how it even happened. How much it hurt. I'm gonna be sick.
Doctor: no problem sir we'll stitch you up. Get me 100ccs of lorazepam stat and intubate. Oh no, why isn't this working? His feet are still in danger!
*uncovers sheets to reveal hooves*
Other Doctor Who Is More Woke: those are his hooves you bitch. Prep 10000ml of Ketamine.
First Doctor: damn. I was wrong and it almost cost this poor patient his life.
Second Doctor: 90% of all patients are secretly horses and anti-horse bias kills thousands every year. As Doctors we need to check our prejudices, and you can read more about this on www.somepatientsarehorses.com
