Big buff bossy gangster just bumping into Subtop M reader one day and suddenly becoming obsessed with them to the point where M reader has no choice but to submit to his advances cause if not well he's dead. Subtop M reader has to admit tho that he loves fucking him especially in risky places cause seeing him trying to keep his voice down satisfies Subtop M reader especially with his tiddies bouncing with each thrust
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i absolutely adore your writings :)) and no need to rush alright? i'm willing to wait haha
thank you dear coffin, i adore you......
yes…..….. this is refreshing. 💥💥🌹these are ideas. thoughts…… i might post more of this guy as an actual full-fledged fic where he actually stalks you as i enjoy big breast men 💥💥💥🌹🌹🌹must… must write more to be more… detailed…. uaghugh
love at first sight… for him at least. a towering muscly dude with visible scars here and there along his “handsome” face with layered platinum blond hair doing his rounds with a couple of lackeys… unintentionally not looking where he was goingㅡ
ㅡ“oh, whoopsie.. you alright, man?” cautious not to put your hands on the other person who accidentally stepped on your foot and took a slight tumble; swallowing thickly, comedically as the man raises to his full height without a word - towering over you with his pecs center to your eyes, some big platinum blond muscleheadㅡ“haha… y-ou … you alright?” you offer your hand, even if he was already standing and most certainly did not need your help -
“fine.” he waves you off, leaving wordlessly but not before giving you a nasty glower. uagh, jeez.. what's that guy's problem? not like you were looking to instigate or something but still… you obviously did not mean to trip him! didnt he see how sympathetic you were just then? some people…
unbeknownst to you, he was fuming. that was how your first official meeting went?! argh!! his companions, his lackeys noting his upset and commenting on the matter ; “what's the matter? you wanna go back n’ pummel that guy, boss?”
“no, no…” the hulking mass of muscle shakes his head - thin layers of platinum blond hair, waving his hand dismissively while seeming to be in thought - stalling down the walkway and making a swift turn down a narrow alleyway, knuckleheads following close behind. “that's… my lover. my fated one to be, you idiots. how can you not see that?”
ㅡhe’s delusional, his lackeys realize. but feed into it anyway. in the lair, a rundown two story house where he was answering questions and fiddling with several pictures taken of you just hours later. a quick question of “how can ya’ tell that's yer fated one to be??!” an excited pawn queried. the big boss man going off on an equally excited tangent - a happy explanation about how he doesn't even know. all he knows is that he took one look at your tripping sorry ass and immediately wanted to get down on his knees, uncaring if it was in the middle of a busy sidewalk..
or it could… be the something like, muscly bossy gangster runs into you a few times instead,,, neither of you forgetting one another because for you, it's a big ass intimidating guy who glares at you and nearly makes you piss your pants how can you not forgetㅡand for him - he's literally orchestrating his schedule around yours just to be bumping into you like this. tapping your phone, keeping you tracked through a device or having several of his companions follow you around…
and then, him. finally showing up to your fucking home on a friday night - 11 pm. forcing his way into your apartment and ignoring how terrified you looked and showing you all the pictures he took of you. like aren't you the cutest ? and you… staring at him, teary eyed and sniffling because you obviously cant fight back against this fucking behemoth who you accidentally tripped… this is your day of reckoning isn’t it…. dead if you do, dead if you don't, huh. well. eyeing his fat chest, looking over his stocky build.. this guy's in love with you that badly?! then.. he could never hurt you right…? haha… a spineless creature such as you submitting that easily, you can't help yourself and you cant blame yourself!!!
ㅡ"shh-sh..” he hisses softly, grunting as he fluidly jerks at your hardened prick over your jeans - your back pressed against a wall in a maze of alleyways. of course, its the go-to.. who are you to deny this bossy ass gangster when he wants to be fucked??? asking you so nicely… ( literally pulling you from the eyes of the public wordlessly. who was gonna say anything anyway??? they know of him and his status….) whimpering softly - music to his ears. wishing he could be recording this audio for his own needy purposes of jerking off to your shrine he made… plunging himself on your pre-cum and saliva lathered cock… it was mesmerizing. pulling up his shirt to reveal his abdomen - no complaint from the hulking bossy bitch as you fondle his chest. before he was switching positions and pressing his front into the wall and allowing you to hump into him at a lazy languid pace while groping at his meaty body underneath his tight-fitted shirt. he… has to remind you of who's the one in charge… “keep it down..” he reminds breathlessly, a grin spreading across his face as he pushes his hips back into you ㅡ deliberately clenching his gummy walls around yr meaty, aching dick -
ㅡ“what's this?”
“uhh… our conversation?” you squint, glancing between the hulking mass pining you and his hand holding his tiny phone - his hand was just … huge. displaying your messages, where he was the last one to send a message?
he inhales sharply at your obliviousness, huffing in obvious indignation - pushing you harder against the wall without intent. “you left me on seen.” he stresses the last word. did you?? he was nearly snarling like an animal with rabies. “why??” god, this guy is like an insecure girlfriend but 10 times worse.
“... i got uh.. distractedㅡ” you squirm, avoiding eye contactㅡ
"distracted with what?” he intrudes, leaning inward - you could faintly smell a hint of mint and.. what is thatㅡcinnamon? what's this guy's problem, eating sweets and harrassing you?! and just a quick glance down would tell you everything you need to know. how awkward… do you even tell him or does he know that he's bulging? it throws you off… acting so moody but bricked up??? that's laughable and you can't help yourself. b-but you can't exactly laugh in good humor, hypnotized by the way his squishy pecs bounce up and down with his hole clamping on your cock ㅡ telling you in-between ragged breaths never to ignore him - yes, yes honey never in my life i will do such a thing, mhm..
Read chapter one here first. Warnings: Yandere Themes, Batfamily x reader, Superfamily x reader, Death, Dark fic → read at your own discretion. Chapter Two.
The hallway felt wrong.
Too bright. Too loud. Every sound bounced around your skull like a ricochet. Lockers slamming, distant chatter, shoes squeaking against polished tiles. Your pulse drowned most of it out anyway, roaring violently in your ears as you stumbled after Mr Cameron into the corridor.
The classroom door shut behind you with a soft click. A mercy.
“Easy,” the teacher said carefully, voice lower now, gentler than before. “Just breathe for a second, alright?”
Breathe.
Right.
Your lungs seized painfully as if they had forgotten how. You made it three more shaky steps before your knees finally gave out beside the bag racks lining the wall. The impact jarred through your body, but you barely felt it. Your hands clutched at your chest instead, fingers digging into fabric as if you could physically hold your heart together.
This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. You stared at the floor, breaths coming sharp and uneven.
Six years. Six whole fucking years.
You had died. You remembered it.
You remembered the loud bang. The bullets impact. The impossible pain splitting through your heart. The suffocating weight in your chest as everything faded into darkness.
You remembered dying.
So why were you here? Why did your body feel eighteen again? Why did your hands look smaller? Why did the air smell like cheap school disinfectant instead of rain and blood?
A trembling sound escaped your throat before you could stop it.
Mr Cameron crouched down a few feet away, keeping enough distance not to crowd you. You noticed that immediately. Instinctively. Like he was trying not to scare you.
“We don’t have to go back inside yet,” he said quietly. You looked up too fast and regretted it instantly. Because he looked young. Not young compared to how you remembered him, but young compared to reality.
Mr Cameron had been nearing retirement when you last- No.
Your stomach twisted violently.
He should’ve had grey hair. Wrinkles. That tired expression he always wore after years of grading papers.
Instead, he looked barely forty. Clean-cut. Sharp-eyed. Concern written plainly across his face as he watched you try not to fall apart on the hallway floor.
“You’re really him,” you whispered hoarsely.
His brows furrowed slightly. “I’m sorry?”
“You’re actually him,” you repeated, more to yourself than him. “Holy shit…” Your vision blurred.
“Okay,” he said slowly, carefully, like every word needed to be handled with caution. “I’m gonna take you down to the nurse, alright? You look like you’re about two seconds from passing out.” The concern in his voice almost made your chest hurt worse.
You couldn’t stop staring at him. At the lines that weren’t on his face. At the dark hair with only a little sprout of grey starting behind his ear. At the fact his wedding ring was missing because he hadn’t even met his wife yet.
Your stomach churned violently.
“Hey.” His tone softened further when you didn’t answer. “Can you stand?”
You blinked hard, forcing yourself back into the present. “…Yeah,” you managed weakly. You couldn’t tell if it was true. Still, you let him help you up.
His hand hovered near your arm rather than grabbing it outright, like he was afraid sudden contact would spook you. The tiny consideration dug under your ribs unexpectedly deep.
You followed beside him in a haze.
Students moved around you in blurs of uniforms and backpacks, conversations echoing down the corridor in warped fragments. Every now and then someone glanced your way before quickly looking elsewhere. You wondered vaguely what you looked like right now.
Probably insane.
Your legs carried you on autopilot while your mind spiralled somewhere far away, trapped between memories of dying and the impossible reality of polished school floors beneath your worn down shoes.
Mr Cameron said something to you halfway there.
You nodded without processing the words.
The nurse’s office door opened with a soft creak. Warm lighting spilled across the room, gentler than the harsh fluorescents outside. A small fan hummed quietly from the corner beside neatly stacked folders and medical supplies.
“You can sit there for me, sweetheart,” the nurse said immediately, concern flashing across her face the second she saw you.
You obeyed automatically.
Mr Cameron lingered near the doorway.
“They nearly collapsed outside class,” he explained quietly. “Caused quite a ruckus, had to leave the TA in charge.”
The nurse nodded once, already moving around the office gathering things. “Probably a panic attack,” she murmured. “I’ll handle it from here.”
Panic attack.
If only it were that simple. Your eyes drifted absently around the room while they spoke.
Posters about exam stress, a faded CPR chart, a school banner pinned crookedly near the filing cabinet, a half-heartedly made anti-bullying poster.
You wondered if this was hell.
Not fire-and-brimstone hell. Not demons with pitchforks and eternal screaming. Something worse. Something tailored specifically for you.
A punishment built out of teenage angst and overdue assignments. Out of uncomfortable plastic chairs and group projects with people who never did their share of the work. A cruel, cosmic joke where some higher being looked at your deepest fears and decided high school deserved a second round.
Maybe that was the point. Maybe dying hadn’t been enough. Maybe this was some sick afterlife where you were forced to relive adolescence forever. Endless exams you hadn’t studied for, teachers disappointed in you, the suffocating pressure of trying to figure out a future you already knew would never happen.
Or maybe this was your brain breaking apart in its final moments.
That felt possible too.
Maybe your body was still lying somewhere cold and ruined while your mind desperately stitched together familiar places to soften the terror of dying. One last comforting hallucination before everything finally shut off for good.
Except there was nothing comforting about this.
Your chest still hurt. Your memories still felt sharp enough to cut through you. You remembered blood. You remembered fear.
You remembered your grandma.
The thought slammed into you so suddenly your stomach twisted.
No.
No, you didnt want to think about her. Not yet.
You couldn’t imagine her all alone in that house. Couldn’t imagine the police knocking on her door, interrupting her while she was singing along to some old country song while she cleaned or making burnt sugar cookies for the end of the week when you were supposed to come over.
Your fingers curled tightly against your knees instead. Willing the thoughts of her all by herself out of your head.
Maybe you were in a coma.
Maybe six years hadn’t passed at all, maybe your brain had invented them entirely. Maybe none of it happened.
Maybe you’d never grown older. Never watched everything spiral so violently out of control.
Maybe your mind had simply created an entire lifetime out of a few dying seconds.
The idea should’ve comforted you. Instead, it made you feel sick. Because it had felt real. Too real.
You remembered the weight of hands grabbing your wrists. The sound of voices desperately calling out your name like something precious. The look in the vigilantes eyes right before-
Your breath caught violently. Stop!
You squeezed your eyes shut hard enough to hurt. The room hummed softly around you. The fan. Papers shuffling. Distant footsteps beyond the office walls.
Real.
It all felt horribly, unbearably real.
Your gaze drifted again, unfocused, until it snagged on the navy-and-gold banner pinned near the filing cabinet.
METROPOLIS HIGH.
Your brows furrowed immediately.
Metropolis? Not Gotham.
A sharp pulse throbbed behind your eyes. “… Wait,” you muttered faintly.
The nurse glanced over while scribbling something onto a clipboard. “Hm?”
You stared at the sign. “Why does it say Metropolis High?”
She blinked once like the question made no sense at all. “…Because that’s the school you attend, honey.”
“No, I-”
Your words caught against each other. Because that wasn’t right. Was it?
You stared harder at the banner like the letters would rearrange themselves if you looked long enough.
The nurse gave you a sympathetic look instead, already moving toward a cabinet near the back wall.
“You’re overwhelmed right now,” she said gently. “Just sit tight for me, alright? I need to grab some paperwork.”
Paperwork. Of course, even hell had paperwork.
The office door clicked shut behind her, leaving you alone in the softly humming room.
Silence rushed in immediately. Your breathing sounded too loud.
Slowly, uncertainly, you lifted one trembling hand in front of your face. You squeezed your fingers together. The sensation grounded and terrifying all at once.
Warm skin, pressure, movement. Real.
Your pulse jumped harder.
You pressed your thumb harshly into the web of skin between your thumb and pointer until pain bloomed under the skin.
Still real. Still here.
A shaky breath left you. “What the fuck…”
Time lost meaning somewhere around the fifty-minute mark.
The nurse came and went in intervals, checking your pulse, making you drink water, asking questions you barely processed long enough to answer. You nodded when expected to nod. Spoke when silence stretched too long. The rest of the time you sat there staring at the crooked Metropolis High banner pinned beside the filing cabinet like the words might rearrange themselves if you looked long enough.
They never did.
The clock above the door ticked forward relentlessly.
Eventually, the nurse stepped back into the office with a gentler expression than before.
“Well,” she said, setting her clipboard down, “your friend’s here to pick you up.”
Your brows furrowed immediately. “My… what?”
Before she could answer, the office door opened. And your stomach dropped straight through the floor.
Tim Drake stepped inside.
You knew that face.
Everyone knew that face.
One of Bruce Wayne’s sons. You’d seen him on magazine covers before, standing beside billion-dollar donations and carefully rehearsed interviews. Always neat in that rich-kid way.
Except this version of him looked younger. Eighteen. Maybe nineteen.
And the second his eyes landed on you, his entire expression shifted. Relief.
Sharp, immediate, real.
“There you are,” he breathed, like he’d been genuinely worried.
Your pulse spiked violently.
Tim crossed the room without hesitation, stopping beside your chair. Expensive cologne lingered faintly beneath the smell of antiseptic and printer paper. His tie hung loose around his collar like he’d rushed over here faster than he should’ve.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he said quietly. Not formal. Not distant.
Familiar.
His hand lifted instinctively toward your face before stopping halfway. You noticed the hesitation immediately. The restraint. Like he wanted to touch you and was actively stopping himself from doing it in front of the nurse.
“You almost collapsed?” His eyes searched your face rapidly. “What happened?”
You stared at him blankly.
Because Tim Drake was not your friend.
A Wayne should not have been standing in your school nurse’s office looking at you like this.
The nurse gave a sympathetic hum from behind her desk. “I think they just overwhelmed themselves. Panic attack, most likely.”
Tim’s expression tightened instantly. His attention snapped back to you so fast it almost felt physical. “You’re still not sleeping properly, are you?” he said softly.
The question landed with terrifying familiarity. Not the kind people asked out of politeness. The kind asked by someone who already knew the answer.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Something about that seemed to concern him even more.
Your skin prickled. Everything about this felt wrong.
Not because he was acting friendly. Because he was acting close. Years-of-history close.
The kind of closeness built from late-night phone calls and inside jokes and habitual concern. Like this wasn’t unusual for him. Like worrying about you had become second nature a long time ago.
And somehow the worst part was that nobody else seemed to find it strange.
Tim studied you for another second before exhaling quietly through his nose. A flicker of something you couldn’t place crossed his face then. Easy amusement slipping through the concern. It transformed him strangely. Made him look less like a carefully polished Wayne and more like an actual teenager.
Then his eyes landed back on you. The amusement softened immediately.
“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s get out of here.”
Let’s.
Not I’ll take you home.
Not your ride is here.
Let’s.
Like wherever you went next was automatic. Shared.
The nurse handed over a folded slip of paper. “A slip to leave early. Try to get some rest, we don’t want this happening again.”
Tim accepted it for you with a quick nod.
Then, before you could fully process what was happening, he reached down and grabbed your bag from beside the chair. Effortless. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.
You stared at him again. He noticed.
“Don’t start,” he said immediately, already heading for the door. “Last time you carried this thing I had to sit through you whining about sore shoulders. I don’t have all night.”
Last time.
You followed him out hesitantly.
The hallway outside had mostly emptied by now. Afternoon sunlight spilled through the tall windows lining the corridor, painting long golden streaks across polished floors.
Students still lingering around glanced over as you passed. Not at you. At Tim.
Whispers started almost instantly.
Of course they did. He was.. well, him.
You caught fragments as you walked.
“..is that Tim Drake?” “Thought he graduated…”
Tim either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He walked beside you with easy confidence, your bag slung over one shoulder while occasionally glancing your way like he was checking you were still there.
It should’ve felt comforting. Instead it made your skin feel too tight.
Outside, the warm Metropolis air hit your face immediately. The parking lot shimmered faintly beneath the afternoon sun, rows of expensive cars scattered between students gathering near the gates.
Tim headed toward a sleek black car parked near the curb. Of course he drove something expensive.
He clicked the unlock button casually before opening the passenger door for you without a second thought.
The motion was so smooth. So instinctive. Like habit.
You stopped beside the car instead of getting in.
Tim looked at you over the roof, brows lifting slightly. “…You good?”
You stared at him carefully. At the loosened tie. At the concern still lingering behind his eyes. At the way he stood close enough to block half the parking lot from view without seeming to realise he was doing it.
Then quietly, cautiously, you asked: “Why are you acting like we know each other?”
…
For a second, Tim just stared at you.
Still.
The sounds of the parking lot seemed to dull around you. Distant conversations, car doors slamming, someone laughing near the front gates. All of it faded beneath the sudden tightness pulling across his expression.
“…What?” he said finally.
Your pulse hammered harder. “You keep talking to me like we’re friends,” you said carefully, watching him closely. “Like we’ve known each other forever.”
The words felt surreal coming out of your mouth. Because this was the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Someone you’d only ever seen through screens and newspaper headlines.
Tim blinked once.
Then twice.
And something about his face changed. Just enough for unease to settle deep.
The concern softened into something sharper. More focused. Like his brain had immediately locked onto a problem and started dissecting it from every angle.
“You hit your head?” he asked quietly.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened slightly. Not angry, thinking.
You suddenly got the horrible impression that Tim Drake thought very fast.
His eyes searched your face with frightening intensity, tracking every tiny reaction you made like he was trying to solve you.
Then, unexpectedly, he huffed out a short breath through his nose.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “That’s… not funny.”
You frowned immediately. “I’m not joking.”
“I know your sense of humour is terrible, but fake-amnesia terrible feels excessive even for you.” The ease of the response sent ice down your spine.
He sounded so certain.
Certain enough that he wasn’t even considering another explanation.
You stared at him. Tim stared back.
Then the amusement faded from his face completely.
“…Wait,” he said. For the first time since he’d arrived, genuine uncertainty slipped through his expression.
“You’re serious.” It wasn’t a question.
Your silence answered for you.
Something tense settled into the space between you. Tim looked at you for another long second before glancing away sharply, gaze flicking toward the school entrance like he was reorganising his thoughts in real time.
When he looked back, his expression had smoothed out again. Controlled too quickly.
“You know who I am though,” he said carefully.
“…Tim Drake.”
“And?”
You swallowed. “One of Bruce Wayne’s sons.”
A strange look crossed his face. Not surprise. Something quieter. More dangerous.
Like hearing you describe him that way physically bothered him.
“And that’s it?” he asked.
You nodded slowly. The parking lot suddenly felt very warm.
Tim went silent. Completely silent. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the strap of your school bag.
Then he smiled. Small, Careful. Wrong.
“Well,” he said lightly, “that’s mildly concerning.”
The understatement hit so strangely you almost laughed.
Instead you watched him step closer. Not enough to alarm anyone watching. But enough to make your heartbeat spike anyway.
“Okay,” Tim said calmly, like he was talking someone down from a ledge. “We’re gonna try this again.”
His eyes locked onto yours. “We’ve been best friends since fifth grade,” he said. “You practically lived at my place last year because your apartment had mold issues. You hate mushrooms, Kon’s music, and that one physics teacher with the cheese breath.”
Your stomach twisted violently. Because none of that sounded familiar.
But he said it with the effortless confidence of someone reciting facts. Not lies.
“You throw your textbooks at me when I talk too loud when you’re trying to study,” he continued. “You cried for hours when your grandma’s dog died. You steal fries off my plate every time we go out to eat anywhere.”
Each sentence landed heavier than the last. History. Details. Memories you didn’t have.
Tim watched your face carefully the entire time.
And when nothing clicked, when recognition never came, something unreadable darkened behind his eyes for just a fraction of a second. Gone so fast you almost imagined it.
Then he smiled again. Gentle. Controlled.
“Still nothing?” he asked softly.
You swallowed hard. “…No.” The word came out quieter than you intended.
Tim’s smile didn’t fall. But something about it changed, subtly. Like he was forcing it to stay there.
For a few long seconds neither of you spoke. Wind stirred through the parking lot, warm against your skin, carrying distant traffic and scattered conversation from students near the gates.
Tim looked at you like he was trying to fit puzzle pieces together in real time.
Then he sighed softly through his nose and opened the passenger door wider.
“Okay,” he said lightly. Too lightly. “You’re either having a psychotic break or you finally snapped after calc homework.”
You blinked at him.
He tilted his head slightly. “Personally, I’m blaming calculus. It’s evil.” The joke landed strangely after everything else. Like he was trying very hard to keep things normal.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly at the effort.
Tim gave the car door a small tap with his knuckles. “Get in before someone from school takes a picture of us standing out here.”
Your feet didn’t move.
Tim seemed to notice your hesitation easing by half an inch because he stepped back from the door immediately, giving you more space. Another tiny act of restraint.
“You can sit there and stare at me suspiciously the whole drive if it helps,” he offered dryly. “You already do that normally anyway.”
That word again.
Like there was an entire relationship happening around you that only he could remember.
Slowly, you got into the car. The interior smelled faintly like coffee and expensive leather. Clean, organised, lived-in in a way that somehow made this feel worse instead of better.
Tim shut the door gently behind you before circling around to the driver’s side.
The second he got in, his attention flicked toward you automatically. Checking. Assessing.
His fingers tightened briefly against the steering wheel. Then relaxed.
“You hungry?” he asked casually as he started the car. The normalcy of the question almost made your head hurt.
“What?”
“You haven’t eaten since breakfast.” He pulled out of the parking spot smoothly. “Probably contributing to the almost-passing-out thing.”
You stared at him. “How do you know when I ate?”
Tim glanced at you briefly. Then, somehow, he looked confused by the question.
“Because I was there.” The response came instantly, like it was obvious.
Your pulse stumbled.
“I dropped you off this morning,” he continued, eyes back on the road. “You complained about being tired and stole half my coffee.”
Silence filled the car. Tim tapped his thumb once against the steering wheel before speaking again, quieter this time.
“..You really don’t remember me?” There was something careful hidden underneath the question.
You looked out the window instead of answering.
Metropolis blurred past outside the glass in streaks of sunlight and towering buildings. Everything looked too clean compared to Gotham. Too bright. Too alive.
Wrong. Everything felt so wrong.
The buildings outside stretched high into the sky in gleaming sheets of glass and steel, sunlight reflecting off them hard enough to hurt your eyes. People crowded sidewalks carrying shopping bags and coffee cups, laughing too loudly, moving too casually.
No one looked afraid. No one looked over their shoulder. There were no flickering police lights reflecting off wet pavement. No grime clinging to alleyways. No looming sense that something terrible was waiting around the next corner.
Metropolis felt clean in the same way hospitals felt clean. Artificial.
“…I lived in Gotham,” you said suddenly.
Tim’s hands stilled for half a second against the wheel. Small. Almost invisible.
“You do live in Gotham,” he corrected lightly. “Technically.”
You turned toward him sharply. “What does that mean?”
“It means your apartment’s in Gotham.” His tone stayed easy, conversational. “You go to school in Metropolis because your grandma transferred here after she moved.”
Your stomach dropped. “Grammy moved?”
“About two years ago.”
Two years. The number hit like whiplash. Because that meant this version of your life had an entire history you knew nothing about.
Tim glanced at you briefly before looking back at the road.
“You begged her not to,” he added. “Said Gotham had better takeout.”
You stared at him. The casual certainty in his voice made it hard to breathe sometimes. Like these memories genuinely belonged to him.
Your fingers curled tighter in your lap. “My grandma…” Your throat tightened around the words. “She’s alive?” The question came out smaller than intended.
Tim’s expression changed instantly. Concern threading beneath the surface again.
“Yeah,” he said carefully. “Of course she is.”
Relief hit so hard it almost hurt.
You turned away immediately, pressing your fist lightly against your mouth as your eyes burned unexpectedly.
She was alive.
You didn’t realise how hard you were breathing until Tim quietly reached over and lowered the music volume that you hadn’t even noticed was playing.
Giving you silence instead.
That silence stretched on for a good twenty minutes.
Tim drove one-handed now, the other resting loosely near the gearshift, fingers tapping occasionally against the console like his brain was running faster than the rest of him.
Every now and then you caught him glancing over. Like he still hadn’t decided how seriously to take this.
“…So,” he said eventually, voice deliberately lighter, “if you’re committing to the amnesia bit, can you at least forget the pic of me on your phone?”
You blinked at him, brows furrowing in confusion. “What?”
“The one you threaten to show Damian every time I annoy you.”
There was the faintest hint of amusement in his voice now. Careful amusement. Testing.
Watching to see if anything landed. When you just stared at him blankly again, the corner of his mouth twitched downward.
“…Right,” he murmured.
For the first time since this started, Tim looked unsettled too. Not outwardly. Most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But you were starting to.
The slight pauses before he spoke now. The way his fingers kept tightening briefly against the steering wheel.
The way his eyes flicked toward you every few seconds like he was making sure you were still there. Like he was afraid to look away too long.
You swallowed hard. “Why are you being so calm?” you asked quietly.
Tim glanced over at you, brows pulling together slightly. “What do you mean?”
“You’re acting like this is normal.”
“I’m not-”
“You are.” Your voice came out tighter than intended. “I just told you I don’t remember you and you’re making jokes.”
Silence settled briefly between you.
Tim looked back at the road.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “If I start freaking out too, you’ll freak out harder.” The honesty of the answer caught you off guard.
He exhaled softly through his nose, gaze fixed ahead. “And honestly?” A faint humourless smile crossed his face.
“You’re already kind of terrifying me right now.”
The further you got from Metropolis, the stranger the world outside became.
You weren’t used to this much open space.
In Gotham, everything felt crowded together. Buildings stacked over buildings. Alleys cutting through cramped streets. Siren's bleeding into traffic noise at all hours of the night.
Out here, the silence felt almost unnerving.
Fields stretched endlessly beyond fences and telephone poles. Farmhouses sat scattered in the distance with wide porches and rusted mailboxes. The sky itself looked bigger somehow. Too open, and far roo bright.
Tim slowed the car as the road narrowed further, tires crunching softly over loose gravel.
Your eyes drifted toward the passing scenery automatically. Cornfields, trees, a weathered wooden fence leaning slightly sideways.
Then finally a small country house came into view. It wasn’t large, just cozy.
White paint slightly faded with age, warm porch lights glowing softly against the coming dusk. Flowerpots crowded the front steps in messy little clusters, and wind chimes stirred gently near the porch roof.
The sight of it hit something deep in your chest unexpectedly hard.
Tim pulled into the gravel driveway slowly before putting the car in park.
For a moment neither of you moved. The engine ticked softly as it cooled.
You stared at the house. Something about it felt familiar in the same way that dreams felt like déjà vu.
Your eyes caught on to small details.
A knitted blanket hanging over the porch swing, crooked little garden beds overflowing with herbs, and a faded ceramic bird sitting near the front steps with one chipped wing.
It was homey.
Tim watched you quietly from the driver’s seat. He tired not to push. Just observing carefully again.
Then, after a second, he glanced toward the neighbouring property.
You followed the movement instinctively.
Another farmhouse stood not too far away across the fields. Larger than your grandma’s place, surrounded by fences and acres of farmland stretching toward the horizon. A red barn sat farther back near a windmill turning lazily in the evening breeze.
The Kent farm.
Something strange twisted low in your stomach. Recognition, almost. Like seeing a place from a dream you couldn’t fully remember.
Tim noticed you staring. “The neighbours are probably all home by now,” he said casually. “So if Jon suddenly appears out of nowhere, don’t be alarmed.”
Your brows furrowed slightly at the name. Was that the one he mentioned earlier?
Tim unbuckled his seatbelt with a soft click before looking back at you.
“You ready?” he asked gently.
The question felt heavier than it should’ve. Because somehow, stepping out of the car felt bigger than just getting out of a vehicle. Like crossing some invisible line you couldn’t uncross afterward.
Still, after a long pause, you nodded.
Tim’s expression softened with relief, stepping out first.
Gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he rounded the front of the car, evening sunlight catching briefly against the lenses of his glasses. The country air felt cooler once you opened the door, carrying the scent of cut grass, soil, and something faintly sweet drifting from the garden beds near the porch.
You stood slowly.
Wind stirred softly through the fields surrounding the property, rustling the cornstalks in long waves. Somewhere farther off, you could hear crickets starting up in the grass.
Tim grabbed your bag from the backseat before shutting the door behind you.
Your eyes drifted back toward the house.
Warm light glowed through the kitchen windows now. You could just barely make out movement inside.
Your chest tightened painfully.
Tim adjusted the strap of your bag over his shoulder before starting toward the porch, slowing after a couple steps when he realised you weren’t beside him yet.
He waited. Not calling for you. Not rushing you. Just waiting quietly at the edge of the driveway.
The restraint felt strangely deliberate now that you were noticing it.
Like he wanted to reach for your hand. Like he wanted to guide you inside himself, but he wasn’t.
Because he knew it would scare you.
Slowly, you followed him.
The wooden porch creaked softly beneath your shoes as you stepped up beside him. Up close, the house looked even more lived-in. Gardening gloves abandoned near the steps. A half-watered tray of plants sitting near the railing. Tiny scratches near the doorframe like a large dog used to jump there repeatedly.
Tim reached for the door, then hesitated. His hand stilled briefly against the handle before he glanced sideways at you. And for the first time since this entire nightmare started, he looked uncertain.
Not about you forgetting him, not about what was happening, about this.
About whatever waited on the other side of the door.
“She doesn’t know about what happened at school yet,” he said quietly.
Your brows pulled together faintly.
“I didn’t wanna freak her out over the phone.”
Before either of you could say anything else, the front door opened. Knob slipping from Tim’s palm.
Your grandmother stood there with a cigarette between two fingers and an expression already bordering on irritation.
“Well?” she said. “You two gonna stand around starin’ at my porch all night or what?” The roughness of her voice hit painfully in your chest.
Tim snorted softly beside you. “Nice to see you too.”
“Don’t get smart with me, city boy.” She pointed the cigarette vaguely toward him before looking at you properly. Her eyes narrowed slightly behind slipping reading glasses. Concern colouring her features. “You look pale.”
“Long day,” Tim answered smoothly before you could.
“Hm.” She sounded more annoyed on your behalf than anything else. “School’s a scam. Get inside.”
She turned and shuffled back into the house without waiting to see if you followed.
Tim opened the screen door for you. Again. Like habit.
You stepped inside slowly.
Warm air wrapped around you immediately. The house smelled like coffee, cigarette smoke, old paperbacks, and something cooking in the kitchen. A small television muttered quietly somewhere deeper inside the house while an ancient ceiling fan clicked overhead in lazy rotations.
The floor creaked beneath your shoes.
Your grandmother disappeared into the kitchen muttering something chiding under her breath.
Tim smiled faintly like he’d heard that speech before.
Of course he had.
He slipped your bag off his shoulder and set it beside the staircase without asking where it belonged.
Another practiced movement. Another stupid thing that he did too naturally.
You noticed his eyes flick briefly across the room afterward.
Checking windows.
Doors.
Exits.
The movement was subtle enough most people probably wouldn’t think twice about it.
You did.
Then a loud knock rattled suddenly against the front screen door.
Your grandmother yelled from the kitchen instantly.
“If that’s one of the Kent boys, tell ‘em I still want my casserole dish back!”
Tim sighed.
And for the first time since meeting him today, genuine exasperation crossed his face.
“…Too late,” he muttered.
Before you could process that response, the screen door swung open.
A dark-haired boy stepped inside with the kind of ease that suggested he’d done it a hundred times before.
He looked to be around fourteen or fifteen.
And the second his eyes landed on you, he lit up. Relief crashed across his face so openly it startled you.
“There you are!” he said immediately.
Then, without hesitation, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around you.
The contact hit too suddenly for your brain to catch up. He was warm. Solid.
Clingy in the way only kids and younger teenagers could get away with.
Your entire body locked up instantly. The boy either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“You disappeared before lunch,” he complained into your shoulder like this was a completely normal thing to do. “I texted you like eight times.”
Your pulse stumbled violently.
Because this, whatever this is, was worse somehow.
Tim had been careful. Restrained.
This boy wasn’t restrained at all.
He held onto you with easy familiarity, like touching you came naturally to him. Like he’d done it hundreds of times before and never once considered you might not want him to.
Your gaze darted towards Tim in question.
He was watching the two of you with an unreadable expression.
Not surprised. Something tighter, like he was barely tolerating this.
The boy finally pulled back enough to look at your face properly.
And immediately frowned.
“…Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
You stared at him blankly.
Up close, he looked even younger. Bright blue eyes. Dark hair falling messily across his forehead. Farmboy built despite the baby face he hadn’t fully grown out of yet.
There was something overwhelmingly earnest about him.
Dangerously easy to trust.
“I think they had some kind of panic attack at school,” Tim said before you could answer.
The boy’s entire expression changed instantly.
Concern flooded in so fast it nearly bowled over everything else.
“What?” His attention snapped back to you immediately. “Why didn’t anyone call me?”
The possessiveness in the question caught you off guard. Like he genuinely believed he should’ve been informed immediately.
Tim leaned back lightly against the wall near the staircase, arms crossing loosely over his chest.
“You were in class,” he said flatly.
“I still could’ve left.”
Tim stared at him for a long second, eyes narrowed.
The boy ignored him completely.
His focus stayed entirely on you now, concern written openly across his face in a way Tim never allowed himself.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
The question should’ve felt simple.
He sounded sincere. Not polite or performative. Like he cared too much. You’ve never had anyone fret over you like this.
Before you could answer, your grandmother’s voice echoed from the kitchen. “Jonathan Kent, if you came over here empty-handed again, I’m tellin’ your mother.”
The boy, Jonathan apparently, groaned immediately.
“I brought the dish back last week!”
“You brought back the wrong lid!”
“That sounds fake!”
“It ain’t!”
For some reason, the argument continuing in the background made this all feel even more surreal.
Like you’d stepped into somebody else’s life halfway through. And everybody else already knew the script except you.
It’s only after a long moment of calm that Jon finally looked back at you.
“…You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, quieter this time.
You opened your mouth automatically. “I’m fin-”
“Bullshit,” Tim said flatly from across the room.
You blinked at him.
Jonathan nodded immediately like that was the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah, you look awful.”
“Thanks,” you muttered reflexively.
“..There it is.” Tim pointed at you lazily. “That’s the first normal thing you’ve said all day.”
The familiarity of the teasing landed strangely in your chest again. You felt.. Comfortable.
Like this was a rhythm you slipped into often.
Jonathan moved closer before you fully noticed, hovering just inside your space with restless concern written all over him.
“You didn’t answer any of my texts,” he said. “I thought maybe you were mad at me again.”
Again.
Tim let out an irritated sigh. “You whine about that every time they don’t answer for twenty minutes.”
“Because last time they ignored me for like six hours!”
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
The response came so dramatically sincere that your grandmother snorted from the kitchen, you could just hear it over the music you were sure she’d been singing to before you arrived.
Then Tim’s eyes landed back on you.
And just like that, the softness disappeared into something quieter. Focused.
You were starting to realise Tim watched people constantly. Especially you. Like every blink and twitch meant something.
“You should come over later,” Jon said suddenly. “Mom made pie.”
Your grandmother yelled again from the kitchen. “Don’t you bribe my grandkid with baked goods!”
“You can’t stop me!”
“You’re lucky I like your mama!”
Jon grinned toward the kitchen before looking back at you again, expression brightening hopefully.
“You’ll come, right?”
Both boys went still waiting for your answer. Each for different reasons.
After everything that had happened today, the warmth of the house and the easy arguing and the smell of food drifting from the kitchen made exhaustion settle heavily into your bones.
You’d already died once. What was the harm in trying to enjoy yourself now?
Slowly, you nodded. “…Sure,”
Jon lit up instantly, delighted. “Oh, thank god,” he blurted. “I thought you were gonna say no.”
You snorted softly before you could stop yourself. The sound surprised all three of you.
Jon’s expression somehow brightened even more.
And Tim went very still.
There was a slight pause in his breathing. His attention snapping fully onto you the second the laugh left your mouth.
Relief flickered across his face so quickly it barely existed.
“C’mon,” Jon said, already moving toward the door again. “Mom’ll be offended if the pie gets cold.”
“Pie doesn’t get cold,” Tim muttered.
“Yes it does.”
“No, it becomes breakfast.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“You eat cold pizza for breakfast.”
“That’s different.”
You watched them bicker as they moved toward the porch. And for one dangerously fragile second, It almost felt normal.
The walk toward the Kent house was quiet.
Not silent. Jonathan still talked, because apparently he never stopped talking, but the energy from earlier had dulled slightly beneath the weight settling in your chest.
“…and then Damian said the cow wasn’t technically missing because he knew where it was,” Jonathan was saying beside you, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. “Which apparently meant it didn’t count.”
You blinked slowly. “He stole a cow?”
“He was making a point.”
“That doesn’t explain anything.”
“I know.”
Tim walked a few steps behind the two of you. Not far enough to seem strange, still close enough to hear everything.
The gravel path crunched softly beneath your shoes as the farmhouse grew larger ahead, warm yellow light spilling from the windows across the darkening fields.
Jonathan kept glancing toward you while he spoke. Checking your reactions. Like he was trying to pull you back into something.
“…Damian hates everybody,” he continued. “But he only threatens people with gardening tools if he likes them.”
You frowned faintly. “That feels concerning.”
“It is concerning.”
“You let him around livestock?”
“He’s banned from the hen house now.”
The Kent farm stretched larger the closer you got. The smell of earth and cut hay lingered faintly in the air while warm light spilled from the farmhouse windows ahead.
Everything out here felt too peaceful.
Your brain still kept waiting for the catch.
Tim was already looking at you when you turned to him.
Something unreadable sat behind his expression for half a second too long before his phone buzzed sharply through the quiet.
His gaze moved towards it immediately.
You saw the exact moment irritation cut across his face. Cold. Instant.
Jonathan noticed too. His own expression tightened almost automatically.
Tim answered without stopping walking. “What?” No greeting.
Silence stretched.
His jaw flexed once. “I told Alfred I’d be busy.” Another pause. Then his eyes lifted toward you again.
There was something deeply unsettling about the way his attention kept returning to you no matter what else was happening. Like every conversation existed around you instead of separate from you.
Jon slowed slightly beside you.
Tim’s voice flattened further. “No. I’m with them now.”
Your fingers curled slightly at your sides.
A long silence followed. “…Fine.” The word sounded bitten off.
Something unreadable darkened behind his expression. “I’m on my way.”
The call ended.
Jon frowned immediately. “You’re leaving?”
“I have to go back to Gotham.”
“You just got here.”
Tim ignored that entirely. His attention settled on you instead with unnerving intensity.
“I won’t be long,” he said carefully.
You nodded slowly.
Tim hesitated. Like leaving you here physically bothered him.
Nobody spoke for a second. Wind moved softly through the fields around you.
Jon finally broke the silence first. “Bruce?”
Tim looked at him. Just looked. It wasn’t openly hostile, “does it matter?”
Jon held his stare for a second before looking away first with visible annoyance.
Tim slid his phone back into his pocket with controlled precision before looking at you.
Your brows pulled together faintly. “You really have to go now?”
“Yes.” The answer came too fast. Like the decision had already been made the second the phone rang.
Jon shifted beside you immediately. “They can stay with us until-”
“I know.”
Flat.
Jon’s mouth shut.
Something tense settled in the space between them.
You suddenly had the awful feeling this argument had happened before. Repeatedly.
Tim stepped closer then, invading your space.
“You’ll text me when you get home,” it wasn’t phrased like a question.
You blinked once. “…Okay.”
His eyes stayed on your face another second too long. Searching. Like he was trying to decide something.
Then Jon reached over absentmindedly and hooked his fingers loosely around your wrist to tug you forward again, and the shift in Tim was immediate. Tiny, but immediate.
His gaze flicked downward, going very still.
The evening air suddenly felt colder.
Jon noticed. His fingers tightened slightly before letting go entirely.
A warning shot.
Your stomach twisted.
What the hell was wrong with these people?
Tim’s attention returned to you instantly afterward, expression smoothing back into something normal enough to pass.
“If anything feels off,” he said quietly, “call me.”
Something about the way he said it made your skin prickle.
Jon scoffed softly beside you. “You say that like we’re gonna poison them.”
Tim looked at him. A long pause followed.
“..I didn’t say that.” The response was strangely heavy.
Jonathan’s expression darkened immediately. Not playful annoyance anymore. Real irritation.
For one brief second, you caught something ugly underneath his usual warmth. Sharp and adolescent and possessive in a way that reminded you of a dog baring its teeth before you could fully process it.
Then it vanished.
Tim exhaled quietly through his nose before looking back at you again.
And there it was. That restraint.
Like he wanted to say more. Wanted to do more. But was actively stopping himself.
“Get back to the apartment safe. I’ll pick you up in the morning,” he said finally. He wasn’t asking. He was deciding for you.
Then, after the smallest hesitation, “…Don’t stay up too late.” The softness of it felt weird. It sounded genuine.
Tim held your gaze one second longer, his hands lifting as if to wrap around you, only to fall short. Just giving your shoulders a squeeze. Then he stepped back toward the driveway.
Jon immediately moved closer the second space opened beside you.
You let him drag you along, not noticing how Tim stopped halfway back toward the car and looked directly at Jon. No expression at all.
Jon stared back.
And then he left.
You’d made it all the way to the entrance of the house. The headlights disappeared slowly down the gravel road beyond the fields.
Jon waited until the car was fully gone before speaking.
“…They hate leaving you here.” The words slipped out under his breath. Not meant for you.
Your brows furrowed immediately. “What?”
Jon blinked like he hadn’t realised he’d said it aloud.
Then he smiled too quickly. “Nothing.”
But his eyes drifted toward the road Tim had vanished down.
The screen door creaked loudly as the younger boy pulled it open. Warmth spilled over you immediately. Not just heat, life.
The house smelled like garlic, black pepper, fresh bread, and something sweet baking somewhere deeper in the kitchen. Pots clinked softly against the stovetop while an old radio hummed low enough to blend into the background.
For one disorienting second, the normalcy of it all made you still, letting out a deep breath.
Jon kicked his shoes off carelessly by the door. “Ma?” He called, already reaching back for you without looking. His fingers closed loosely around your wrist, guiding you over the doorway before letting go again like it was unconscious. “We’re back.”
“Wash your hands before you touch anything,” a voice called immediately from the kitchen.
Lois stood near the stove with one sleeve rolled to her elbow, wooden spoon in hand while something simmered steadily in a large pot. Reading glasses sat low on her nose as she glanced between the stove and a tablet propped beside the counter.
She glanced up briefly at the sound of your footsteps. Then froze. Though it only lasted a fraction of a second.
The spoon in her hand stilled. Her eyes flicked rapidly over your face, shoulders, posture. Assessing.
Relief followed so quickly afterward it almost looked painful.
“There you are,” The words left her mouth before she seemed to think about them.
Lois crossed the room without hesitation and pulled you into a hug before you could properly react. Warm arms. Firm enough that it startled you.
You froze.
Lois seemed to realise it a second later and loosened immediately. “Sorry,” she said softly, though she still kept one hand against your arm when she pulled back. “Long day?”
You stared at her for half a second too long before answering. “…Something like that.” Who the hell was this woman?
Jon disappeared toward the sink without another word, leaving you standing awkwardly near the doorway while Lois watched you with an intensity disguised as casual concern.
“You look exhausted,” she said. The words were gentle. Her eyes weren’t.
You suddenly understood where Jonathan got it from.
Clark leaned against the kitchen table nearby, broad shoulders slightly hunched as he read through a stack of papers spread beneath one large hand.
Something unreadable crossed his face before his expression softened almost instantly into something warmer. Safer.
And suddenly the room felt smaller.
You knew who he was immediately. Everybody knew Clark Kent’s face. Pulitzer-winning journalist. Metropolis golden boy. Too kind-looking to be real.
Except this version of him didn’t look like the carefully edited photographs from newspapers.
He looked bigger somehow. Not taller. Just… solid.
Grounded in a way that made the kitchen itself feel built around him.
And the second his eyes landed on you, his entire attention sharpened completely. That horrible, focused attentiveness you were beginning to recognise in people around you.
Jon was back at your side by then, nudging his elbow against yours.
When Lois noticed him she pointed toward the table. “Sit.”
Something about her tone made all three of you obey automatically.
Jon dropped into the chair beside yours while you sat more cautiously across from Clark.
The second you did, his attention flicked briefly toward the way your fingers hovered unconsciously near your chest before returning to your face.
Lois returned to the stove, though her attention kept drifting back toward you every few seconds.
“Well,” she said brightly, “good news is I made enough food to feed an army because apparently living with boys means groceries evaporate overnight.”
Jon snorted beside you. “That’s because Kon eats like he’s preparing for winter.”
A second later the said boy appeared in the kitchen holding a bag of chips under one arm.
Conner leaned against the doorway easily. “You guys took forever.”
Jon pointed immediately. “See? He’s already eating.”
“I’m growing.”
“You’re twenty.”
“And thriving.”
Lois sighed like this was a conversation she’d heard a hundred times before. “Hands. Sink. Now.”
Conner grinned lazily before finally pushing off the doorway.
As he passed behind your chair, his fingers dragged briefly across the top of your shoulder in an absentminded greeting. Casual.
“You’re wiped,” he said as he moved toward the sink. “What happened to you?”
“..Long day,” you answered finally.
“Hm.” Conner washed his hands quickly. “You look awful,” he said bluntly.
Jon made a noise of protest. “Kon.”
“What? They do.” Conner reached down without hesitation and squeezed the back of your neck once, casual and familiar. “You sleep at all?”
The touch settled something restless in your chest before you could question why.
You exhaled quietly, not sure how to respond. “Not really.”
“Yeah, figured.”
He moved around the table and dropped into the chair beside you heavily enough to rattle it. Close enough that your elbows brushed immediately.
Nobody in the room seemed to think anything of it.
Clark folded the papers in front of him neatly before setting them aside. “Rough day at school?”
The question sounded normal. Everything here sounded normal.
You nodded anyway. “Something like that.”
Clark nodded once like that explained more than you intended it to.
Lois finally slid a mug in front of you, steam curling softly into the kitchen light. “Tea,” she said. “You look like you need it.”
“Ma thinks tea fixes everything,” Jon muttered.
“It does,” Lois replied immediately.
Conner reached over without asking and stole a piece of cut meat from the chopping board beside the stove.
Lois smacked the back of his hand with the towel.
“Ow.”
“You have your own plate.”
“I like yours better.”
The conversation moved around you easily after that. Natural. Loud in the quiet way families were loud.
At least.. the way that the ones you’ve seen on TV were.
Jon kept leaning against your shoulder whenever he talked. Conner sprawled sideways in his chair close enough that his knee bumped yours every few minutes beneath the table. Lois drifted constantly around the kitchen while Clark stayed seated across from you, listening more than speaking.
And through all of it, you kept catching them looking at you. Not staring. Just… checking. Like they were making sure you were still there.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the mug.
Clark noticed immediately. “You alright?” he asked gently.
Four heads turned toward you at once.
The attention hit like pressure. “Yeah,” you answered too quickly.
Nobody called you out on it.
Jon’s arm slid across the back of your chair as he leaned closer. “You’re doing that weird thing again.”
You looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means your face does this thing.” He gestured vaguely toward you with his free hand.
“My face does not do a thing.”
“It does.”
Conner nodded seriously beside you. “Yeah, you get this little line right here.” He reached over like he intended to touch between your brows.
You jerked back automatically before he could. The movement froze the table for half a second.
Conner stopped immediately.
“Sorry,” he said, and for the first time since walking in, his voice lost some of its easy warmth. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
The apology came too fast. Too careful.
Like your reaction mattered far more than it should have.
Jon’s posture shifted beside you almost instantly. Subtle tension settling into his shoulders.
Clark was watching you closely now too.
They were watching you the way someone watches a door they’re waiting to lock.
The silence stretched after your reaction to Conner reaching toward you.
Too long.
Jon leaned closer beside you, arm hooked loosely over the back of your chair again. “You’ve been weird all day..”
“I haven’t.” The defense came too quickly, even though some part of you knew he was right. Whoever you’d been to them before today wouldn’t have sat this stiffly at the table. Wouldn’t have flinched away from casual touches like they were something dangerous.
“You have,” Conner said easily from beside you. “You’re quieter.”
“You guys are just intense.” The second the words left your mouth, the room went still.
Not everything. The radio still hummed softly behind Lois. Something simmered steadily on the stove. A fork clinked lightly against ceramic.
But them. They froze. Like you’d said something hurtful without intending to.
Clark’s expression softened almost immediately afterward, though something unreadable lingered underneath it now. “Intense?”
You gave a small shrug, trying to laugh it off. “I don’t know. You all keep staring at me.”
“We’re listening to you,” Lois corrected gently.
“No,” you said slowly. “It’s more like…” You hesitated. “Checking.”
Nobody answered.
Jon’s fingers tapped once against your shoulder absentmindedly. “You notice everything.”
The comment should’ve sounded teasing. Instead it sounded observational.
Conner leaned sideways in his chair, openly studying you now. “You didn’t used to.”
Your head turned toward him immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Another pause. Tiny. Wrong.
Then Lois spoke smoothly over it. “It means you’ve seemed stressed lately.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly.
Clark folded his hands together on the table. Calm. Steady. “School been difficult?”
“Not really.”
Again, silence.
Like they were all choosing their words carefully around you.
Conner looked almost irritated suddenly. Not at you. At the conversation itself.
Clark glanced briefly toward him before looking back at you. “…We’re worried.”
You blinked in surprise. “About what?”
Nobody answered fast enough.
Your chair scraped softly against the floor as you shifted backward slightly. “You’re overreacting.”
“No,” Lois said gently.
The word settled heavily into the room.
Clark reached across the table then, large hand closing carefully around yours before you could think to pull away. Warm. Steady. Terrifyingly comforting.
“You matter to this family,” he said quietly.
Your stomach dropped at the wording.
Wrong. So fucking wrong. This entire thing felt wrong. You didn’t belong here. Not really.
These people were warm in a way that hurt to look at too long. Easy with each other. Familiar. Loving. The kind of family people envied quietly from a distance.
And you-
You were just someone they’d decided to pull into it.
The worst part was the awful little ache in your chest that wanted to let them.
You let out a slow breath and carefully slipped your hand from Clark’s grasp before pushing your chair back farther. “I think I should go home.”
“No.” The response came instantly.
All four of them at once.
The force of it made your pulse jump.
Lois removed her reading glasses slowly, violet eyes settling fully onto you now. “It’s late,” she said softly. “Far too late for me to let you drive all the way back to that little apartment alone.”
“It’s barely evening.” But the protest sounded weak even to your own ears.
Because part of you truthfully didn’t want to leave.
This house felt warm in a way that every place you’ve ever lived never had. Loud and alive and full in a way that made something lonely in your chest ache every time Jon laughed or Lois nudged Clark with her elbow or Conner leaned against you like being close was the most natural thing in the world.
You wanted it.
You just didn’t understand why they wanted you.
“You can stay here,” Conner said casually, though his attention sharpened immediately when you stood fully. “You stay over all the time anyway.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to tonight.” Another weak lie.
Jon stood too. Immediate. Close enough that your pulse jumped again. “You’re upset.” His face fell almost instantly, expression softening with something dangerously genuine.
“Hey.”
God. Why did he have to look at you like that?
Like your discomfort physically hurt him.
Clark stepped closer more slowly, grounding the room around him without even trying. “Nobody’s trying to scare you.”
“…Then why does this feel so weird?”
Silence.
Jon looked down briefly before meeting your eyes again. Because unlike the others, he looked tired of pretending.
“You wanna know the truth?” he asked quietly.
Something in your chest tightened. Nobody stopped him.
Lois watched carefully from the counter.
Conner leaned back against the table beside you, arms folding loosely across his chest.
Clark stayed still. Waiting.
Jon stepped closer. “You pull away,” he said softly. “Every time people get too attached to you, you try to run away.”
Your throat tightened.
“And we know we’re a lot,” Lois admitted gently behind him.
“We tried giving you space,” Conner added. “Didn’t really work out for us.”
The honesty behind his words felt miserable.
Jon’s gaze flicked briefly toward your hands, toward the way your fingers tightened around the edge of the chair.
Then back to your face. “You make this place feel…” He stopped, jaw tightening slightly before trying again. “Right.”
The room suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. Dangerously warm.
Clark’s voice came quieter than before. “And when you leave, everybody notices.”
Nobody laughed. Nobody acted embarrassed.
Conner looked completely serious. Lois too. Jon looked at you like this was the simplest truth in the world.
You were sure that if you looked at them for a moment longer your eyes would well with tears.
Because somewhere beneath the unease and the wrongness and the intensity of all of this, you understood exactly what they meant.
And it scared you.
Conner reached for your hand carefully this time. Slow enough for you to pull away.
You didn’t.
Relief crossed his face so quickly it almost looked painful.
His fingers tightened around yours. Certain.
“You don’t have to leave tonight,” he murmured again.
The house had gone quiet around you again. Waiting.
Like they already knew your answer.
And.. maybe you weren’t sure if they were wrong.
We’re all collectively going to pretend that Jon was never aged up. (For the plot)
Reblogs help more people find the story, comments help me survive writing it. → They’re the only way for me to know whether to continue writing this series or not.
yandere bruce wayne who convinces you he’s serious about you, despite your reservations about his playboy tendencies.
bruce wayne who calls the paparazzi to catch you leaving your first date with him, a date that you were already hesitant to go on.
bruce wayne who calls and apologizes for the fact that you’re now plastered over the cover of every gotham tabloid, even though he keeps everyone of them.
bruce wayne who tells you you’re going to stay with him until everything blows over when the paparazzi find out where you live because he showed up to apologize in person.
bruce wayne who comforts you on that first night in, promising that he’ll take care of everything for you.
bruce wayne who tells you to quit your job after the first few nights at wayne manor, telling you he’ll find you something new at wayne enterprises when the time is right.
bruce wayne who has your car taken in the mechanic on day five at wayne manor because it won’t start, you never see it again.
bruce wayne who keeps accidentally locking you in his bedroom when he leaves for work because he’s so used to living alone, he promises he’ll make you a key tomorrow.
bruce wayne who tells you that there are no landlines in the house anymore, but he assures you he’ll get you a new phone after you misplaced yours somewhere in the many rooms of the manor.
bruce wayne who finally tells you on day seven in the manor that you’re home now and that he has no intention on ever letting you leave again <3
Oof imagine being a bouncer at a Gotham nightclub and encountering Brucie Wayne in the wild. Your boss asked you to escort the man to his driver, as he'd lost himself a little to deeply in his drink. You'd moved precious intoxicated cargo plenty of times, but holy shit, Wayne was heavy. And handsy. While some might like the idea of being a petting zoo for Gotham's finest silver foxes, people didn't tip bouncers like they did bartenders and bottle girls. So you were more than eager to deposit your charge in a certainly expensive passenger seat and try to forget the impression of his fingers in your asscheek. Not to mention the secondhand embarrassment was starting to get to you. Didn't he have kids at home?
You took a little pleasure in kicking open the door, letting the street lamp shock a little sobriety in your charge. It was curious, though. Drunk men's pupils didn't react quickly: that was what made it so fun to pull them out of a dark club. But when you looked into those grey-blue irises, you saw two little pinpricks of black.
"Don't look at me like that if you're not gonna kiss me," he slurred, but it sounded off to you now. His driver, a long-suffering man with a pencil moustache, opened the door for you. You nodded gratefully.
"Have a good night, Mr. Wayne." You tried to close the door, but he stopped you with a too-steady hand.
"Wanna make this a great night?" You looked for help from the driver, but he'd already retreated to his seat. You took the man's, surprisingly rough, hand off the car door, gently guiding to his person.
"I'm sorry Mr. Wayne—" but the hand you were holding was gone. No, it was locked on your arm, just above your elbow, and you couldn't react before you were being dragged into the back seat. Your fighting, all your strength and experience with the rowdiest and richest Gotham had to offer, all was futile against him. He was absurdly strong. He held you down by your hair while he jabbed something in your neck. Bastard. You'd have to add his picture to the 'problem wall' in the breakroom, you thought. You'd have to get someone else to get the picture. Your hands were feeling very unsteady. At least he wasn't fighting as hard now; must have tired himself out. You could use a rest yourself.
Yandere Bruce Wayne x Soulmate Reader (Smut warning: Masterbation)
The countdown had never meant much to Bruce Wayne.
As a child, it had simply existed.
A cluster of glowing numbers etched into the skin of his inner wrist, ticking steadily downward with each passing second.
It wasn’t unusual. Every person in the world was born with some form of soulmate bond. Some shared pain, some shared dreams, some found words appearing on their skin, written by hands they had never touched. Others heard thoughts not their own, glimpsed flashes of memories, or carried matching marks that mirrored one another across continents.
There were countless variations. Entire scientific fields had been built around studying them.
Bruce’s happened to be a countdown.
Nobody knew exactly why soulmate bonds manifested differently. Decades of research had produced theories but few answers. Genetics and geography didn’t determine it. Neither did bloodlines or upbringing. Soulmate bonds simply… were.
For Bruce, that meant a simple promise written beneath his skin.
When it reached zero, he would meet the person destined for him.
As a boy, he had imagined it the same way every child did.
His soulmate would appear one day. They would laugh together. Grow old together. Build a life together.
A future.
The sort of future his parents had possessed.
The sort of future that had died alongside them in an alley behind the Monarch Theater.
After that night, the timer became little more than background noise.
The glowing numbers continued their steady descent while Bruce attended funerals, inherited a fortune he never wanted, and watched Gotham consume itself one crime at a time. They ticked downward while Alfred patiently pieced together the shattered remains of a grieving child. They ticked downward while Bruce buried himself in studies, martial arts, criminology, forensics, and every discipline that might one day help him wage war against the city that had taken everything from him.
Years passed.
The timer remained a constant. Unchanging. Always moving. Always counting.
Sometimes he caught himself staring at it during long flights between countries. During sleepless nights spent training until his knuckles split. During lonely evenings in unfamiliar cities where he could almost pretend he was just another wealthy young man wandering the world in search of purpose.
The numbers never stopped.
And despite everything, a small part of him still wondered.
Who were they?
Who was waiting at the end of that countdown?
The thought felt dangerous.
Hope always did.
By the time he returned to Gotham and donned the cowl for the first time, Bruce had long since convinced himself that soulmates were a luxury he could not afford.
Batman had no place for dreams. No room for futures. And he certainly had no room for someone he might one day love.
The city came first.
It always would.
Gotham demanded sacrifice, and Bruce had made his choice years ago.
If his soulmate existed, then they deserved better than what remained of him.
So he stopped thinking about it.
Or at least he tried to.
The timer continued to count.
Days.
Months.
Years.
Seconds.
Its steady descent accompanied him through every chapter of his life.
It was there when Dick Grayson crashed into his world beneath a circus tent, a furious and heartbroken child whose pain mirrored Bruce’s own in ways neither of them fully understood. It remained when Dick became Robin, when he became family, and when Bruce made the selfish decision to love someone enough to let them stay.
The numbers continued falling.
They were there when Jason Todd stole the tires off the Batmobile, and somehow stole a place in Bruce’s heart soon afterward. They ticked downward through every argument, every proud moment, every hard-earned smile.
And they’d kept counting when Jason died.
Bruce remembered that night with painful clarity.
The rage. The guilt. Helplessness. The suffocating certainty that he had failed.
Even then, amidst grief so profound it threatened to hollow him out completely, the timer continued. As though fate cared little for the tragedies of ordinary men.
Years later came Tim.
Then Damian.
A family assembled from broken pieces and impossible odds. One that Bruce never intended to build and could not imagine living without.
The countdown remained through it all. A quiet presence beneath his skin. Easy to ignore, impossible to forget. Even whilst hidden from sight beneath the bulky steel of his jaeger-lecoultre reverso.
Sometimes, on particularly difficult nights, he found himself fiddling with the watch strap just enough to see the edges of it.
Not because he expected anything or believed he deserved whatever waited at the end, but because the idea lingered. A tiny, stubborn thing buried beneath decades of grief and responsibility.
The possibility that somewhere out there existed a person uniquely his.
Someone who might understand. Who might see every ugly, fractured piece of him and choose to stay.
Someone who might look beyond Batman.
Beyond the billionaire mask. Beyond the failures. And simply see Bruce.
It was a foolish thought. An indulgent one, really. The sort of fantasy he rarely allowed himself to entertain.
Yet it persisted all the same.
Perhaps because he had spent so much of his life alone. Not physically. Never physically. The Manor was full. The Batcave was full. His life overflowed with people he loved.
But loneliness and solitude were not the same thing.
Bruce had learned that lesson long ago.
For most of his life, every meaningful relationship had begun with loss.
Dick had lost his parents. Jason had lost everything. Tim had nearly lost himself trying to save Batman from his own grief. Damian had been raised as a weapon before he was ever allowed to be a child.
Every person Bruce ever loved carried scars.
All because they had stepped into his world.
And if fate truly intended to place another person in his life… What then? What kind of future could he possibly offer them?
Late nights spent waiting for him to return home alive? Hospital visits? Funerals? The constant threat of becoming a target simply because they mattered to Bruce Wayne?
No.
His soulmate deserved better.
Deserved normal.
Far away from Gotham and everything it touched.
A sensible conclusion. A logical conclusion. One he repeated to himself countless times.
The problem was that logic had never succeeded in silencing the small traitorous part of him that still watched the countdown.
Nobody truly knew him. Not completely. Not the way a soulmate supposedly could. The way destiny promised.
So the timer remained tucked away in the back of his mind.
A breath caught before it could fully form. A dream he never allowed himself to finish imagining.
And still it counted.
Drawing closer with every passing day to a future Bruce Wayne had stopped believing would ever matter.
Until the day it finally reached zero.
The countdown on your wrist had never inspired the same fascination it seemed to in everyone else.
As a child, you remembered classmates comparing bruises during recess, eagerly conspiring about how old they’d be when they finally met the person fate had chosen for them. Entire conversations revolved around it. Predictions. Theories. Daydreams.
You had participated, of course.
Mostly because everyone else did.
But even then, you never quite understood the obsession.
Perhaps it was because your bond felt so distant.
Unlike those who shared pain with their soulmates or dreamed through another person’s eyes, your countdown offered nothing tangible. No connection. No glimpses into another life. No indication of who your soulmate might be beyond the vague promise that one day, eventually, you would meet them.
It was difficult to become attached to someone who felt entirely theoretical.
The numbers counted downward. Life continued.
School became university. University became work. Friendships came and went. Apartments changed. Jobs changed. Entire years disappeared before you even noticed them passing.
The timer remained, steadily ticking away in the background.
Yet strangely unimportant.
Not because you disliked the idea of soulmates. Quite the opposite.
You supposed it was comforting to think there was someone out there destined specifically for you. Someone whose life would one day intersect with your own in a way no one else’s ever could.
But you had never been particularly fond of building your future around things you couldn’t control.
If your soulmate appeared tomorrow, wonderful. If they appeared twenty years from now, that was fine too.
Either way, life would continue.
You had plans. Goals. Responsibilities. A future that existed independently of whoever happened to be waiting at the end of that countdown.
Which was probably why you never developed the habit of checking it.
Weeks sometimes passed without you looking at the numbers.
Months, if life became particularly busy.
Your friends found that strange.
Most people tracked their bonds religiously.
You couldn’t remember the last time you had cared enough to calculate how much time remained.
Not that it mattered. Fate would arrive whether you watched the clock or not.
The thought made you smile slightly as you adjusted the sleeve of your outfit.
The invitation resting on your kitchen counter immediately drew your attention once more. Embossed gold lettering gleamed beneath the overhead light.
You had considered declining several times already.
Charity galas were not your thing.
Neither were crowds of wealthy socialites, politicians, celebrities, and Gotham’s elite pretending to enjoy one another’s company while discussing donations over champagne.
Unfortunately, declining wasn’t really an option. Your company had spent the past month preparing for the event.
Attendance was expected. Mandatory, according to your supervisor.
The memory earned a quiet sigh.
Tomorrow evening.
Wayne Foundation Annual Renewal Gala.
You stared at the familiar name printed across the card. Wayne.
One of the most recognisable names in the country. Perhaps even the world.
Bruce Wayne’s name seemed to exist everywhere in Gotham. On buildings, hospitals, scholarships, charities.
A billionaire philanthropist.
A notorious playboy.
A man whose face appeared so frequently in magazines that most of Gotham could probably identify him from memory.
You had never met him. Never expected to. Tomorrow would likely be no different.
You would attend the gala, smile politely, make small talk, and stay for the required amount of time.
Then return home and forget the entire evening ever happened.
The gala was exactly as exhausting as you had expected.
By the end of the first hour, your cheeks already ached from smiling.
The grand ballroom of Wayne Tower glittered beneath enormous crystal chandeliers, every surface polished to a shine so perfect it almost felt artificial. Waiters drifted through the crowd carrying silver trays loaded with champagne flutes and carefully arranged hors d’oeuvres. Laughter rose and fell throughout the room, blending into the soft music drifting from somewhere near the stage.
The entire event felt less like a fundraiser and more like a carefully choreographed performance.
Not that anyone seemed to mind.
Around you, Gotham’s elite mingled effortlessly. Politicians exchanged handshakes. Business executives traded stories. Reporters circulated like sharks scenting blood in the water.
You had spent most of the evening attached to a cluster of coworkers, nodding politely through conversations that ranged from quarterly profits to real estate investments and subjects you suspected nobody genuinely cared about.
You smiled. Shook hands. Made pleasant conversation. Repeated the process.
By the time you escaped toward the refreshment table, you were fairly certain your social battery had died an hour ago.
“Not enjoying yourself?”
You glanced toward the voice. One of your coworkers smirked knowingly.
You laughed. “I think I’ve had enough networking to last the rest of my life.”
“Careful. That’s practically blasphemy at events like this.”
“Then pretend I said something about synergy and market growth.”
The resulting laugh eased some of the tension in your shoulders.
Around you, the crowd continued to swell as more guests arrived. And inevitably, conversation shifted toward the man hosting the event.
Bruce Wayne.
The name surfaced repeatedly throughout the evening. Sometimes with admiration. Sometimes amusement. Occasionally frustration.
Everyone seemed to have a story.
A charitable donation. An embarrassing tabloid headline. A disastrous date. A surprise act of generosity.
The more stories you heard, the more curious you became. You had never met Bruce Wayne before.
Nobody in your social circles had.
People like him existed in an entirely different world.
The sort of world most people only glimpsed through magazine covers and news broadcasts.
Yet somehow, despite his wealth, despite his status, despite his reputation for arriving late and disappearing early, people genuinely seemed to like him.
It was strange. Most billionaires inspired resentment. Bruce Wayne inspired affection.
You found yourself wondering what he was actually like. The real version. Not the carefully polished public image. Not the headlines. Just the man.
Your gaze drifted toward the entrance more than once throughout the evening.
The subtle change spread through the crowd like a ripple through water. Conversations paused. Heads turned. Attention redirected.
You didn’t need anyone to tell you why.
Bruce Wayne had arrived.
The realisation swept through the ballroom almost instantly.
You found yourself looking too. Just like everyone else.
Oh. For a moment, you understood the fascination.
Photos had never quite captured him properly. Perhaps because photographs couldn’t capture presence.
Bruce moved through the crowd with effortless confidence, greeting donors and board members with easy smiles. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Impossibly handsome in a way that felt almost unfair.
The sort of face people built careers around. One that belonged on magazine covers. Yet none of that was what held your attention.
It was the way he carried himself. Comfortable. Natural. As though the attention of hundreds of people barely registered.
You felt oddly nervous.
Which was ridiculous. You weren’t even planning on speaking to him.
You simply found yourself watching from across the room.
Then your hand drifted unconsciously toward your wrist. Your thumb brushed the skin hidden beneath your sleeve. The countdown.
A habit more than anything.
You weren’t even sure why you checked.
Maybe because events like this always sparked conversations about soulmates. Or because seeing Gotham’s most famous bachelor had stirred old childhood fantasies you’d long since outgrown.
Whatever the reason, your fingers lingered there.
Tracing the familiar shape beneath the fabric. Feeling the steady pulse of your own heartbeat.
You smiled faintly to yourself. Foolish.
Then Bruce Wayne turned, and looked directly at you.
Everything stopped.
Your breath caught. Heart stumbled. Because beneath your fingertips.. The countdown had reached its end. 00:00:00:00.
The familiar sensation disappeared so suddenly that for a terrifying second you thought you had imagined it.
Your eyes widened.
Across the ballroom, Bruce Wayne was still looking in your direction.
No. Not your direction.
At you.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
The countdown had stopped.
Your fingers remained pressed against your wrist, your pulse hammering so violently that you could barely feel the skin beneath them.
And for one impossible, terrifying second, the rest of the gala disappeared.
The music faded. The conversations blurred. Everything narrowed to those blue eyes. To the man standing twenty feet away. To the realization crashing through your chest with enough force to steal the air from your lungs.
Him.
Every second. Every minute. Every year. All of it had led here.
You couldn’t stop smiling.
A laugh escaped before you could catch it.
You felt ridiculous.
You felt ecstatic.
You felt fourteen years old again, lying awake at night and wondering who waited at the end of your countdown.
Your soulmate.
Bruce Wayne was your soulmate.
The thought was absurd.
Wonderful.
Terrifying.
And before you could think better of it, your feet were already carrying you forward.
You barely remembered crossing the ballroom. Only that one moment he was across the room.
The next you were standing in front of him. Close enough to speak. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Close enough to finally meet the person fate had spent your entire life leading you toward.
“Mr Wayne-” You stopped yourself. God, that sounded stupid.
You laughed nervously. “Sorry. Bruce. I just-”
The words tangled together. There were too many of them. How exactly were you supposed to tell someone they’d just become the most important person in your life?
How did anyone start a conversation like this?
“Hi. We belong together.”
“Hi. Fate says you’re mine.”
“Hi. I’ve waited my entire life to meet you.”
The absurdity almost made you laugh again. Instead, you found yourself smiling. A genuine one. The kind that slipped free before you could stop it.
“I think-”
Bruce looked at you. His eyes flickering over your face, your clothes, the event badge hanging around your neck.
Recognition never appeared.
Nothing softened.
Nothing changed.
It was the look people gave strangers who had interrupted them in public. Nothing more.
His gaze shifted immediately beyond your shoulder. Toward someone else.
Someone important.
Someone he actually wanted to speak to.
“I’m sorry.” The words were automatic. Polite. The sort of apology people gave when they weren’t sorry at all.
“I don’t have time right now.”
For a second you simply stared.
Still smiling.
Still trying to catch up.
“Oh.”
Bruce nodded once. Already moving.
Already done.
“If you’ll excuse me.” And then he brushed past you.
There was no cruelty. No emotion whatsoever. You hadn’t mattered enough for that.
The crowd swallowed him almost immediately.
One moment he was there and the next he was gone. Laughing with donors. Shaking hands. Moving through the room as though nothing had happened.
As though you had never existed.
As though the most important moment of your life had been a forgettable inconvenience in his evening.
You remained where you were. Frozen. The smile slowly slipping from your face.
Around you, the gala continued.
A waiter passed carrying champagne. Someone laughed nearby. Music drifted through the ballroom. Normal. Everything was painfully, horribly normal.
Your stomach twisted.
The excitement that had filled your chest moments ago curdled into something ugly. Something embarrassing.
Heat crept up your neck.
God. How stupid. How unbelievably fucking stupid.
Your hand rose to your wrist again. To the skin where the countdown had sat for your entire life.
Where it no longer moved.
You stared at it, waiting for the joy to return. For the excitement. For the certainty that this meant something.
Instead you felt sick. Because for one awful moment, you’d believed it.
You had looked at Bruce Wayne and allowed yourself to hope. Allowed yourself to think fate had chosen you.
That maybe all those stories people told were true.
Instead you’d received the same polite dismissal he would have given any stranger who got in his way.
Your throat tightened. Fuck, you felt like you were about to cry.
The hurt wasn’t coming from Bruce. Not really.
It was coming from yourself.
From the realisation that some small part of you had still believed after all these years, after all your indifference, all your insistence that fate didn’t matter, a part of you had still secretly hoped there would be magic in this moment. Something special. Worth waiting for.
And now that part of you was dying. Right there in the middle of a crowded ballroom.
The countdown had reached zero.
And for the first time in your life, you wished it hadn’t.
Two and a half months later.
The night had offered nothing unusual.
The Batcave settled into its familiar rhythm as everyone returned. Dick had claimed a corner of Tim's workstation and was ignoring increasingly pointed requests to move. Jason, having appeared midway through patrol without warning or invitation, was drinking Alfred's coffee. Damian sat nearby with a stack of reports, making notes in the margins.
Bruce stood near the medical station, removing the Batsuit piece by piece. The cowl came first, then the cape. He set the gauntlets aside and reached for the fastening at his wrist.
"Father."
Bruce glanced up.
Damian was looking at him with a faint frown. “You never informed us that your countdown had ended.”
He’d barely reacted. “What are you talking about?”
Damian looked mildly annoyed, like Bruce had forgotten something obvious.
“Your soulmate.”
Dick straightened immediately. Tim turned away from his monitor. Jason gave a short laugh.
"Wait. Seriously? You found them?”
Their Dad frowned. “What?”
Damian pointed.
Bruce followed the gesture to the inside of his wrist. The timer had stopped.
For a second, he simply stared.
Beside him, Dick grinned. “So that’s why you’ve been weirdly private.”
Jason scoffed. “Please. Like he’d tell us.”
“I assumed you were waiting until the relationship became serious,” Damian said matter-of-factly.
Tim nodded. “I figured you already had a file on them.”
A few years ago, Bruce might have responded. Might have denied it. Instead, he continued staring at his wrist.
00:00:00:00
The timer wasn’t moving.
It should have been.
For as long as he could remember, it had always been moving. Always counting. Now it sat completely still.
A strange feeling settled low in his stomach.
“When did this happen?” The words escaped before he could stop them.
The cave went silent.
Bruce looked up. Every member of his family was staring at him.
Dick’s smile vanished first.
Tim slowly lowered his tablet.
Jason blinked.
Damian narrowed his eyes.
A long moment passed. Then, “what do you mean, when did it happen?”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. His gaze dropped back to the timer. “When did it reach zero?”
Nobody answered immediately. Because the question itself was wrong.
Dick stared at him blankly. “…You don’t know?”
Tim sat up, picking at the cuticles on his hands. “When was the last time you checked it?”
Bruce opened his mouth. The answer should have come easily.
Instead, nothing.
Weeks? Months? Years?
A knot formed in his stomach. He couldn’t remember. At some point, the countdown had become part of the scenery. Like a scar. Like an old piece of furniture. Something so familiar that he no longer saw it.
Damian rose from his chair. "How is that possible?"
There wasn’t accusation in the question. Only bewilderment.
Bruce understood it.
If anyone else had presented him with a mystery this significant and admitted they had ignored it for years, he would have found it equally incomprehensible.
A soulmate was information.
Information mattered.
Yet somehow he had allowed this particular fact to drift past unnoticed.
Dick dragged a hand through his hair. "Okay. So if it's been at zero for a while..." He trailed off.
Nobody finished the thought. Bruce didn't need them to.
The timer had stopped.
Which meant they had already met.
Somewhere, buried beneath years of galas, investigations, crime scenes, interviews, witnesses, victims, allies, and strangers, there was a person connected to him in a way he had never bothered to investigate.
The thought irritated him immediately. Annoyed by his own oversight.
Bruce Wayne missed very little. Batman missed even less.
And yet he had apparently overlooked something that had been written on his own skin.
His gaze returned to the frozen digits.
Who?
The question settled into place with uncomfortable ease.
Who had it been?
A civilian? A witness? Someone from a charity board? A doctor? A journalist? A stranger he had passed on the street and forgotten by the next morning?
His mind was already moving through possibilities, assembling timelines, searching for patterns.
The investigation had begun before he consciously decided to start it.
And long after the others had gone upstairs, long after the cave had emptied, he’d remained alone before the Batcomputer.
His wrist rested against the desk, the countdown sat motionless beneath the glow of the monitor.
For decades, he had convinced himself the timer didn’t matter. That soulmates were irrelevant. That whatever waited at the end of the countdown belonged to a future he would never allow himself to have.
Now, for the first time in his life, the future wasn’t theoretical. It was real. It had been real for years. And somehow, impossibly, he’d missed it.
He stared at the timer, jaw clenched. Then opened a new search window and began looking.
Bruce had always believed that every mystery possessed an answer.
The answer might be buried beneath layers of deception. It might require months of investigation, thousands of hours of work, or sacrifices most people would never willingly make. But it existed.
Every crime scene told a story.
Every missing person left traces.
Every lie fractured under enough pressure.
Answers existed. The challenge was finding them.
Which was why the frozen numbers on the inside of his wrist irritated him more than they should have.
A lifetime reduced to eight zeroes.
For decades it had been counting.
Now it wasn’t.
Entire criminal organisations had collapsed because of details other people overlooked. Murders had been solved because Bruce noticed a footprint half a millimeter deeper than it should have been. He built contingency plans for gods.
And yet somehow he had allowed this to happen.
Somewhere, at some point, his soulmate had entered his life. And he had failed to notice.
The oversight bothered him in a way he struggled to articulate. Not because he had spent years longing for his soulmate. He hadn’t. Or because he suddenly believed fate held some profound importance. He didn’t.
But because he had missed something.
Something connected to him. That should have been obvious.
His gaze drifted back toward the timer. A person.
For most of his life, the soulmate waiting at the end of the countdown had existed as an abstraction. A hypothetical future. A distant possibility.
Now they existed beyond the realm of his mind on particularly needy nights.
Living somewhere in Gotham. Or perhaps outside it. Going to work. Paying bills. Existing. Breathing.
Perhaps completely unaware that Bruce Wayne had finally noticed them.
The idea settled heavily in his chest.
Because that wasn’t entirely true, was it?
If the countdown had stopped, then they already knew.
The moment one timer reached zero, so did the other. Meaning somewhere out there was a person who had already experienced that moment. A person who had looked at their wrist and realised they had found the person fate intended for them.
Bruce’s fingers stilled against the keyboard. A strange feeling moved through him. Difficult to define.
Because unlike him, that person would have noticed.
Normal people would have probably watched their countdowns. Would have known exactly how much time remained. Anticipated the day it would finally happen.
He imagined someone checking their wrist. Watching the final seconds disappear. Feeling the weight of a lifetime’s anticipation finally come to an end. And then what?
Had they looked around for him?
Had they searched the crowd?
Had they recognised him immediately?
The questions arrived uninvited. More troublingly, they refused to leave.
Bruce leaned back in his chair. The cave hummed softly around him. Banks of monitors cast pale light across the stone walls.
Above him, thousands of tons of earth separated the cave from the sleeping Manor. None of it held his attention.
For perhaps the first time since Damian had pointed out the frozen timer, Bruce found himself thinking not about the investigation. But about the person.
Who were they? What kind of life did they live? What had they thought when they realised? Had they been happy? Afraid? Disappointed?
The last possibility lingered.
Bruce frowned. Disappointed. The word shouldn’t have bothered him. Yet it did.
Because he knew exactly what the public thought of Bruce Wayne. The billionaire. The celebrity. The perpetual tabloid fixture.
To some people, finding out Bruce was their soulmate would be exciting. To others it would be a nightmare.
A lifetime of reporters. Paparazzi. Public scrutiny. Danger. Every enemy Batman had ever made.
Bruce knew better than anyone that proximity to him carried consequences.
The evidence sat framed across the Manor.
The thought darkened his expression. Whoever they were, they deserved better than that.
And then Bruce paused. His eyes slowly narrowed. Because that thought implied something else. Something he hadn’t consciously acknowledged until now.
It didn't matter.
That lie was what kept you going after the gala. It wasn’t grief. Grief implied loss, implied that you had possessed something to begin with.
You hadn't. Bruce Wayne had never been yours.
And yet, something inside of you had still died that night.
You still went to work. Still paid your bills. Still answered texts. Still laughed when friends made jokes.
From the outside, nothing had changed.
Inside, however, there was a deep hole where something important used to live.
Hope, perhaps.
Or whatever foolish thing had survived all those years beneath your indifference.
You had spent your entire life insisting that the countdown didn't matter. That fate didn't matter. That your soulmate was merely a possibility waiting somewhere in the distance and not the center of your universe.
Then the timer reached zero.
And you discovered exactly how much you had been lying to yourself.
Because if it truly hadn't mattered, then seeing Bruce Wayne across that ballroom wouldn't have hurt the way it did.
If it truly hadn't mattered, then his face wouldn't still appear in your nightmares. The sight of his name wouldn't make your stomach twist like someone had reached into your chest and grabbed hold of your ribs.
Yet it did. Every time, without fail.
Three days after the gala, you stopped in front of a coffee shop on your way to work.
A newspaper sat in the display window.
BRUCE WAYNE ANNOUNCES THE EXPANSION OF FOUNDATION PROGRAMMES.
The headline wasn't even particularly large, just another article among dozens. A perfectly ordinary thing.
Yet the moment your eyes landed on it, nausea rolled through you so violently that you nearly turned aroun and walked home.
You stood frozen on the sidewalk, just staring blankly. You hated yourself for pausing.
Because there he was.
Photographed beneath bright camera flashes. Smiling. Beautiful.
Shit, he was beautiful.
It would have been easier if he wasn't. Easier if fate had chosen some ordinary man. Someone forgettable, whose face wouldn't follow you everywhere.
But Bruce looked like something sculpted rather than born.
Like whoever had created him had started with every impossible standard of beauty and decided they still weren't enough.
Even frozen in grainy newsprint, he seemed unreal.
Dark hair falling perfectly despite the cameras. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, those impossible blue eyes. The kind of watercolour people wrote poetry about. The kind that belonged to summer skies and oceans and things too beautiful to touch.
You remembered looking into those eyes across the ballroom. Remembered your heart stopping. Thinking, absurdly, that of course fate had chosen someone beautiful.
Soulmates were supposed to be extraordinary. And Bruce Wayne was sure as hell extraordinary.
Broad shoulders beneath perfectly tailored suits. Strong hands. Easy smiles. A laugh that seemed capable of convincing entire rooms to laugh with him. Not merely attractive. Handsome. Beautiful in the way ancient gods were described. The sort of beauty that made people stare before they realised they were staring.
He carried himself with the effortless confidence of someone who had spent his entire life being admired. Someone who had never needed to wonder if people found him desirable because the answer had always been obvious.
And somehow fate had looked at him, then looked at you, and declared that you belonged together.
You left the coffee shop without buying anything.
After that, you started noticing him everywhere.
It felt cruel. As though the universe had developed a sense of humor specifically to torment you.
Wayne Enterprises logos decorated entire buildings. Wayne Foundation advertisements appeared on buses. Charity campaigns featured his photograph. Magazine covers displayed his face near checkout counters. Televisions in waiting rooms played interviews. Articles appeared online. Photographs surfaced endlessly. Everywhere you looked, Bruce Wayne existed.
You couldn't escape him. Couldn't erase him.
The worst part was that everyone else saw those images and reacted normally.
Nobody understood what you saw. Nobody knew what it felt like.
Your coworkers saw Gotham's favourite billionaire. Your friends saw a celebrity. Strangers saw a philanthropist. You saw your soulmate.
You saw the man whose timer had stopped when yours did. The man who had looked directly at you, then dismissed you.
Sometimes you found yourself staring at the pics longer than you meant to.
Your eyes refused to look away. Despite everything, some awful traitorous primal part of you still recognise d him. Still instinctually saw him as yours.
The slight curve of his smile. The shadows beneath his eyes. The way his expensive suits felt designed to emphasise the width of his shoulders. The way his presence somehow dominated photographs even when surrounded by dozens of other people.
You hated that you noticed. Hated that your heart still reacted. That attraction remained long after hope had died.
Because Bruce Wayne was beautiful. Painfully, unfairly, devastatingly beautiful.
The kind that made the stinging rejection feel worse.
If he had been cruel, you could have hated him. If he had mocked you, anger could have replaced the hurt. But he hadn't done either.
He’d made living unbearable.
Bruce hadn't rejected you because he disliked you. He hadn't rejected you because you were unworthy. He hadn't even rejected you at all.
To reject someone required acknowledgment.
Bruce Wayne simply hadn't cared enough to notice. You had been forgettable. An interruption. A stranger in a crowded room.
It was fucking humiliating.
To everyone else, your countdown had finally reached zero. A happy occasion. A miracle. A dream-come-true.
People congratulated you. Asked questions. Smiled knowingly.
You learned to lie.
"Oh, I haven't met them yet." "Maybe we crossed paths without realizing." "I'm not really focused on it."
Easy answers. No one ever suspected the truth.
Didn’t know that every mention of soulmates felt like someone digging a knife into an already sore bruise.
That fate itself had started feeling so incredibly cruel.
No one knew that your countdown had ended beside crystal chandeliers and champagne glasses and the most beautiful man you'd ever seen.
Hw could you explain to anyone that he had walked away?
How could you describe the experience of finding the person the universe created specifically for you, only to discover that your existence wasn’t even important enough to remember?
There weren't words for that.
Every morning you woke up, and every day Bruce Wayne's name appeared somewhere.
On buildings. Headlines. TVscreens. Charity banners. A constant reminder. A monument to something you desperately wished you could forget.
You never admitted how much it affected you. Not even to yourself.
Instead you learned to look away. To change channels. To scroll past articles. To cross the street rather than walk beneath buildings bearing his name.
Small, pathetic things.
Yet necessary.
Because every glimpse felt like reopening a wound that refused to heal.
And somewhere deep down, beneath the humiliation and hurt and anger and disappointment, existed a truth you hated even more.
You still thought he was so disgustingly beautiful. Remembered the moment he looked at you. Could still feel the countdown reaching zero.
And no matter how hard you tried, some part of you still mourned the future that had died before it ever had the chance to begin.
Finding you should have taken longer.
Bruce expected months. Years, maybe. The list of possibilities was absurd.
A countdown bond narrowed the search considerably compared to shared pain or dreams, but it was still thousands of people. Tens of thousands, depending on the timeframe. Every person he'd spoken to. Every person he'd stood beside. Every handshake. Every conversation. Every fleeting interaction that had seemed insignificant at the time.
Ordinarily, that would have made the investigation difficult.
Instead, it became embarrassingly simple.
Because unlike other soul bonds, a countdown created a very specific moment. A beginning.
Bruce only needed to determine when his timer had stopped. Then identify everyone he'd interacted with during that period. The rest was elimination.
He discovered quickly that he had a significant advantage.
Over the past five months, Bruce had only personally interacted with nine people who possessed countdown bonds.
Nine.
One was a long-time business partner whose timer still had three years remaining.
Two were married.
Another had met their soulmate publicly several weeks prior.
The remaining names disappeared one by one beneath scrutiny.
Until only one remained.
You.
The file sat open on the Batcomputer. Bruce stared at it for a long time.
Name.
Age.
Employment history.
Education.
Address.
Nothing remarkable. Nothing that should have caused his pulse to stumble the way it did. Yet it did.
Because beside your photograph sat a timestamp. Wayne Foundation Annual Renewal Gala.
Two and a half months ago.
Bruce went still. The gala.
He couldn’t remember you at all.
He remembered the event. The schedule. The donor meetings. The practiced speeches. The endless boring conversations. The uncomfortable sensation that accompanied the recollection made his stomach tighten.
Because if the countdown had ended that night, then you had been there. Somewhere inside that ballroom.
His soulmate had stood within arm's reach, and he hadn't known.
Bruce leaned back slowly.
The photograph remained illuminated on the monitor.
You looked ordinary. Not in a bad way. Just real. A person.
His person.
The thought appeared uninvited.
His gaze lingered longer than necessary. Memorising details.
The shape of your smile in the employee photograph attached to the company website. The slight tilt of your head. The way your eyes seemed brighter in candid images than posed ones.
Ridiculous, meaningless observations.
Yet he continued looking.
Eventually, Bruce opened the gala guest registry. Cross-referenced attendance records.
Security footage. Photographs. Anything.
Everything.
He found you four hours later.
Camera seventeen. Ballroom east entrance. Timestamped twelve minutes before the countdown likely reached zero.
The footage was silent.
You stood speaking with coworkers. Laughing at something. So… bright.
Unaware that he even existed beyond headlines and magazine covers.
He watched the clip so many times that domething uncomfortable settled beneath his ribs.
He knew what was about to happen.
Your timer was about to reach zero. His timer was about to reach zero.
You found him.
You’d crossed the room.
And he walked away.
Hell, he hadn’t even properly looked at you.
Bruce stared at the paused frame.
For the first time since beginning the investigation, a deep nausea rolled through him.
He remembered that interaction vaguely now.
A stranger approaching. A voice trying to get his attention. A laugh. An interruption between meetings.
Nothing important or memorable. Nothing-
His jaw clenenched.
No.
Not nothing.
You.
It had been you.
His soulmate.
The person fate had spent decades leading toward him.
The person whose existence he had secretly imagined during sleepless nights and lonely flights and moments of weakness he never admitted to anyone.
Bruce rose from his chair.
The cave remained silent around him. Cold. Empty without his boys.
The monitor focused on your face. He couldn’t pull his eyes away.
For two and a half months, you had known.
You'd known exactly who he was.
And if Bruce understood people half as well as he believed he did, then you had probably interpreted that encounter exactly the way anyone would.
You thought he'd rejected you.
Bruce found himself imagining it despite having no desire to.
You walking across that ballroom. Excited. Hopeful. Nervous. Only to be brushed aside.
His stomach twisted.
You had spent your entire life moving toward him. And he'd made you feel unwanted.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. No. Unacceptable.
You belonged to him.
Bruce had spent most of his life convincing himself he could survive without a soulmate.
Now he found himself staring at your photograph at three in the morning, unable to look away. Unable to stop imagining your reaction when you learned the truth. To stop thinking about the hurt he had unknowingly caused. And most concerning of all, unable to stop wanting.
Not merely to meet you.
To keep you close.
Safe.
Where nothing could take you away before he had the chance to make this right.
You were halfway through answering emails when your manager appeared beside your desk.
"Got a minute?"
You looked up. "Sure."
"We've had a request come through."
That wasn't unusual. The company received requests constantly.
You nodded for them to continue.
"They specifically asked for you."
That was unusual.
Your brow furrowed. "Me?"
"Apparently." Your manager sounded just as confused.
You accepted the folder they handed over, then immediately wished you hadn't. The logo printed across the front was impossible to miss.
Wayne Foundation.
Your stomach dropped.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Your manager misread your expression immediately. "Good news, actually."
Good. Right.
You’d almost forgotten that normal people didn't feel like they were on the verge of breaking down every time they saw that name.
You forced a smile. "What's the project?"
"A community outreach initiative. They've been reviewing applicants from several companies."
It was like the name seemed determined to follow you everywhere.
"Apparently someone on their end requested you specifically."
The confusion in your manager's voice mirrored your own.
"Have you worked with them before?"
"No." The answer came too quickly. You cleared your throat. "Not personally."
Your manager nodded. "Well, whoever reviewed your profile liked something."
Maybe. Or maybe fate simply wasn't finished laughing at you yet.
You waited until they left before opening the folder.
The proposal itself looked normal. Professional. Routine. Yet a strange feeling settled low in your stomach.
Because your name appeared throughout the documentation.
You stared at the pages for several seconds then shook your head. Paranoia. Nothing more.
Bruce Wayne didn't know who you were. The Wayne Foundation employed thousands of people. This was coincidence. It had to be.
Yet later that evening, as you prepared to leave work, you found yourself looking at the folder again.
Reading your name.
And wondering why the uneasy feeling refused to disappear.
←↓→↑
The project itself was harmless. Boring, even.
Several meetings. A handful of planning sessions. Far too many emails. Just.. normal stuff.
And yet you found yourself running into the same problem repeatedly.
People always seemed to know who you were.
Not coworkers or clients, it would probably hurt your feelings if they didn’t know your name.
But Wayne employees.
The first time it happened, you ignored it. The second time, you thought about it for a bit before shaking it off. The third time, it became impossible not to think about.
A woman stood beside the refreshments table wearing a Wayne Foundation identification badge, smiling like she knew you as she called out your name.
You glanced up from your coffee, offering a polite smile. "Yeah?"
Her expression brightened immediately. "Oh good."
Good?
You waited.
Instead, she simply smiled. "Sorry. I've heard nice things."
Before you could ask from whom, someone called her name from across the room.
The conversation ended there. Leaving you standing alone holding a paper cup and feeling vaguely unsettled.
She'd heard nice things.
From who?
About what?
Then you’d received an email. Then another. And another.
Nothing inappropriate or personal. Just opportunities. Projects. Invitations. Networking events. Requests.
All connected to Wayne Enterprises or one of its countless subsidiaries.
The attention made no sense. You weren't exceptionally qualified. You weren't particularly influential. There were hundreds of people with better resumes. Thousands.
Yet somehow your name kept appearing.
Each coincidence felt harmless on its own.
Together, they felt deliberate.
There was only one explanation your brain kept returning to, and it was ridiculous.
Bruce Wayne didn't know who you were.
Bruce Wayne had never known who you were.
The memory still hurt. Less than before, but enough.
You shoved the thought away and focused on work. Unfortunately, work wasn't cooperating.
"There's a gala next month."
You nearly choked on your drink.
Your coworker blinked. "...You okay?"
"No."
You set the glass down.
"Sorry. What?"
"A gala."
Absolutely not.
The immediate response rose so quickly that you nearly said it aloud.
Your coworker laughed.
"That's about the reaction I expected."
"No."
"That's not even what I asked."
"No anyway."
The laugh grew louder. "It's mandatory."
Of course it was. You dropped your forehead onto the table.
Somewhere above you, your coworker continued speaking.
Words blurred together.
You caught Wayne Foundation. Charity initiative. Attendance expected.
Absolutely wonderful.
You closed your eyes. The universe hated you. That was the only reasonable explanation.
Because apparently surviving one Wayne gala hadn't been enough.
Now fate had scheduled a sequel.
That should have been funny. Instead, dread settled heavily in your chest.
Bruce Wayne probably wouldn't even be there.
And if he was?
He wouldn't recognise you. Wouldn't remember you. You would simply become another face in another crowd. Again.
The familiar ache returned. Duller now. Older, but still present.
You hated that even after everything, some pathetic part of you still cared.
Wondering about what could have happened if things had gone differently.
If he had looked at you. If he'd smiled. If he'd given fate even a single chance.
The thought followed you all the way home. Followed you into the shower. Followed you into bed.
And somewhere across Gotham, entirely unaware of the damage he was causing, Bruce Wayne was doing exactly the same thing.
Thinking about you.
Constantly.
Obsessively.
Unable to stop.
While you lay awake staring at the ceiling, Bruce sat alone in his study surrounded by photographs, reports, schedules, and information he absolutely should not possess.
The file on his desk had grown significantly over the past two weeks.
The silence of the study was suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic, heavy thrum of Bruce’s own heartbeat. It was a sound he usually controlled with meditative precision, but tonight, his pulse was erratic, driven by a hunger that felt less like desire and more like a fever.
His fingers, scarred and calloused from years of a life lived in the shadows, trembled slightly as they hovered over the glossy surface of the most recebt photograph.
In the light of the single desk lamp, your laughter looked almost tactile. He wanted to reach through the paper, to catch the warmth of your skin, to feel the vibration of that laugh against his own chest.
He didn't just want to see you. He wanted to own the air you breathed.
A low, jagged exhale escaped his throat as he reached for the fastening of his trousers. The silk of his shirt felt abrasive against his skin. He wasn't a man of whims, he was a man of purpose.
As he freed himself, his gaze never left your eyes in the photo.
He began to move, his hand wrapping around his length with a grip almost a little too tight, a little too desperate. He wasn't looking for a gentle release, he was looking for a way to drown out the ache of your absence. He hadn’t even met you properly yet.
Every slide of his palm was a silent prayer, a demand whispered into the empty room.
You, he thought, his eyes darkening until the blue was almost black. Only you.
He closed his eyes for a second, and the darkness behind his eyelids was filled with the phantom sensation of you. He imagined your hands replacing his own.
He imagined the way you would look at him if you knew. If you knew that he had mapped out your entire existence, that he knew the number of alarms you needed to wake up, the drinks you preferred, the way your eyes crinkled when you were truly happy.
A groan, deep and primal, tore from his throat as he increased the pace. The friction was intense, bordering on a delicious sort of pain. He pictured you in this very room, stripped of your defences, looking at him with that same devastating smile. He imagined pinning you to this very desk, marking you so thoroughly that the world would know you belonged to the Batman, to Bruce, to him.
"Mine," he rasped, the word a vow and a command. "You have to be mine."
He was spiraling, losing his composure to the sheer, unadulterated need to possess the person in the photograph.
As the tension coiled in his gut, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the edge of the desk, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. He wasn't just chasing a climax, he was chasing the ghost of you. And as he finally broke, his body shuddering with a violent, lonely release, the only thing he could think about was how much longer he could stand being a stranger to the only person outside of his family who truly mattered.
He stared at the splotches of his own mess, his eyes settling back on your frozen, laughing face.
His patience was running out. And soon, he wouldn't just be looking at pictures. He would be looking at you.
The morning of the gala arrived faster than expected.
You spent most of it trying not to think about where you were going later. Work helped.
Emails needed answering. Reports needed reviewing. Deadlines continued existing regardless of personal problems.
By six o'clock, however, distractions became harder to find.
The Foundation building stood illuminated against Gotham's skyline when your taxi pulled up outside.
For a moment you remained seated. Watching people enter through the front doors. Watching security direct arrivals. Watching expensive cars arrive one after another.
The driver glanced at you through the mirror.
"You getting out?"
You sighed. "Unfortunately."
The lobby was already busy.
Employees moved through the space carrying folders, tablets, and the sort of purposeful expressions people adopted when responsible for coordinating large events.
You followed the signs toward registration.
The man at the desk smiled immediately.
"Good evening."
"Hi."
You offered your name.
Something flickered across his expression. "There you are." The words slipped out so naturally that he didn't seem to realise he'd said them.
Your brow furrowed. "What?"
His smile widened. "Nothing. Sorry."
He handed over your badge.
"Conference hall B. Someone will show you where to go."
The interaction lingered in your mind as you crossed the lobby.
There wasn't anything strange about it.
You reached the elevators just as a man wearing a Foundation lanyard stepped out.
His eyes landed on your badge. Muttering your name under his breath.
You stopped. "Yeah?"
His expression brightened. "Right this way."
You stared at him.
The conference hall was directly ahead. Visible from where you stood. So was the sign. So was every other person entering without assistance. Apparently, you were the only one receiving a personal escort. The thought made you irrationally suspicious.
"Thanks."
The man spent the walk making polite conversation.
The conference hall occupied most of the floor.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked downtown Gotham. Round tables filled the space beneath hanging lights. Staff moved between displays making final adjustments while attendees gradually filtered inside.
You recognise d a few people from previous meetings and wandered over.
Conversation came easily enough.
Work topics. Office gossip. Complaints about deadlines. The familiar rhythm settled some of your nerves.
Eventually, someone handed you a drink. Someone else told a story about the mate documentary they were watching the night before. Laughter spread around the table.
For the first time all evening, you found yourself relaxing.
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.
You could survive a few hours, shake a few hands, then disappear before anything unpleasant happened.
A movement near the entrance drew your attention.
The change happened gradually. A few heads turned. Then a few more.
You knew who it was before you looked.
For a brief moment, you considered keeping your eyes fixed firmly on the table.
But curiosity won.
It always did.
Bruce Wayne stood near the entrance speaking with several board members.
The sight of him harder than expected.
Four months had passed, yet he remained exactly as you remembered.
Tall. Confident. Effortlessly composed. The kind of person who never seemed out of place regardless of where he happened to be standing.
You watched him laugh at something one of the board members said. Watched him rest a hand briefly against someone's shoulder. Watched him move through the crowd with practiced ease.
The memory arrived before you could stop it.
Crystal chandeliers. Champagne glasses. The countdown reaching zero beneath your fingertips.
Your gaze dropped immediately. Heat crawled uncomfortably up the back of your neck.
This had been a mistake.
All you could think about was how little had changed for him.
Somewhere between the gala and now, Bruce Wayne had probably attended dozens of events just like this one.
Met hundreds of people.
Forgotten hundreds more.
Meanwhile, you still couldn't walk into a Foundation building without remembering the worst conversation of your life.
The thought was embarrassing enough to make you take a long drink.
Across the room, entirely unaware that you had already looked away, Bruce Wayne finally spotted you.
↑→↓←
You forced yourself to look anywhere else.
The city beyond the windows. The drink in your hand. The conversation happening beside you. Anything except him.
It felt childish.
Embarrassing, honestly.
You were an adult. Bruce Wayne wasn't some ex you were desperately trying to avoid at a party. He was a stranger.
A stranger who happened to be your soulmate.
Someone who happened to have accidentally shattered every stupid childhood fantasy you'd ever had about fate.
"So then the guy spends hours explaining how the patterns along his wrist connected-"
"What?"
Your coworker laughed. "The documentary."
"Oh." You blinked.
Right. The documentary.
Apparently the conversation had continued without you.
You offered what you hoped looked like a convincing smile.
No one seemed to notice.
People drifted between groups. More guests arrived. Staff circulated carrying trays of drinks and appetizers.
The event settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Exactly the sort of evening you'd expected.
Which was probably why it took you a moment to notice something was wrong.
The conversation around your table had started stuttering. Small pauses appearing where they hadn't before. People glancing toward something behind you.
You ignored it initially.
Then someone stopped speaking halfway through a sentence.
"...Oh."
You frowned. "What?"
Nobody answered immediately. Slowly, unease crept up your spine.
You knew that feeling.
The awful certainty that something embarrassing was happening and you simply hadn't caught up yet.
Your grip tightened around the glass.
Please don't be me.
Please don't somehow be me.
Carefully, you turned. And nearly dropped your drink.
Bruce Wayne was walking toward your table.
The room seemed to tilt.
No. That wasn't right. There were other people here. Important people. Board members. Executives. Foundation staff.
Bruce Wayne had absolutely no reason to be approaching you.
Yet each step brought him closer, your pulse hammered painfully. Maybe he wasn't.. Maybe-
Then Bruce smiled. Carefully. Almost hesitant.
"Hi."
→←↑↓
Your pulse thundered traitorously.
After spotting him near the entrance, you had gone out of your way to avoid him. And apparently, he'd made no effort to stop you.
He talked briefly with the accountant at your table before passing.
You felt stupid all over again.
You knew better than to expect anything.
No shit he wasn’t coming over to talk to you.
By the time the evening finally began winding down, your social battery had been thoroughly exhausted. Guests filtered toward the exits in small groups while staff quietly began dismantling displays around the edges of the room.
You offered your goodbyes, accepted a few last-minute business cards you would probably never use, and escaped.
Or tried to.
Halfway down the hallway toward the elevators, you changed direction.
Bathroom first.
Then home.
The corridor was blissfully empty compared to the crowded ballroom behind you. Soft lighting reflected off polished marble floors. The distant murmur of conversation faded with every step.
You were almost done. Almost free.
"Leaving already?"
You stopped so abruptly your feet nearly slipped against the floor.
The voice came from behind you. Low and warm.
Dangerously familiar.
Your stomach dropped.
Slowly, you turned.
Bruce Wayne stood at the opposite end of the hallway. Alone.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Gone was the effortless social charm he'd worn all evening. Without the crowd surrounding him, he seemed larger somehow. Broader. More imposing.
His eyes were fixed entirely on you. Watching. Like he'd finally found something he'd been searching for.
A strange tension settled between your shoulders.
"Mr. Wayne."
His expression tightened immediately.
"Bruce," he corrected softly.
The familiarity felt inappropriate.
You swallowed. "Bruce."
Something in his gaze darkened at the sound of his name on your lips.
Satisfaction.
The hallway suddenly felt much smaller.
You forced a polite smile. "I didn't realise you were still here."
"I was looking for someone."
Your heart stumbled. The answer came too quickly. Too directly. And for one awful second, hope tried to rear its ugly head again.
You crushed it immediately. "You found them then?"
The words were meant as a joke.
Bruce didn't laugh. Instead, his gaze softened.
"Yes."
The answer landed with uncomfortable weight.
The air felt thick.
You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of every inch separating you. Or rather, how little distance there actually was.
"You wanted something?" you asked carefully.
Bruce stared at you.
It was unnerving. Most people glanced away eventually. They blinked. Looked around. Got distracted.
Bruce seemed incapable of doing any of those things.
His eyes moved slowly across your face as if committing every detail to memory.
Four months ago, he couldn't spare you two seconds. Now he was looking at you like he couldn't bear to look away. It didn't make sense.
Nothing about this made sense.
"I owe you an apology." The words caught you completely off guard.
You blinked. "What?"
"The first gala."
Your breath stopped. Every muscle in your body locked.
Bruce's jaw tightened. "You approached me."
The memory flashed through your mind with brutal clarity.
The countdown.
The humiliation.
"I remember." It was a lie.
You knew it was a lie. You could hear it. He hadn't remembered. You'd seen his face that night. Seen the complete absence of recognition.
But he looked genuinely upset now.
"I handled it badly."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. Small. Bitter.
Bruce's eyes narrowed.
"You don't need to apologize."
"Yes." His answer was immediate. "I do."
Something sharp flickered across his expression. Self-directed anger. Regret. Maybe even guilt.
You didn't understand it at all.
"You didn't know me." Your voice came out quieter than intended. The admission hurt. Even now.
"You didn't owe me anything."
Bruce went completely still. The silence that followed felt wrong. Dangerous.
His gaze dropped briefly to your wrist before returning to your face. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
Then he took a step forward.
Yet your pulse reacted like he'd crossed the entire hallway.
"I should have known you." The words came out rough. Almost painful.
Something shifted beneath the surface of his composure. You could feel it. Like cracks forming beneath ice.
And for the first time all evening, genuine unease curled through your stomach.
Because suddenly it felt less like Bruce Wayne had happened to stop you in a hallway. And more like Bruce Wayne had been waiting there. Waiting specifically for you. Waiting for the moment you would be alone. When there would be no audience. No escape.
A shiver ran down your spine.
Bruce's eyes immediately tracked the movement.
His expression softened. Like even that tiny movement meant something precious to him.
And somehow that frightened you far more than if he'd looked angry.
"Can I walk you to your car?" he asked quietly.
The question sounded harmless. Polite.
But there was something underneath it. Something hungry. Something that made it feel less like a request and more like a man trying very, very hard not to demand.
When you hesitated, Bruce's gaze darkened harshly.
You got the overwhelming impression that Bruce Wayne was not accustomed to hearing no.
And that whatever was looking at you from behind those impossibly blue eyes had already decided how this interaction would end.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You looked at him, searching for the playboy you had seen on the news, but he wasn't there. In his place stood a man whose very presence felt like a gravitational pull, heavy and inescapable.
Your heart was a frantic thing in your chest, caught between the instinct to run and the soulmate bond that hummed under your skin, screaming that this was where you were supposed to be.
"I... I can manage, Bruce," you said, trying to inject a note of independence into your voice. You didn't want to be another person he was simply 'handling' or 'managing.' You wanted to be seen as an equal, not a charity project or a fleeting interest.
"It’s a long walk to the valet, and you have guests to attend to."
You made a move to step around him, but you didn't get far.
Before you could even clear his shadow, Bruce’s hand shot out. He didn't grab you roughly, but his fingers curled around your upper arm with a terrifying, singular purpose. It wasn't a casual touch, it was a tether. His palm was hot, even through the fabric of your clothes, and the sheer strength in his grip made your breath hitch.
"The guests are gone," he said. His voice had lost its social lilt. It was now a low, gravelly command that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of your bones.
"They don't matter. Nothing in that room matters but this."
He stepped into your space, forcing you to tilt your head to maintain eye contact. The hallway felt like it was shrinking, the walls closing in until the only thing left in the universe was the scent of him, like the coming of a storm.
"You think you can just walk away?" he murmured, his eyes searching yours with a desperation that bordered on the frantic.
You frowned, your confusion overriding your unease. "After everything? Bruce, we haven't even spoken for more than five minutes.”
You let out a quiet broken laugh. “You don't even know me."
A dark, humorless sound escaped his throat, one that sounded more like a growl. "That is where you are wrong."
His grip tightened, making it clear he wasn't letting go.
His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, his pupils blown wide until the blue was just a thin, electric ring.
"I know the way you tilt your head when you're thinking," he whispered, leaning so his breath fanned across your cheek.
"I know the exact shade your eyes turn when you're startled. I know the schedule of your life better than you do. I have spent every waking moment since that night trying to find a way to apologise for a sin I didn't even know I had committed."
Your heart hammered against your ribs.
How? How could he know these things? The sheer impossibility of his words should have made you laugh, or call for security, but the soulmate bond was reacting to his intensity, pulling you toward him like a moth to a flame.
It was a terrifying, beautiful pull.
A part of you wanted to demand answers, to push him away for his madness, but another part, the part that had been lonely and aching for months, wanted to collapse into him and let him devour you.
"You... you're obsessed," you breathed, the words slipping out before you could think them through.
Bruce didn't flinch. He didn't deny it. Instead, he leaned closer, his forehead touching yours, his expression one of raw, unadulterated devotion.
"I am," he confessed, the admission sounding like a vow.
"I am completely, utterly undone by you. And if you walk out of this hallway tonight without letting me make it right, I think the world might actually end."
He looked at you then, not as a billionaire looking at a guest, but as a man looking at his entire world, his eyes burning with a terrifying, beautiful hunger.
"Please," he pleaded, the word a jagged edge of vulnerability.
"Don't make me watch you walk away again. Let me take you home. Let me show you that you were never just a face in a crowd. You are the only thing that has ever been real."
He wasn't asking anymore. He was begging, and as he stood there, looming against you with a possessiveness that felt like a honeyed trap, you realised with a jolt of both fear and exhilaration that you didn't want to say no.
In the months that followed that night at the gala, the "coincidences" had stopped being coincidences and had become a reality.
You no longer had to wonder why a certain restaurant always had your favourite table reserved, or why your career seemed to accelerate with a sudden, inexplicable momentum.
You knew. You knew that every promotion, every unexpected gift, and every "chance" encounter was a thread in the web Bruce had woven around you.
And the most frightening part was how easily you had let yourself be caught.
The initial shock of his obsession, the way he looked at you as if you were a miracle he was afraid might vanish if he blinked hard enough, had slowly melted into a deep, intoxicating security. You were no longer a face in the crowd. You were the center of his universe.
You sat on the edge of the massive, silk draped bed in the master suite of Wayne Manor, watching the moonlight spill across the floor.
The room was silent, save for the distant, rhythmic sound of the Gotham rain against the glass.
A door clicked shut. Heavy, purposeful footsteps crossed the rug.
You didn't need to turn around to know it was him. You could feel him. The soulmate bond, once a source of lonely longing, was now a constant, thrumming connection that acted like a second pulse.
Bruce stepped into the light. He had shed the armor of his tuxedo, wearing only a dark shirt left partially unbuttoned.
He looked less like a billionaire and more like the man you had met in the hallway.
He approached you, his presence filling the room until there was no air left that didn't belong to him.
He sank onto the bed behind you, his large, warm hands sliding around your waist to pull you back against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. A low, contented sound vibrating against your skin.
"You're thinking again," he murmured, his voice a deep, velvet caress. "I can feel it."
"Just thinking about how much has changed," you whispered, leaning your head back against his shoulder.
You reached up, lacing your fingers with his. "How much you've changed."
Bruce tightened his hold, his arms circling you like a fortress. "I haven't changed. I've simply finally found the right reason to exist."
He turned you in his arms, forcing you to face him. His eyes were dark, swirling with that familiar, beautiful madness. Devotion so absolute it felt like a physical weight.
"Do you still feel like you're in a trap?"
You looked up at him, searching the face of the man who had studied your every breath, the man who had turned his entire life into a pursuit of you.
You thought of the fear you had felt, the unease at his intensity, and the way he had practically begged for a chance to belong to you.
Then, you thought of the way he held you now as if you were the most precious thing in existence, as if your very survival depended on his touch.
A slow, knowing smile touched your lips. You reached up, cupping his jaw, your thumb tracing the line of his lip.
"No," you admitted softly, the truth settling comfortably in your chest. "It feels like home."
Bruce’s expression broke, a flash of pure, unadulterated relief crossing his features before it was replaced by a hunger that made your breath hitch.
He leaned in, his lips hovering just a fraction from yours.
"Good," he rasped, his gaze dropping to your mouth. "Because there is no going back. You are mine. And I am never, ever letting you go again."
As he pulled you into a kiss that tasted of desperation and promise, you realised that the universe hadn't hated you after all.
It had simply been waiting for the moment that you finally stopped running and let the storm claim you.
Please comment and reblog! :)
11K+ Words, 69K+ Characters, 1K+ Sentences, 900+ Paragraphs, 42 Minute average reading time, 1 hour and 6 minute average speaking time.
Whenever you're unsure if you smell okay or not, you ask your roommate soap.
If he leans in for a quick check and shrugs "ye smell fine, dude." Then chances are you smell fine.
But if he gets so close he has to grab you and hold you still, shoving his face into your neck and practically shuddering when he groans "fuck, ye smell fuckin' amazing. Wait— hold still– let me enjoy it, yeah?" Then chances are you smell absolutely foul and a shower should happen within the next five minutes....or as soon as he gets done rubbing one off on you.
→ not canon-compliant ⋆ no current romantic love-interest ⋆ non-story compliant storyline ⋆ reader is nonchalant about a lot ⋆ gender-neutral ⋆ reader is around 17 years old ⋆ reader is not a hero ⋆ this'll probably be very boring ⋆ not proofread
♫ currently playing: My Body’s Made of Crushed Little Stars - Mistki
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D I R E C T O R Y
chapter 1 <- you are here -> chapter 3
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Conner was bored, to say the least. Thanks to Tim he had skipped school which was usually fine except skipping alone was boring, no one to hangout with. So when he was running around the city with ease made possible by his abilities, you can’t blame him for stopping to watch you and your friends.
Not in a weird way, in a curious way— which you’d probably argue is weird regardless but it’s not like he’d know that, it’s why he was curious in the first place, it hit him when he got Tim’s message that you both never really talked. You’d spoken maybe once when he was waiting around the front entrance for Tim but after that it was really a lot of missing each other around corners, you two were more than due for a hello by this point.
Maybe he should’ve expected that you’d have been surprised by his sudden appearance given that you aren’t like the bats.
Appearing around the corner and standing right before you while you grabbed some milkshakes you probably paid for should’ve been his first sign to back up. But give him a break here, this is probably, maybe, the start of a semi-beautiful acquaintanceship!
He was mostly comfortable with all of the Bats, minus Jason who wasn’t comfortable with anyone at all. And you were not going to be exempt from that rule.
─── ´ˎ˗
You however, did not share that sentiment. Watching Conner stand in front of you, chest puffed out with a bright smile on his face like he didn’t just make you drop fifteen dollars worth of milkshakes.
Pain from your scream irritated your throat as you cleared it, the scratchy feeling of your vocal cords disseminating its discomfort caught your breath before you sighed, “.. Conner.”
“Did you forget my name in two seconds or do you just like saying it?” He joked, elbow jabbing the air in your direction. You deadpanned but that coldness dropped when you noticed what was held in his hands.
Two milkshakes of which the condensation was disturbed by his grip causing it drip onto the concrete, darkening the hard stone at contact. You looked back up at him, catching his unperturbed expression and sighed, “you stalking people now superboy?”
Conner chuckled, “maybe, would you tell Tim if I did?”
“As if Tim would care.” You replied, grabbing the milkshakes from the rims and picking them up and out of his grasp before turning away.
To your dismay, he did not get the hint and trekked behind you. Looking back at where Oliver was sitting you then noticed how Isla was also there, bouquet of crepes in hand while glaring at Conner.
You placed down the glasses and slid them in the directions of your friends, covering the side of his face that was visible to Conner, you watched Oliver mouth a quick “are you okay??” While Isla’s eye twitched at how the stranger followed behind you.
To avoid any misunderstandings you just sighed and raised your hand to gesture at Conner. “This is Tim’s best friend, don’t ask why he’s following us, I have no clue.”
“Following us??” Isla exclaimed, now looking at Conner with even more distrust than before, “well if he’s following me then he’s been following all of us right??” You said.
Oliver meanwhile kept appearing increasingly more distraught as the seconds moved on, his knee bouncing as his foot bobbed up and down on the ground so much that his chair shook when you looked close enough.
Pausing for a second, you glanced back to Conner, “thinking about it now, why are you following us?” Unintentionally wincing at his still cheery expression, the way his smile reached the bottom of his lifted cheeks and his eyes were forced just a little most closed as the push from his grin affected them.
“Tim asked me to” he said as if that was just a huge shock for you, brows raised part way up your forehead before he corrected himself, “Well he asked me to make sure you were actually on a school thing! Just thought we oughta hang out, never too late yeah?”
That did not clear a single thing up, “How did Tim know I was on a school trip, I’m sure I only reminded Alfred?”
“Wait- Alfred knew?” Well now that you said that you felt like you shouldn’t have, his smile dropped and now he was looking just as confused as you. Isla and Oliver just watched from the side, one still anxious and the other still angry about the intruder.
Both you and Conner looked at each other with mutual bewilderment, just then the kind worker called you over, when you turned you saw your milkshake sitting there, the worker waving you over. “Just give me a second” you said to Conner before running over and grabbing your milkshake, thanking the person working before going back and taking a seat with your friends.
By this point the fries Oliver got while not cold were definitely not as hot as before, and knowing Isla she’d be even more mad if Conner was the reason food was wasted. Even with the knowledge that her left hook wouldn’t to any damage to him, anyone faced with Isla when they annoyed her, was someone in peril regardless of whether or not they were stronger.
“I’m not wasting food over this, let’s eat and then talk, go walk around or something Conner-" but of course he just had to take a seat. Isla was about to say something possibly disrespectful but you took your crepe from her hand, “Thanks Isla, here’s your camera back by the way” you said, picking the camera out of your bag and handing it over to her.
Her eyes locked onto yours, brows tensing before they unfurled, a normal tell of hers asking if someone was okay without speaking. You nodded, shrugging it off and taking a bite of your crepe to reassure her.
She sat back, sipping at her milkshake while handing Oliver his crepe before indulging on her own, biting off a piece of the corner. Usually you three would be talking about something, anything, but not with Conner here, it was too awkward to speak with the unfamiliar presence.
The presence in question either did not notice, or care and started to talk about whatever he could. “Are those milkshakes good, should I get one?” to “so what was that about not telling anyone” and everything under the sun.
Oliver was the only one to really reciprocate, offering nods and strained hums in response. Isla and you took to prioritising your food, neither of you wanted to play polite with him, Oli being who he is, felt like he needed to.
Truthfully, apart from family dinners you’d been asked to attend as a formality, this may have been one of the most awkward moments of your life.
─── ´ˎ˗
Dick sat in his reserved room of the manor, of course he had one despite not even living there. A day off, a rare thing before a night out as Nightwing, one of the heroes of Bludhaven.
Perhaps it was to be expected that he had no day of peace in Gotham, he sat on the edge of his bed, elbows rested on his thighs while his hands held his face. Thinking, about you.
If you were to ask him, he knew you pretty well, or about as well as he knew what Jason was up to, which wasn’t much besides what was said in group chats and passing dinner conversations. He knew you had friends, though he didn’t know their names.
Knew you disliked the way people would drop their cutlery on their plates because of the clang sound it’d cause, evident from the way your shoulders would jolt and your face with contort into an annoyed glance for two seconds before going back to normal.
So when you disappear, on a school trip no less, something you should’ve shared but didn’t? It was an anomaly.
Close wouldn’t be the word he used to describe your and his relationship, but family would. That says more about him than it should.
He laid back on his bed, pining over the predicament, thinking about a whole lot of scenarios as to why you did what you did. It’s in his nature, he’s from a family of detectives and heroes.
At the same time, Stephanie chuckled as her and Cass laid on the floor of her reserved room, “tell me about how that guy tripped over his own feet while chasing you!”
Cass lifted the corner of her lips and began to recap one of the moments of her mission, steph cackling into her pillow while she listened. “Moral of the story, always tie your shoes I think” Cass said to wrap up her story. Stephanie sat up, ready to talk about something else when someone knocked on the door, “Come in!”
The door squeaked open, a slight whoosh of air hit her and Cass while Duke entered the room, “hey Cass” he said as a greeting. She nodded in reply, waving softly as Stephanie patted her bed for him to sit, “Duke! Come on, Cass was just telling me about her mission.”
He sat down but both girls noticed the tension on his body, how his posture immediately straightened when he felt it was off, shoulders back and low. “Duke? Is-" Steph hesitated, “-is this about earlier?”
“What happened earlier?” Cass asked, truthfully she’d been wondering when the right time to talk about it was, being as observant as she was, of course she knew everyone chatting in the groupchat mean something had happened. And now Duke just confirmed her thoughts.
He faltered in his words, taking a moment of silence to collect his thoughts before talking, “I’m just worried about them” “I know Duke, but you heard Tim, they’re in Metropolis.”
“Who’s in Metropolis?” Cass asked, interrupting the two of them, Stephanie wanted to talk, but for some reason the words caught themselves before they could spill past her lips. Duke bit the inside of his cheek before biting the bullet and filling her in on the details, Cass listened wordlessly as she let him talk.
His hands clasped together, forearms rested on his thighs as he spoke, infrequently taking a second to swallow the dryness that pooled when he hemmed over what he was going to say. As he finished he chewed at the top middle part of his lip, glancing from her to Steph.
Appears like she had a lot to catch up on..
─── ´ˎ˗
Walking around Metropolis with Superboy as your guide wasn’t what you had planned, given that Isla wouldn’t stop glaring daggers at him and Oliver nibbled at the edges of his fingertips trying to keep the peace. At some point he pulled you to the side and said that he had pepper spray if you needed it, to which you replied that this isn’t Gotham and you don’t need it— yet.
He took your ‘yet’ as a warning to tuck it into his pocket as opposed to having it in his bag for easier access. You knew Conner knew about it because of his superhearing though so he just found it funny, chuckling to himself while Isla whispered to you about how he laughed at air.
“If you all really want a good spot, you should go here” he said, pointing at Oliver’s printed out map of the city, “trust me!” He said while hauling the three of you away from your original path.
Even though Conner was harmless to civilians, you also knew that Isla and Oliver didn’t trust him, and that alone was enough for you to put a stop to this. “Conner, can we talk for a second?” You asked.
Conner turned back to you, a single loose strand of his hair fell in front of his face, “well sheesh, no problem!” He let you walk away to a random corner, quiet and seperate from Isla and Oli, he stopped following you and planted his feet against the grounds waiting for you to talk.
“You need to get out of here” his brows stretched up, frowning. “What, why?” Your eyes rolled to the side in annoyance, he wasn’t dense was he? Both hands elevated to harshly rub at your face, palms digging into the sockets of your eyes forcing them shut in defence, rubbing away the exhaustion.
“Because my friends aren’t comfortable around you Conner and between you and them, I’m not exactly choosing your company over theirs.” Fatigue layered itself on top of you, walking around all day and working at the same time was tiring enough without Mister Kon-el around you, heavens forbid you wanted a relaxed day with your friends.
There’s a little part of you that wanted to break down then and there because of the ridiculousness of it all. To curl your knees into your chest, hugging yourself while your back as stabbed into the corner of the building you stood by, all the reasons to do so stirred in your head, eyes narrowing from its [tired] at Conner who began to look antsy. All reasons, but the exception to this being your friends who talked about this all month.
“I’m serious.” “I am too! You still haven’t answered some of my questions,” he said, arms now crossed over his chest. You winced at him, Conner noticed, watching your eyes flicker downwards as your eyelids pushed them to.
Then you caught him off guard, your head swung up and you groaned loudly followed by a drawn out sigh, “son of a.. alright, yes, Alfred knew, I didn’t tell anyone but Bruce did know or rather he should, so I still can’t put together why you’re here??”
“Bruce knew?” You held back another groan, nodding at superboy, “Yes, he signed the papers, do you not know how a school trip works!” Conner took a step back as he watched your obviously agitated self stepped towards him.
“Snitch to Tim, or don’t, really I don’t care, just let me spend the day with my friends!” You said before turning your back and running over to them, rushing them away from where Conner stood, hoping he’d gotten the point otherwise he’d just catch up quickly.
And he did. Except he did reach out to Tim and text him that Alfred knew, but come on— that’s his best friend, he had to! Don’t be mad.
He became rather invested in this little situation, so he had plans to check in with Tim later when things would or at least should have calmed down.
Isla all the while held your arm and kept looking over her shoulder, glaring at anyone with any sort of resemblance to Conner. Oliver finally stopped being so wary and was back to leading the three of you around for your project, and despite your tiredness, you managed to go along with their shenanigans and got involved, laughing when you were happy, and using more energy than necessary because you just as excited as them.
When Oliver tripped over his untied laces and landed on a flock of birds, screaming while they flew away as the feeling of their wings flapping strokes across his skin tickled him. Isla who photographed the entire ordeal, and you who wrote down beside his notes ‘beware of birds’ for him to later read.
Which of them could even blame you when you accidentally fell asleep after they left you to watch their stuff for two minutes when they used the restroom. It was clear you weren’t having an easy day.
As the stronger of the pair, Isla carried you up and onto her back, your arms draped over her shoulders, Oliver standing besides you two carrying your stuff since both of you were unable to. Heading back to the bus where your teacher was waiting, a few other students already gathered around.
She looked up, watching you three approach, eyes zoning in on your sleeping self on Isla’s back. “Are they alright?” She asked, placing down her clipboard, Oliver nodded, “Yeah Miss, just tired!” He answered, leaving out the part where a weirdo followed you guys around, accepting that answer she marked you three off for attendance and let you go on the bus early because of a certain sleeping someone.
Isla let you lay between her and Oli, bags shoved underneath the seats while he covered you with his hoodie. His knees bent and pulled upward so he could use them as a table for his notebook, crossing off and writing down a few bits of information, pen positioned in between his fingers in a way that let him glide his pinky as a guide over the words, they landed on your words, tracing over the indented lines.
Chuckling to himself while flipping the page, Isla meanwhile kept checking to make sure you weren’t stirring awake as more and more people got on the bus. In her head, a count of annoyance rested at the back, still directed toward the stranger.
On the drive back to Metropolis, Isla watched the sky darken, clouds hiding the bright colours behind them as the sun and moon swapped shifts.
─── ´ˎ˗
Tim’s phone clenched between his fist, shook from the pressure so hard the screen may have cracked if he didn’t instead throw it onto his desk. Because of Conner, and the news he brought him.
Kon: did you all overreact or smth?
[ME]: what?
Kon: I asked and they said Alfred knew lmao,
How could you tell Alfred but not any of them? The clear excuse was that it just never came up, there wasn’t anything actually wrong with just telling Alfred, but Tim didn’t like not knowing things— especially not things in his own home.
God, he was way too tired for this, running on lack of sleep and now anxiety wasn’t helping. So he did what he thought was best, and notified Bruce.
[ME]: Alfred knew they left, Kon asked, said that they told Alfred.
The message became noted as seen quickly, the same could not be said for the reply, Tim waited, foot tapping on the floor of his room while he waited.
His phone buzzed after minutes, clicked on the notification and read the message, a single word.
Bruce: alright
Alright? That was it?? He slumped back into his chair and inhaled before pushing the breath out of his lungs with more force than normal, it wasn’t that he missed you, there wasn’t anything to miss. He hardly knew you, but Tim was as worried as he was when anyone he should’ve been keeping track of acted out of the ordinary.
Kicking them forward he outstretched his feet, slamming them in the ground before using them to pull himself to his desk, if he couldn’t stop thinking about it, then he’d just clutter his mind with work until he could.
A certain bat related hero did not agree. Charging out of his study and to the kitchen where Alfred was preparing dinner, his footsteps radiated heavily against the floor, thumping it with too much force for someone who was just going to simply ‘talk’.
Of course after living and working in the manor for so long, Alfred read these steps as well as words in a novel, listening to them get loud. Closer. Yet the motion of his hand moving up and down to chop the vegetables continued.
When the door to the kitchen opened slowly, like the person on the other side of it was waiting instead of being the one to open the door. Anticipating an answer without asking.
Bruce stood there, arms crossed with his feet slightly apart by an inch or two, watching Alfred chop vegetables and throw them into the pot like it was a crime.
Neither wanted to break first, but Bruce knew out of the two of them, Alfred would last longer. “You knew,” he said, voice tightening with some kind of subtle anger.
“Knew of what, Master Bruce?” Alfred replied, voice cool and steady while he proceeded with his work of prepping dinner.
“Please don’t play coy Alfred, did you or did you not know that they left on the trip without telling us.” Alfred shrugged, Alfred of all people. “Perhaps I did Master Bruce, they did inform me of their leave, and then asked me to keep it quiet unless asked directly.”
A pound bang ruptured against the doorframe, Bruce’s fist laid on the side of it, the skin that hit the frame turning red from irritation.
“Do not get mad, you asked what they were up to, I answered. Never once did you inquire about their location.” He said simply, not at all threatened by the anger coming off of the ward he helped raise, grabbing the measuring up from the opposite counter and precisely pouring in a bit of oil.
He didn’t need to look, he heard the heavy footsteps stomping against the ground, fading into a familiar direction, to the Batcave. It’d be funny if he was attempting to get the security footage to prove him wrong, only to realise that Alfred hadn’t told a single lie.
Avoidant he was, yes. Yet he knew better than to lie
He also knew everyone in the household like the back of his hand, minus you but that was intentional on your part.
Bruce entered the Batcave and instantly grabbed a chair, it dragged harshly against the ground before stopping in front of the console, dropping as its legs clattered a few times before settling. Opening the footage that was saved, he watched over the recordings from earlier that day.
From the entrance of the cave, Steph, Cass and Duke walked in to be met with the sound of a bang. Running ahead of the two, Stephanie watched as Bruce had his fist banged against the desk of where the console was. He was quiet, like he was attempting not to explode, she could hear his breaths over the steps of Cass and Duke following in after her.
The newest of the group whispered under his breath, “Is he alright..?”
Steph hid her lips between her teeth before popping them back out and leaning into him, “I have no clue.” She whispered back.
Cassandra stepped closer, her gaze pointed at the man who hid one face in his hand while the other hardly prevented itself from shaking out of anger. She read his language of silence, he wasn’t just mad, his foot was tapping against the floor, a sign of frustration or anxiety.
“.. It’s only four, Duke should be ready for patrol by now.”
“Now??” He said, stepping forward to argue but Bruce finally released his hold on nothing, fist unclenching as he pointed at him, “Go. Now.”
Glancing at Steph, Duke watched her shrug, it felt like he should protest and god he would’ve if he didn’t have a duty to protect Gotham. His steps echoed out onto the floor as he left to get changed, if he went on patrol now, he’d miss you coming home.
That thought left a heavy feeling on his shoulders.
─── ´ˎ˗
The harsh jolt of the bus shook you to consciousness as your head hit the back of the seat. You winced and groaned, leaning forward to cradle your head, feeling whatever was draped over you falling to the ground while Isla patted the back of where you smacked your head. Oliver grabbed his semi-cold water bottle, pressing it to the back of your head to replaced Isla’s hand.
“Is it bleeding?!” He said in a rushed voice, “I doubt they’re bleeding Oli!” Their words flew over your head to each other. You sat up with a grunt and stretched, “Christ Oliver I’m fine! Both of you shut up!”
The teacher immediately looked down the aisle and shushed all three of you, appearing like her patience for the day had run out. She turned back around while you leaned back. “That hurt for like two seconds, trust me.”
Isla nodded and hugged you while Oli put his water bottle away in his bag and picked up his hoodie from the ground, “so, now that you’re awake…” she started, holding your arm while she smiled nervously. “Is that weirdo from earlier gonna snitch on your family?”
Gazing over Isla’s face, the way her pupils retracted when they met yours, and her hand began to sweat as she held your arm, it was clear she was nervous, if she was mad she’d be holding onto the tag of her bag and crushing it to calm down.
You nodded softly, “Probably? It will be fine, maybe I’ll be grounded by Alfred for a week though that’s it” what else were you to think? He was the only one who really disciplined you like a parent should, maybe the man had his moments of self where he couldn’t be there for you, but that was a normal feeling.
“Again” Oliver said, looking at you through strands of his hair, “You have a place at my house if you want, I know my parents don’t mind, especially since you always leave money behind for groceries..” the end of his sentences faded out into a small laugh before stopping.
“Me too! I’d have to ask my mom, but I’m sure she’d let you stay!” You looked at your friends, head turning to watch them individual, you appreciated them and their families a lot, you sometimes would even spend seasons like Halloween or Easter with them, not Christmas though.
Sometimes they’d have additional family over, you’d feel both awkward and bad for intruding so it was around that time of the year that you’d tough it out in your room alone. Only coming out past midnight to have some hot chocolate with Alfred, maybe this year would be different because of Duke? You’d get him a gift, you used to do that with everyone, handmade crafts mainly— messy, free, but made with a lot of care.
That stopped when you found them in the trash for too many years in a row. But Duke hadn’t done that, so you’d trust him with it, you could always shove him in the same boat as everyone else next year if he threw it away.
But Isla and Oliver.. you’d buy them the most expensive things in the world for with Bruce’s money and they wouldn’t accept it, first year of being friends you did that, bought them gifts like nice clothes and a trip to the amusement park, but that was the only time you were allowed to do that because it was Isla’s birthday, then they both scolded you.
And they always reciprocated your presents, Isla loved making handmade jewellery, and Oliver had a part time job so he’d take the three of you out for the day when he saved up. Even if at times like these they’d argue, and sometimes you had minor disagreements, sitting with this on a dingy school bus in between them was more fitting than any spot during family dinner.
So the bus coming to a stop twenty minutes later? What an unbecoming feeling, the bus leaned side to side as people got off, pushing past each other down the aisle while you waited at the back with your friends. The air was chilling and in Gotham the sky was just beginning to set, a quick call to attention by your teacher made you focus. She reiterated that you’d also be going back next week on the same day, after checking all your work to make sure you actually did something on the trip, she’d excuse your group and talk to the next.
You thought it’d go as usual, head onto the bus, stay with Oli for a bit and then get off to walk the rest of the way home.
But Alfred, the sight of him in front of your school— the car he drove specifically, and Bruce Wayne standing by the door of the spot where you usually sat with a plastered on smile, you truly could’ve choked on that air with how you swallowed it down.
Isla walked up to you, hand on your bag instead of your shoulder, whispering into your ear, “Sure you’re not in trouble..? We can run right now, no questions asked.” Even if Bruce wore a polite smile, like he always did in public, your friends could see past it.
Oli was standing by the bus stop already, shifting from one foot to the other in an antsy motion, the bus was there and the driver was yelling for him to get on, he had no other ride unless he wanted to bother his brother, which he didn’t. You waved lowly at him, hand flicking away as a gesture for him to go, after a minute he reluctantly nodded before climbing into the bus and running to a window to wave at you both, worry written all over his face, the doors shut and so did your way out of the suffocating drive you were going to be in.
Isla also had to leave, her mom was waiting by the entrance with her car keys in hand, you whispered to her, “I’m okay, go, just make a bed for me incase” her head shook up and down firmly before she ran away, and you sucked in the coldness, feeling it against the cracks of your lips before walking to Bruce.
“.. Hey” you said. No reply, he looked at you before opening your door like a ‘gentleman’, you got in, shin grazing over the edge of the seat while doing so, no arguments about it, he was not in a mood to listen.
The leather stuck to your skin even though it was cold enough to have garnered goosebumps, as Bruce got into the car you had your head down, but it didn’t stop the slam of the door from making you flinch. He didn’t speak, neither did Alfred. You held your bag snug to your chest as if it’d fly out the window if you didn’t.
You kept your head looking at the padding on the car floor, because maybe if you looked out of your window, there’s a chance you’d have seen what Bruce looked like through the side mirror, and you couldn’t begin to imagine what his face was like today. Guessing that it was mad, with a small chance of disappointment?
Even scarier was if it was the kind of look Batman would wear, because even though you knew that’s who he always was, you’d never looked that man in the eye before.
If you looked up maybe you’d have seen the reservation in Alfred’s eyes through the rear view mirror. The looks he’d give Bruce when he paused driving in traffic, or maybe you’d have had the senses to hear your phone in your pocket, worried messages from your friends on the interface.
But no, you couldn’t lift your head until you felt the car stop moving, felt it stop shaking from the car engine when Alfred turned the key to shut off the ignition.
“Go inside, wait in the Batcave.” Bruce said firmly. Mechanically you opened the handle, and opened the door, pressing the handle and moving your wrist to push it forward. The first thing you noticed inside, Dick, standing there with a tired look in his eyes and a small smile.
“Hey..” you sighed, “Are you here to make sure I don’t run away?” He chuckled, head bobbing ahead, his hand stretched outward before his fingers flicked inward pressed together for you to follow. “Come on, don’t wanna keep everyone waiting.”
‘Everyone, great, a family meeting’ you thought, and in the batcave nonetheless, can your family do anything normally?
You walked behind him, steps practically on the walls of the hushed manor. The cave was as frosty as always, not helping your goosebumps, Dick didn’t even give you the chance to drop your things off in your room so you had to lug around your backpack.
If you were to guess just by looking at everyone’s faces, then only Duke would be on your side. The rest were looking either uncomfortable or- wait is that Cassandra? You noticed she left a couple weeks back but you hadn’t the faintest idea when she would get back, that’s not information you were privy to.
“Hey Cain, hope you’ve been well” you greeted, no response, not even a little head nod as you walked past the group, grabbing a chair and placing your body on it, your bag hung off the back of it. You took to calling her by her last name after being basically strangers.
Your head forced itself up, you weren’t going to be nervous around some strangers, it took more bravery than it should’ve to even look at them but god it felt good. When was the last time you looked these people in the eye?
To your side you saw Dick hovering, he clearly wanted to say something but held back until Bruce arrived.
And arrive he did. Everyone stilled, Dick stopped his pacing around you and anyone in Bruce’s way moved before he could tell them to, a word from him right now wouldn’t be a polite one.
A little part of you wanted to glance away, but another part of you hated the way he called your name just enough to glare at him, it should’ve been barely noticeable, but this was Batman you were talking to. Bruce Wayne, one of the greatest detectives. You know he saw it.
The furrow in his brows deepened, his voice pierced your ears because of how silent everyone made themselves. “What were you thinking, leaving to Metropolis without a word to any of us” he said, not really a question, it was more demanding than that but less certain than an actual demand.
“I told Alfred-” you were cut off, “and you told him to keep it a secret, why.” Okay, there’s several different approaches you could take here, but it all depends on why they’re worried. Your body unintentionally writhed in the chair, thighs stuck uncomfortably to it, hands gripping at your wrist and flicking at your nails. The eyes, their eyes, you forced yourself to think past it, past them.
If they were mad because they think you’ll ruin their image you should just apologise and play innocent.. if they’re upset because they care? No, even if trust was the case you don’t owe them any reassuring answers. You scroll through a few other choices but each one didn’t make you feel any more stable.
You felt as wobbly as the chair you sat on, one leg shorter than the others so you had to use your leg to balance it, foot pressed in a sore angle. Who knows what you were thinking at this part, maybe you zoned out, or gave up, but playing innocent? That was the best choice to you.
“..I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t wanna bother anyone and I thought telling Alfred would be enough.” The waver in your voice made you cringe, but what’s it to them? You’ve disappeared for weeks at a time before to Isla’s or Oliver’s places, it’s just a day.
But you can tell from the look on Bruce’s face that he wasn’t taking that answer seriously, the way he sighed like you were the exhausting one. ‘Fuck you’ you thought.
He grunted, stepping forward to tower over you as if he wasn’t already doing so, “did you think that you would be able to leave without anyone noticing?”
‘Well, yeah?’ You wanted to laugh because yes, you did think that and you know you’re right. You were willing to bet Bruce’s entire fortune that you could disappear a week later then appear and no one would have noticed.
Yet to avoid making things worse you just lied, “Mr. Wayne, I know I shouldn’t have caused problems like that, I’m really sorry- I’ll tell you next time I swear.” Yeah you will, and then he’ll eventually get annoyed with you and tell you to bother Alfred.
Save for the face the man had, like it— he wasn’t pleased with that, you said everything he probably wanted to hear, what’s up?
“… repeat what you just called.” ‘Okay, easy’ you thought. “Mr Wayne?” You said again, a bit unsure but not a stutter, you were proud of that.
But Bruce ‘tsk’d at your words and turned to the wall like you said something wrong. Hand clenching around the bars of the chair, you stilled away the annoyance, you weren’t gonna get into any more trouble than necessary, it wasn’t worth it, it wasn’t.
Until it was.
“So this really is an act of rebellion.” Your shoulders straightened as you sat up properly, a reactive response for when your brain had difficulty comprehending something.
His gaze ripped from the walls of the cave and back to you, but after all he just said you weren’t scared to face him in the eye anymore. He just sighed and kept talking, “I expected better from you, never have you acted out before. I don’t know why you’re acting like this, but I am your father, and you must respect me.”
“What?? Excuse me—” he just kept pissing you off, “stop and go to your room, you’re grounded until you apologise properly.” And to that, you scoffed. The twitch in Bruce’s wrinkles said it all, he believed, with his soul, that you were acting out.
“Go to my room? You can’t just do that, I did what I was supposed to! I told Alfred, and you signed the papers if you had forgotten!” You heard a murmur from the little crowd of people nearby, confusion he felt, he turned back to you, “pardon?”
“I gave you the papers, did you really think I could leave on a trip without a signature? You signed it yourself last month, I told you then, that’s why I’m so confused!” You actually weren’t confused, you knew he didn’t care but irregardless you believed he’d have at least remembered signing a piece of paper that was put right in front of him.
His head shook, “I was busy, you of all people should understand” he said, posture not faltering though you could see the vein in his neck as it stuck out. “Yeah, but I did everything right! You can’t ground me for that, or anything!”
“You are acting like a child, you are under my care and you-” Instantly his body leaned to the side in shock, the metal chair flew right past him followed by the distant noise of your bag hitting the ground.
It crashed into the wall, leaving the chair indented around the side as a rusty nail was popped out of place from the impact, rolling near his feet, Bruce watched it clang against the ground, metal screeching as it landed hard.
His head craned back to you, surely he felt a bone click from how hastily he did so. When he looked back your figure was bent down to pick up your bag, from the corner of your eye you could see how blindsided they were from the way you just acted, you raised yourself up, rolling your shoulders back as you slung your bag over them. The weight pulled your sides down an inch before adjusting, you took one step to leave when Bruce spoke.
“Get back here!” Hatred stirred in your chest over how your feet instantly stopped moving because of his tone, you turned and met his grim expression, obscurity shadowed over it despite the lights overhead, to his sides his fists were clenched, you deadpanned.
Sure you were a bit scared, but being a little frightened wouldn’t make you shiver in your boots. “You don’t pull something like that and walk away” he said.
“Something like what Bruce?” Off to the side, Stephanie stood with her mouth covered by her hand as she stood by Cassandra, Duke had to hold her up from behind after the shock because she took a misstep. Dick had frozen when the chair hit the wall, and Damian was about two seconds away from jumping you, Tim had his back pressed against the wall, the look in his eyes shot you like a bullet because you could see— blame, it was like you were the one who physically backed him into a corner. You’d have spoken up about that too if someone didn’t interrupt your observations.
“Don’t call me that.” You angled yourself to him, lowering your head by bending your body slightly, it was likely that you were just leaning into your pettiness at this point.
“Then what can I call you? Because ‘father’ isn’t fitting” your hand clung to your bagstrap, feeling the grainy threaded surface until your palm, breathing in was pointless, it did nothing for your lungs, and whether from fear or anger, it was decided that it was too late to backtrack now.
His hand slammed against the table, shaking it as the contents on top jittered, echoes in the Batcave made you tense. It was certain now that this most definitely Batman and no longer the man who was supposedly your father. “Take that back, you are my ward in blood as you’ve always been.”
“Your ward? You better be joking, since when has blood meant anything to this family, look around, you adopt a stray off the street and treasure them like you never did with me!” Just then a hand landed on your shoulder, flinching away you turned, tripping over your feet but catching yourself on the wall, your eyes landed on the perpetrator.
It was Dick, his hand was still held out to you, slow, treating you as stranger, as someone who needed help as a random civilian and not family which made his first line even more infuriating.
His voice wavered, if someone asked you what you thought it’d like be about how pathetic he looked, “Stop, we’re family please don’t be like this-” your eyes rolled.
“SHUT UP” You yelled, hand shot up too quick for comfort as you pointed, a little pain ached in your wrist, “I don’t care about this! And neither do you! You’re just a liar Dick, I don’t get why you’re like this, you act like you care but you don’t!” His lips parted, hand trying to reach yours, maybe in an act of comfort or to restrain you.
“We care about you so much, it’s why we were so worried!” But that was a ridiculous lie, you huffed out a chuckle, “If you were all so worried why didn’t anyone call me?! I have a damn number!”
He paused, did he have your number? You shrugged with a strained smile, “I have one, but it’s like none of you have it either! Is that it, are we such close family that we don’t even have each other’s numbers?”
Oh, oh not. Duke felt even worse because he knew he had your number, he had it in his phone though you guys usually only talked briefly on social media, it didn’t cross his mind to even reach out to you, why? Steph on the other hand entirely forgot she had your number, originally getting it before giving up on you, and as for everyone else?
Dick didn’t want to think about it, they just had a family discussion in the group chat that day about you, if you were just in it then this wouldn’t have happened. He kept looking to Bruce for answers but the man seemed just as in thought as he was. Dick reached his hand closer to you.
But his hand felt like a threat so you backed away slowly, “Put that hand down” Dick looked down at his hand and then at you before lowering it. “I’m so tired of all of you, everyone—"
It didn’t feel right to say that, eyes gazing over to Duke, he looked rattled after your outburst, maybe there wasn’t this many arguments behind the scenes, “hah..” you sighed, feeling bad because he actually seemed upset, “Everyone besides Duke, he’s- I’m not gonna let him think I’m mad at him, because he’s not to blame, he just got here, and I won’t even blame Jason because he stopped being around!” You assured, internally you checked it off as the right choice when he let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Damian tried to speak with his arms crossed, disapproval he didn’t deserve to serve you with wafted from where he stood, , “Stop acting out, you’re-”
“Am I acting out? Don’t I have the right to? I am a person, and I have my friends, they are my family. And maybe Alfred, and Duke, because they’re the only people who haven’t let me down yet! You made my standards so low that someone who hasn’t done anything bad deserves my praise don’t you get how bad that is!?”
“I won’t let you talk to us nor father like this, we both are blood." He looked up at you as if you were below him, how dare he?
Your mouth opened and gaped at the air in disbelief, “yeah, im related to you guys, congratulations! Stephanie is related to a villain but that doesn’t mean she has to acknowledge him!”
Duke looked at the twitch in your hand as it was being held back by your self restraint so hard that your arm was shaking, preventing the energy in it from lashing out again.
By his side, Stephanie whispered into Duke’s ear, “Duke, you have to calm them down, please.” She said, practically having tears in her eyes, lord knows it wasn’t from fear, it was the mention of her dad, that man. She couldn’t believe you’d bring it up, but you did.
A thick gulp pushed down his throat, only exemplifying the dread he felt, stepping toward you he raised his hand like how Dick did before and talked carefully, “I’m here, don’t be startled” hearing Duke’s voice you turned to him, and your expression went from rage to pleading, brows curled as they pressed down on your eyes which frames the shakiness, like if he stopped you something inside you would crack, “I know you’re trying to stop me Duke but please, I need to let everyone know.”
This was the most you’ve felt in years, every time you managed to shove down your anger, sadness, anything that classified as you ‘acting out’. He saw it, like when his parents ended up— no he can’t even think about it.. the things he felt, the way he wanted to go against someone, thoughts he knew he wouldn’t act on in his head because they weren’t allowed.
Duke pulled away, “I.. I have to go.” He said, when he unintentionally looked around his eyes locked onto yours, they narrowed in a way that was evident to his meaning, ‘be careful’ the words delivered to you, nodding your head. Only then did he quickly turn away to the exit of the Batcave.
“I-" you stretched your arms before bending them and turning your wrist to press your hands against the back of your neck. “I want everyone to listen because I think you guys have to hear this, and then I’m gonna leave because I hate being in this house, got it?”
It was quiet, you already prepared for protests but nothing happened, only Tim’s shoes squeaking on the ground, holding back Damian who was forced behind the others.
You pointed at Bruce, “You are Batman, you are Bruce Wayne, you are a billionaire, and you are NOT my father. You are a man who fails to see where he has gone wrong despite your years of experience and mistakes, and I’ve been wanting to say this for years, but you NEED therapy.”
Dick had adjusted an inch from how he stood before, nerves cinching in his veins, heart pounding in his chest for an escape so painfully he wondered if superman could hear it, you didn’t even look upset. Your eyes were sunken with tiredness, lips pursed to consider your words for they were said, “maybe you can tell, but I’m not mad, just sick of your shit—” he flinched “—I’m sick of how you look at me like another person to put a show up around, because I’d rather that but you change it, pretend to be my older brother. I was here with you from the start, but it didn’t mean anything.”
‘No, that’s not true..’ he thought, that’s not what he meant to do, he was your brother in heart and soul, really! That’s what he thinks, it’s why he’s here, don’t make him think he failed, that’s not..
His worry was forcefully put on pause, turning your attention to Tim who had his arms raised out partially to stop Damian. “Timothy, you’re harmless, to me. I know you have info on basically anyone and yet, because I didn’t matter enough, you had to send Conner of all people— which, never do that again— all because you didn’t set up the precautions for something like this, even though that’s what you do. I’m not trying to be harsh but what if I actually was lost, maybe I did run away, and it wouldn’t have been easy to find me. You track villains and find them with more ease yet I’m when it becomes difficult and you blame me.”
Tim dedicated so much time of his life to investigating. To tracking and finding things, people, and you pointing out that he failed, god, he wanted to hit you, but he had to admit.. “they’re right” he said, Steph fidgeted beside him.
“I’m right here, you can say that to me.” You noted, robotically he gave you his attention, his lip might’ve been bleeding from how hard he was biting it but you were too far away to tell.
Swallowing his pride, Timothy admitted himself that— “you’re right, I should’ve known where you were but I didn’t.”
You hummed, mockingly to anyone else, but to you it was a way to push down the shakiness in your throat by intentionally verbalising it in a different way. “Yeah, and then Bruce got mad because of all of this, maybe this conversation would’ve happened anyways but you could’ve at least avoided getting panicked as Conner said. If you cared enough, but you didn’t and you still don’t.”
Dick murmured loud enough for him to hear, “Tim, that’s not true, you have to tell them you care.”
But he didn’t want to lie, you were right, he didn’t care like that about you. Not the same way he’d care if anyone else in the room went missing.
“Dammit.. Dick they’re right- I don’t think they’re family” and Bruce, as silent as a statue for the entire talk, grunted. A strangled and repressed sound in the back of his head, Tim ignored him, “I try, but it doesn’t feel right, to call them family..”
You nodded, “I’m not mad about that Tim, it’s the same for me, I don’t think you guys are family either, but now that it’s been acknowledged, none of you are allowed to say shit like ‘I’m your father’ or ‘we’re family’ there is nothing I’ll tolerate after this.”
Stephanie almost cried when you turned to her, she should’ve tried, she knows, she shouldn’t have given up after you weren’t reticent to her kindness at the start. “I’m sorry-" her voice cracked, shoulders shaking, your eyes softened, and it made her feel worse, why are you feeling bad for her. Stop, that’s not something she can have now.
“Stephanie, no apologies, you made me feel like someone could actually care and then took it away. I am sorry if I didn’t give you the reaction you wanted, but you just confirmed what I was scared of, being left, again.” She thought you’d say more, but you didn’t, instead without moving your body your head craned to Cassandra.
Her short black hair bristled against her ear, listening intently when you started to talk, “Cain, we never talked, so why are you here as a part of this talk like you have a right to be?”
“Cassandra is family, she deserves to be here with us-" not the right words, you waved off his words, “Tim, she’s your family, if you need emotional support that’s fine, but don’t make it seem like I owe her that.”
You know you’re coming off as mean, the truth can usually feel like that. You don’t mean to seem like you’re villainising them all, but this is the truth, they aren’t villains surely but they aren’t your family neither.
Damian stepped ahead of the rest, he knew it was his turn, no one stopped him. “Damian” you began, “You’re cruel with your words, unnecessarily so, and when I remember we’re related I feel like I should care about you, but after your first year here I gave up because you didn’t had anything to give.”
He shifted in place, feet lifting one at a time and adjusting, his face was hidden well. Watching you, no discernible changes in his features for you to read from, “I just want you to leave me alone in a way that doesn’t make me feel isolated, does that make sense?”
You glanced around the entire room, doing a slow 360° to see how much damage you’d dealt.
Bruce, he had his back facing everyone. Hiding again, like Batman always did when he couldn’t be human, Dick was minutes away from breaking down but he hid it well. Steph had composed herself enough to stop her tears from welling up, but the small light tear stained path down her cheeks proved it was harder for her than you’d want it to be.
Cassandra was silent as always, you never managed to read her, Tim had his jaw clenched tightly, seemingly angry but not at you, his eyes locked onto the floor and didn’t look up. And Damian, he’d begun to glare at you, but no words were released, arms still crossed, but his posture seemed more guarded.
Heart heavy, you heaved in a large breath, leaning back as your chest expanded with the air before deflating with your exhale. “Mhm, I’m gonna go, I’m likely going to stay with a friend of mine, please don’t look for me, Alfred has my location, and maybe I’ll give it to Duke as well because he’s pretty cool!”
You said, tone light as if you’d just dropped something heavy, which you did, it was just on them, that last part was sort’ve a lie, you weren’t even sure if he had your number after all. Your steps echoed in the cave, causally walking away from the mess you’d made, that was for them to clean up.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Ah, I rushed this, I’m so sorry it’s so badly written. I’ll rewrite a bit later when I’ve released a bit more, I’m so sorry.
I wrote reader getting progressively more calm through out their outburst because I imagined them just slowly getting rid of years of anger they had. And as for why it diminished so quickly, I think after repressing it so much they forgot how to feel something dramatically for a longer period of time.
I’m not a fan of how I depicted Tim in this but I’m trying to stay consistent to the first chapter. I’ll redeem him upcoming chapters I promise. Just likely after Duke. Meanwhile Isla and Oliver are unfortunately going to take a backseat when we get to that point.
Also just an apology for the writing again, very sorry.
-> Thank you for all the support on my last chapter, it has been overwhelming to get so much appreciation for it.
♫ NOTE: I’ve been getting requests for people to be put on the taglist yet when I try their accounts do not show up. Please remember to make sure your settings allow you to be tagged, and if you ask, know that you are added if I reply “🩶✔️” to you.
＊ previous chapter <- || -> chapter three [unavailable]
Synopsis: Dbd killers with a visually impaired reader.
Characters: Frank Morrison, Hillbilly, Albert Wesker, Deathslinger, Trickster, Knight, Chucky, Jason Voorhees, Pyramid Head, Ghostface, Huntress, Michael Myers.
!!Warnings: Gn reader, unhealthy relationships, murder, obsessive behavior, psychological manipulation, act not too deep!!
A.n: Ughh I feel like I completely fucked this up, it's my first time writing for dbd and even though my mood was getting in the way I was stubborn enough to finish it lol.
Frank Morrison
At first remembering what a complete asshole he is, he'll make fun of you. He'll take your white cane, perform stupid acrobatic tricks with it, and tell you to look at him. "Ah right, my dumbass. You're blind." at this point he can even make fun of himself and his jokes genuinely aren't funny.
You can be sure he'll turn your matches into hell. At some point the disrespect Frank shows you will start spreading to the others too. And when he finds out about it, sorry but he won't be pleased. "You fucking legged idiots aren't ashamed of messing with a blind person!?" he says while running up and driving his knife into someone's back without even looking at who they are. "Pick on someone your own size!"
Frank definitely doesn't consider himself to be in the same category as them. He's an egotistical meathead. Now he'll act as if nothing bad ever happened between the two of you.
"How many?" he held up two fingers right in front of your face and waited for an answer. "But Frank, I can't see—" He cut you off without a second thought. He was stubborn as a mule. "Yeah, but that doesn't stop you using your brain."
Frowning, you threw out a number without thinking much about it. "One?" There was silence between the two of you. Frank lowered the middle finger he had been showing you and grunted. "No, it was five."
What more is there to say? He's a complete asshole, but a lovable asshole.
Hillbilly
Oh, poor baby. His mind is going to be so thoroughly scrambled. Because of the life he's lived, he's never met a blind person before. At first he'll simply assume you’re clumsy and, without giving it much thought, try to kill you just like he does everyone else. But later during a sudden collision between the two of you, instead of screaming in fear, you reach out and touch whatever you ran into—Max's chest. Then with a small breath and hesitant uncertainty, you murmur "David?" and he just freezes.
His entire life, he'd been forced to endure disgusted stares crawling across his skin, he'd spent years fighting against screams that chased him as though they had a physical form of their own, but none of the pain he had ever experienced could have prepared him for this moment.
Not knowing what to do, he'll hurriedly leave. It won't take long for guilt to settle in after abandoning you there. He'll come back. Assuming you can't really get around on your own, he'll at least hope to guide you somewhere safe and keep you away from the carnage.
Of course, the moment he sees Leon—someone he already can't stand—holding your hand and leading you toward the generators, his mood will sour very quickly.
Deciding to leave you and Leon alone for a while, he'll turn his attention toward another survivor. Hoping to put an end to the battle between his heart and his mind, he'll keep dragging his chainsaw through bone.
Albert Wesker
Wesker wasn't stupid. During a chase, he knew exactly what the stick you were holding in the distance was when he caught sight of it from the corner of his eye. To be honest, he couldn’t help but feel a little curious in that moment. Was the Entity really cruel enough to bring a blind person here?
Still, this was Albert Wesker we were talking about. He never distinguished between the obstacles standing in the way of his victory. And you were no exception. Well, you were for a time...
You were far too kind. Not because you possessed a pure heart, but because you believed fighting with another person would gain you nothing. Perhaps that was why, despite the people who looked down on you and saw you as useless, you never used your blindness as a tool to turn your back on them. No, you caught even the smallest pained whimper like a hunter and continued helping others despite suffering yourself. And that fascinated him. He told himself it was nothing unusual. He had seen plenty of self sacrificing fools like that before, yet he could never stop himself from being drawn to you.
As he came to believe that you were remarkably intelligent and had interesting ideas, his interest in you became increasingly obvious. Which meant he would stop killing you. "Seven minutes...I'll give you only seven minutes." He said it while watching you study his face with eyes that couldn't see, unaware of the excitement shining within them after the familiarity built over such a long time.
If only you could have seen the savage hunger with which those bright eyes looked at you.
Caleb Quinn
One of Caleb's favorite things was targeting survivors from distances where he could truly show off his marksmanship. Naturally, that would make him notice you very quickly. When he aimed at you, instead of checking behind yourself, running and weaving back and forth like the others, he saw you trailing your hands along walls and finding your way through sound.
But the biggest thing that stopped Caleb was something else. The thing he knew best was the smell of helplessness.
He had faced strong opponents and exceptionally skilled ones, even the most dishonorable kinds, but never someone weak and without the chance to see. That went against his cowboy way too much. For a while he would simply watch you from afar, unsure of what to do with you.
Eventually, there would be times when he let you escape. There were moments when he not even allowed you to live during matches he was destined to lose. He tried not to cause unnecessary pain, and that applied not only to killing but to chases as well. While he hunted others directly with his rifle, he would usually take advantage of your condition and catch you with his hands instead.
He would never make you experience the pain of his harpoon even once, because shooting prey that couldn't properly run went against his cowboy pride.
Caleb never forgot what life had taken from him. Because of that, he wouldn't see your blindness as a 'flaw' but as 'one of life's dirty tricks played on you.' and with time, he would even start trying to have conversations with you.
Trickster
You're an insult to his existence. If someone were to come up and ask what he thought of you, he'd give a brief and straightforward answer. The Entity dragged this boring thing here to punish me.
To him, you're a loser. And as if not being able to see him wasn't enough, you're completely indifferent to his insults because you don't even know korean. "찌질이." When he throws one of his knives at you from a record breaking distance while you're running around with the help of your cane, he'll call out after you like that.
His voice is so low and wild that it sounds less like an insult and more like a term of endearment. Ji-woon shouldn't lie to himself, but he absolutely enjoys messing with you. And much like the affection he once accepted from his fans, he'll gradually begin admitting to himself that he likes your presence too.
"너 완전 루저야" (You're a complete loser) As he says it, he'll sign one of his favorite cassette tapes and tuck it into the side of your pants. Ah and if despite not understanding his strange behavior, you approach him politely instead of rudely...Ji-woon will melt. As this sick obsession of his grows over time, he'll begin writing music for you. During matches, he'll always leave you for last and constantly make sure the generators don't get finished so he can spend plenty of time with you.
Eventually, Ji-woon will remember that not being able to see his perfection doesn't stop you from feeling it, and after gently taking hold of your wrists and placing kisses against your palms that tickle your skin, he'll bow his head slightly before you and guide your hands up to his face.
The Knight
He definitely won't pity you. The moment he finds you he'll take care of you without hesitation, sooner he's rid of you, the better. But somehow, he'll occasionally find himself absentmindedly watching you.
Knight had seen far too many things before. The wounded, maimed, countless people clinging to life in agony despite missing limbs or having their faces completely shattered..He shouldn't have been affected by it and yet, here he was.
Drawn toward the scent of blood, you had reached out to him by following the sounds he made. One hand clung to his arm while you held a medkit in the other, looking at him with quiet concern. You were pathetic enough to mistake him for an injured teammate because of the smell of blood. "Let me help you."
With a grunt from beneath his helmet, he grabbed you by the arm, then shifted his hold to your waist. Ignoring your startled cry and the frightened struggling that came with your sudden realization, he carried you to the hatch.
If we ignore the part where he tossed you into the darkness like a sack of shit, it was actually gentlemanly.
Chucky
"Oh my God, is this shit a gift for me? It isn't even my birthday!" After killing everyone else, Chucky shouted that toward the sky as if someone up there was listening while enjoying the pleasure of finally meeting the new survivor. Damn it, he's going to make fun of you so much that at some point you might genuinely start praying for him to kill you.
"Don't stare at me like that! Although…you don't actually know where you're looking, do you?" Chucky laughed mockingly at you as you stood with your back to the generator, struggling to figure out what was happening around you. He would constantly compare your helplessness to that of a newborn baby, yet he generally wouldn't touch the cane you needed so badly. No, alright maybe he'd take it sometimes but he'd genuinely try not to interfere with it too much. "Well, you can't do anything without that shited thing either, can you? I'm the same way," he said while stroking the knife in his hand as though it were something seductive. "It's as inseparable from me as my dick."
Don't really question Chucky and his philosophy on life. As much of a little shit as he is, he'd definitely look after you too. I mean, come on he's tiny and you're blind! What a great match, right? Sometimes he'd try to play games with you, games that wouldn't hurt you, of course. Things like hide and seek. "My god, you were made for this game, trust me!" he said while punching your leg in an attempt to reassure you. Though what happened a few minutes later didn't really support his words. Taking full advantage of your blindness, he'd practically run circles around your fingertips. "I'm over here…no I'm over here! Look, follow my voice…oops, you walked into a wall! Now that's a classic!"
But the strangest thing is that he'd let you carry him. "RUN AT THAT ASSHOLE! RUNNNN!" To Chucky, you were the body he needed and he was the only eyes you could ever have. How romantic…right?
Jason Voorhees
He learned that you were blind in the worst possible way, at the worst possible time. Jason still carried the fragility and anger born from the bullying he had endured throughout his life deep within his bones. And when he saw the bullying directed at you, he didn't stop to think not even for a moment. He shouldn't have cared, yet despite the command of his mother still echoing in his ears, he immediately strode toward you and without giving the person who had shoved you to the ground a chance to react, grabbed them by the throat and lifted them into the air. Bringing his machete down upon their chest with ruthless force, he would shatter their ribcage.
Behind him, he had already forgotten about you, crawling away from the screams on the ground while crying in fear and searching for your cane. In that moment the only thing he was focused on was the sack of flesh in his hands. With every blow he struck, he remembered the faces of those who had gotten away after what they had done to him. One day he would leave this place, find every last one of them and punish them.
But for now...he let the body in his grasp fall to the ground with a disgusting thud, as though it were nothing. Taking muffled breaths behind his mask, he would finally turn toward you. Without thinking much about it he'd walk over, pick up your cane lying far away from where you were on the ground, then grab you by the arm and haul you to your feet as if you were a rag doll. Ignoring your screams and pleas, he'd place the cane back into your hand and walk away.
He was a victim too, but he would never allow that number to grow.
Pyramid Head
In a single word, he couldn't find anything about you that deserved punishment. The moment he met your eyes—eyes that didn't even know where to look or move in their fear—he lowered the massive sword in his hand.
And your hesitant "Hello?" in response to the deep, rasping breaths coming from him didn't help at all. You were completely unaware of the giant standing before you. He had come here to punish, yet all he could see in you was innocence.
Of course you would be terrified of him. He wasn't a caring or considerate giant. Him constantly grabbing you by the collar, holding your body to drag you somewhere, or forcing you into a seat after depositing you in a corner certainly didn't make things any easier. And that's not even mentioning the touches that left anything for privacy. Still you could see traces of kindness in him. Not only during your own matches with him—even in matches with two killers, he wouldn't allow his partner to lay a finger on you.
He was incredibly possessive. The sound of metal grinding, which once made your heart pound so hard it felt ready to burst from your chest, had become a source of comfort. It was a sign that he was there and while he was there, no one could hurt you. Even friends whose company you missed couldn't get close to you. You had learned a long time ago in the worst way possible, that he would never tolerate anyone making contact with you.
He was very possessive, and all that really meant was getting used to the scent of metal stained with blood and rust.
Ghostface
"Baby, you're holding the flashlight wrong." you quickly turned toward the voice and pointed the flashlight in that direction, but it was no use. Looking at the flashlight aimed directly at his chest, Danny let out a deep sigh. God, you were exhausting. But just as unique. "Hey sweetheart, if you want to blind the killer, you have to point the light at the right place! My face—" the moment you lifted the flashlight toward the sky, he couldn't help but laugh.
"Damn, please don't do that Mr. Blindborn! I can't take on Batman!"
Danny was someone who always found a way to entertain himself, but you were something else entirely. A different kind of flavor—one that melted away on the tongue and left you thirsty, yet somehow made you want more. Danny preferred having control no matter the situation. And what he liked about your blindness was how, sooner or later it could leave you dependent on someone. A lovely little sheep dependent on his guidance.
Of course, he killed you in the beginning. He savored every scream he managed to draw from you. He enjoyed making you hate him, making you fear him, making you become wary of the feeling of being watched that you had grown so used to. And in the end, somehow he made you come back to his arms. He paid no mind to your trembling or your struggles within the tight, warm embrace that surrounded you. He simply locked your bodies together as though the two of you had been lovers since the dawn of the world itself.
To him, this wasn't an unhealthy obsession. No, this was love itself—thing he had never thought he would get to experience. And Danny was starving for it.
Huntress
Ah, you poor baby...that was what flowed from the depths of Anna's mind the thoughts no one ever cared to wonder about—when she first saw you. It's difficult to say what Anna truly thought of you but one thing was certain, it wasn't healthy. Your first match was filled with the terror brought by her dreadful hatchet. Poor you, having only just recognized the sound of it voice, you looked like a dying fawn when the hatchet buried itself into your body.
And this triggered something in her, something powerful enough to overshadow even her desire to kill. You weren't something that needed to be removed—no, you needed to be protected. That was why life had brought you to this cruel, miserable pit. One truth of this place was that pain was inevitable, but whenever you were by Anna's side, she never allowed pain to come near you.
She took your face between her calloused hands, stroked your skin and brushed her fingers over the eyelids of those beautiful eyes that knew nothing of the world around them. She hummed the only lullabies her mother had left behind for her. It didn't matter if you couldn't understand them, her love recognized no language barrier.
Michael Myers
While chasing Laurie, he almost had a heart attack when you suddenly stepped out from around a corner—if that had even been possible. Without thinking, he would have turned you by the shoulder and driven his knife into you. But then he noticed. Michael was a very observant person; it was simply one of the advantages of being a hunter. He saw the dullness in your eyes, that lack of recognition, almost immediately.
It was a sight he had never seen before. Even people who knew nothing about him would look at him strangely or with concern. But not you. Not with the same indifference you carried.
He swiftly raised the knife until its tip hovered before your eye and waited. Yet the scream and expression of terror he wanted so badly never came. It sent a note of discomfort through his body. Michael wasn't used to not being feared. And he would never, the person hesitantly touched by someone trying to understand the owner of the hand gripping them tightly, letting out a startled breath. He shoved you away harshly.
Without caring that you had fallen, he left. But that would not be your last encounter. And the more often a blow lands, the more it wears away whatever stands before it.
⚠️CW⚠️ — gay sex, gay, public blowjob, Gloryhole, exhibitionism, Jason has a big dick, top Jason Duval, bottom male reader, bathroom sex, bareback, breeding, scent kink (armpit), body worshipping, almost caught, derogatory language used, ass referred to as cunt, and cumming hands free.
Word count — 7.1k
Summary — what was a random gloryhole hookup became a weekly occurrence. It was the usual session until the anonymous man wanted more.
Read before continuing — if you are younger than 18 or any of the warnings make you uncomfortable, this is your chance to turn around and leave. If there are no problems, you may continue.
It was late at night when you took your stroll, the sun having set along the horizon a couple of hours ago. The beaming sky and sweltering heat were replaced by darkness and cool, crisp air—somewhat damp and humid. The streetlights lining the area between the sandy beach and the hard concrete sliced the darkness, illuminating the sidewalk, while the beach remained in total darkness.
The once-packed businesses that lined the other side of the beach became vacant. The ambiance of people speaking, padded footsteps, and the occasional conflict ceased. You could hear your footsteps patting against the concrete and the faint, distant sounds of cars driving through Key Lento. The wind blowing caused the hanging palm trees to sway and rustle, and some sand particles from the beach dusted the sidewalk and your shoes.
Nightly strolls were the best, at times, if you avoided the more criminal and shady areas. The beach was probably the safest. You usually walked through the long stretch after working out at one of those twenty-four-hour gyms, or when you needed to get out, wanting to forget about your living situation and finances.
The sharp, salty, and fishy aroma of algae and other sources choked the air, enhanced by the cool air, which gave it a saltier, ozone-like scent. The smell didn’t bother you that much, but it was still putrid—an offense and assault to your nose. Your gaze moved to the empty, dark beach. While it wasn’t dirty per se, it wasn’t winning any of Leonida’s prizes or magazine titles as one of the state’s best beaches. Trash littered the grounds, embedded deep in the sand, but most of it has been cleaned by volunteers.
You saluted their efforts, unlike those rich bastards. They took an interest and decided to build marinas to dock their expensive yachts and boats, along with lavish resorts and homes, thereby gentrifying the area.
They always say that Key Lento was some sort of gateway to paradise, and apparently, they wanted to push the gateway further so people like you wouldn’t be allowed entry. You had a stable job, but due to the influx of wealthy individuals and real estate investment, you were barely above water. It felt like the ground was sinking beneath your feet, with your head inches away from being swallowed.
Rent and taxes were increasing, and your job wasn’t handing out promotions any time soon. The stress was getting to you, and this led to you relieving yourself with sex and walking at night. The walks did help, but sex was the ultimate relief you needed. Just the thought of dick made your pants feel tight, your dick chubbing in your underwear.
‘Shit, right now?’ you whined. You readjusted your pants, pulling at the fabric to free some space in your underwear. Thankfully, there wasn’t anybody out, otherwise you would’ve looked like a lunatic or some drug addict. You fiddle around with your pants, but it was temporary as your dick was filling the space, pushing the limits of your underwear.
Surveying the area, there weren’t many options to choose from to relieve your little predicament. The storefronts and restaurants were closed, meaning their bathrooms were as well. Then, your eyes fell on a conspicuous building in the middle of the beach. It was a sight for sore eyes, a beige brick building with a red-tiled roof and blue doors rose from the sandy expanses. It was a public bathroom and locker room. Perfect.
You didn’t hesitate, following the paved path with haste, your feet clamoring against the concrete as the beige building grew closer. Your dick bounced and throbbed, sensing that it was going to get the relief it needed. Pushing the blue door open, you were greeted with the typical public bathroom.
It was just as you expected—the metal stall doors, wide open, lined the grey-tiled walls, with urinals on the opposite side. The sinks sat beside the metal boxes with cracked, dirty mirrors; you could see rust chewing away at the metal pipes beneath the sinks. The buzzing of the light above was harsh, but it flickered and dimmed—probably needs maintenance. It kinda gave horror movie, killer vibes. Cleaning products mixed with the usual waste choked the air, another offense to your nose.
You sighed, groaning and tilting your head back. You didn’t want to be here, masturbating in some public bathroom on the beach, but you needed the privacy. It would do until you’ve dealt with your problem and return home. You peered into the various stalls, disgust visible on your face as you wondered if adult men were responsible for the mess cause there is no way a fully grown adult would do something like this.
The last two stalls were the cleanest, not as filthy as piss-stained tiled floors or shit smeared on the toilet bowl or seating—even on the stall itself. Stepping into the stall and examining the seat, you verified it was safe before closing and locking the metal door. You pulled down your pants and whipped out your throbbing cock. The piece of meat plopping out of your underwear, bouncing up and down, precum glistened your tip as it twitched with eagerness and the freedom of being out of its clothing cage.
Sitting on the seat, you gasped softly as the cold ceramic touched your ass cheeks. Your back pressed against the tank, your legs spread open and extended to the corners of the stall, as your hand wrapped around your sensitive cock. Muttering under your breath as a blooming warmth filled your body, muscles relaxing as you let your hand do the work, giving long, circular strokes.
Your breathing hitched, choking on your spit as you tapped your fingertips against the swollen tip, spreading the tiny split to show oozing precum. Using your free hand to scroll on your phone, you opened the Sniffies site—curious to see all the hot men and dicks in your area or from the nearby metropolis of Vice City. You used the site before; the easiest way to score dick and delve into some fantasy you wanted to try.
“Fuck… thats so huge.” You whined, slowing your stroking game to view the massive dick on your screen. It was 8.5 inches long with decent thickness. Looking through the profile and pictures provided, the guy was lean and cute, twenty-three years old, and straight-curious, but sadly, he was ten miles away. You would’ve loved to slobber on his dick, show him that a man knows another man’s pleasure.
Your area was a dry wasteland, drier than the Sahara Desert. Nobody was only online, but a profile piqued your interest. Not only was he the only one online, but he was surprisingly close. Clicking on the profile, there were no pictures, but information.
31m, 6’2, 215 lbs, 9” inches, muscular, dom top (breeder), straight.
‘Straight?’ you thought. It wasn’t uncommon for straight men to go onto these types of sites, wanting to have sex with men without vocally coming out to their loved ones, even going as far as to cheat on their wives, or they want to gaslight themselves into thinking that it's not gay as long as they’re not the ones being penetrated. Straight men confuse you. It's truly mind-boggling in their reasoning.
While you were deep in your thoughts, the man was coming closer. The distance was being slashed as the other guy was interested in getting his dick sucked.
Jason groped his massive bulge, squeezing his dick through his pants as he looked at your profile. The original plan was to go home and maybe pick up a hookup along the way to have a warm pussy wrap around his massive, throbbing dick. He needed some relief after nearly botching an operation and having his ass reprimanded by his employer. There were none, though, so he moved on to plan B.
He became aware of Sniffies from one of his colleagues. It was a gay hook-up site where gay and straight, even trans, men could find one another. The reason he was told this was that he wasn’t scoring any pussy and his distant, horny mind was interfering with work. He needed his balls to be drained, to have a hot mouth or pussy milk his dick. That’s when his partner suggested the site.
—
“That’s fucking gay. Why would I have another man suck me?” Jason bickered, taken aback by what was being said to him. There was no way in hell that he was going to fuck or stick his dick into another man. His dick was exclusively for pussy.
“Bro, I swear, he sucked my dick better than my girl. Plus, he gave me the feeling of anal!” the guy said, going into depth about gay sex and the sensational feeling and orgasm he experienced—the greatest bust in his life.
“Whatever, man, I’m not doing that gay shit,” Jason said, dismissing the other guy, but his dick throbbed at the thought. It's like his dick has a mind of its own; it doesn’t care if the hole or mouth belongs to a man or woman. It just wants to fuck.
“You're lost, dude.”
—
Despite being against the idea of having another man suck his dick, Jason hastily created a profile, adding some information but no pictures in case someone recognized him. He had to look up some terms used, but it wasn’t long before he was browsing the map. His neurons activated when he saw the various profiles. His dick jumped at the sight of another man’s ass, blood pumping into his massive piece of flesh as he scrolled through the man’s pictures.
Without shame, Jason dipped his hand into his pants, pushing past his underwear to stroke his dick. He walked and stroked, observing several profiles on the map, squeezing his dick and licking his lips whenever he saw ass. The filtering tool was heaven-sent, removing all the tops and showing the bottoms. Then, your profile popped up. You were the closest to him, and you were online—a green marker on the top.
“Fuck… that’s a fat ass.” Jason groans, looking up from his phone to see the approximation of your location via the map. Your profile showed you were close, inside a building on the beach. It didn’t take long for him to find what he was looking for: a public bathroom structure.
‘Bingo’
You heard the bathroom door swing open, the hinges squeaking and producing an ear-shattering screeching sound that echoed in the empty bathroom. You jolted up, your relaxed body tensed. You sat up straight, no longer leaning against the tank as if you were in your room. Your legs closed and sprang back from the corners.
‘Why is someone here?! Is it that guy? Has to be.’ Your cock jumped at the thought of that man being here and his nine-inch dick. It has you drooling, your body physically reacting by producing saliva in anticipation of you getting your hands and mouth wrapped around it. How would it taste? How would it feel in your hands? Is he lying about his size?
The man’s heavy footsteps echoed, his shoes clicking against the tiled floors as his shadow came into view. You turned off your phone and held your breath. The stall door next to yours swung open, creating the same screeching before slamming closed. Your gaze followed his feet, and that’s when you noticed a huge hole cut out in the metal between the stalls.
‘Oh… OH’
You stumbled upon a gloryhole. This was a turn of events. You’ve seen glory holes in porn videos, but never in real life. The idea of sucking an anonymous man’s dick through a hole in the wall made your dick pump and your hole weep. Hearing the other man’s groans as you vigorously sucked and drained his dick—imagining his face twisted with pure pleasure as he pumped loads down your throat, feeding you his thick cum.
Your breathing became shallower, your hand returning to stroking as you tried to see the other side. Then a deep, masculine voice called from the other side.
“Suck my dick,” The anonymous man said. He didn’t give you time to respond before pushing his dick and balls through the hole. He wasn’t giving you an option; he was commanding you. There was no room for opposition as his dick stood tall and proud, clearly arrogant about its length and thickness. You could sense that he was a macho man from his tone, but by goodness, did his dick look appealing.
It's like you were hypnotized by it, salivating at the mouth, and your brain short-circuited and shut down as your instincts told you to suck it. Nine inches of meat and veined thickness, throbbing from the cold bathroom air and the expectation of a warm mouth sucking it. The flustered, red cockhead was leaking pearly beads of precum. Your eyes traveled down to see his dusted, heavy, egg-shaped balls.
Your night just got better.
Hastily kneeling on the bathroom floor, giving you a further close-up of this anonymous man’s massive cock. Everything about it screamed dominance and control—demanding your submission to it. Your mind is hazy with lust and need as you start to get to work on the man’s massive cock.
You gave experimental licks, dragging your wet tongue along the skin and veins. You could hear the man biting back his breathing, but that was gonna change. You moved your mouth to his heavy, sagging balls, sucking on them with vigor and with the intent to make him vocal. You wanted to hear those groans and moans, knowing that you were giving a straight man better head than his past partners or hookups.
Your head buried between his balls, his massive cock resting on your face as you serviced him. Your tongue swirled and pulled at them; you could feel how heavy and full his sack was in your mouth. You can tell he was backed up, his hot cum waiting to spurt out of his dick, eager to be milked.
As you sucked on them, a salty taste landed on your buds—must have been sweating in his pants all day. His pheromones were overwhelming, intoxicating even as your nose pressed against the source—buried deep in his sack. The musky and manly fumes are getting into your head, clouding your mind and senses.
You continued to inhale his delicious, musky scent, your eyes rolled back, making you want to stay in this position for the rest of the night. It was like you were caged by his scent, bound to kneel and suck for eternity—something you wouldn’t mind.
You continued to massage the man’s balls with your mouth, lathering them with your saliva and flicking the sacks. Your wish was granted as the man was becoming vocal. His heavy breathing and moans bounced off the walls as the straight, macho facade dropped.
“Yeah… keep sucking… f-fuck.” Jason’s breathing faltered as he let out deep, manly moans. He held onto the metal wall, amazed by how eagerly you sucked. More moans and groans choked out as you began to multitask, stroking his dick while sucking his balls. Your hand was firmly gripping and stroking his meat, a simple stroke, but you were purposefully milking him—squeezing strings of precum out of his slit and spreading it on his sensitive tip.
Jason didn’t want to admit it, but that bastard was right. This was better than anything he’s experienced before. You were a passionate and eager slut, going for his dick’s weak points. It felt like he was about to have a mind-numbing orgasm, and this was just you worshipping his nuts and stroking.
‘What would his mouth feel—’
You pulled back and didn’t wait to breathe as you wrapped your eager, wet mouth around the man’s shaft. The taste of his bitter precum hit first before subsiding as you bobbed your head up and down. Your tongue swirled and toyed with the slit, lapping and drinking the precum that oozed before shifting to the rest of his dick. You tightened your lips around his shaft, suctioning and hollowing your cheeks for better effectiveness. You could feel every ridge and vein as you took him deeper into your throat; the remaining inches were covered by your hand.
“Oh yeah,” Jason moaned, “That’s fucking good.”
“Mmmm,” you moaned back, happily taking the compliment. You were determined to rock this straight man’s world, drain his heavy balls, and give him the best earth-shattering orgasm.
You kept bobbing your head, taking as much into your mouth before stopping, cockwarming the anonymous man’s massive dick. The heavy piece of meat throbbed and gushed as it reveled in the warm, wet oral cavern. Jason felt like his dick was melting and being cooked, leading to more vocal responses and heavy breathing.
“Wish I knew you gays were this cock hungry… would’ve done this sooner,” Jason moans, his balls tightening and churning as he teeters on the brink of his orgasm. The only thing on the older man’s mind was to cum down your throat—reward you for your service with his hot, thick cum. He conjures the image of you swallowing his seed, kneeling and looking at him with your fucked out eyes.
You grinned. You had this straight man wither before you, his moans, groans, and praises filled your ears. It gave you a sense of control and dominance over him. He was like this because of you. His massive dick was hard and throbbing because of your mouth sucking the soul out of him. You were gonna have this man standing on his forefeet, toes clenching as his heavy sack was gonna be drained of his seed.
What an amazing feeling.
The feeling made your cock throb and ache. You wrapped your free hand around it and mimicked the way you were sucking. Long and deep strokes, spreading and lathering your cock with precum until it glistened in the fluorescent light. You shifted your knees to alleviate the stiffness, pulling back with a wet pop. You took deep breaths, your eyes half-lidded as you stared at the massive shaft—coated with precum and saliva, throbbing as it missed the warmth of your mouth wrapped around it.
You could hear he was disgruntled, asking with bated breaths about why you stopped and to wrap your mouth around his shaft again. You weren’t going to do that, instead opting to squeeze the flustered, swollen cockhead while mouthing and kissing the rest of his massive shaft.
“F-fuck… you love this dick, don’t you?” Jason moans. A deep, masculine laugh followed. Jason is aware of how magnificent and breathtaking his dick is. He was the whole package, physically wise: muscular, tall, and sporting a nine-inch dick—won the genetic lottery. He basked in the attention and admiration, purposefully going shirtless whenever he worked out, letting women ogle him, even men.
He didn’t mind men leering at him; he just didn’t wanna fuck them, until now.
“I do,” you replied, panting as you eagerly and desperately lick his dick before taking the shaft into your mouth. You moaned at the flavor and the heavy weight touching your tongue again. The vigor returned as you gulped and choked on every inch of the man’s shaft.
“Not gonna last much longer… be a good cocksucker… and take my seed—fuuuuuckkkk!” Jason roared out. He slammed his hips into the metal wall, pushing his dick further into your mouth as he stood on his toes. His body shook from the force, his backed-up balls unleashing weeks' worth of cum.
You could feel his dick expanding in your mouth, see his balls throbbing and tightening as he was pushed to the edge. The first shots of cum hit the back of your throat. You tried to swallow as much as you could, but your lungs were burning. You choked and pulled back, gasping for air, which soothed the burning sensation in your chest.
But the man’s dick didn’t stop cumming as his thick seed painted your face—shooting ropes of cum all over your face. After taking a couple of seconds to breathe and to reposition, you promptly took his dick back into your mouth. The flavor of his cum rammed into your taste buds as you could hear the man’s guttural moans echoing in the small space.
Even after Jason deposited his load, he was shocked to feel you continuing to bob your head. He stuttered out a weak moan, almost falling back as you squeezed his dick and balls, intending to drain the last few drops; you were sucking on it like a straw in a cold glass drink.
For three minutes, you sucked on his massive cock before pulling back, satisfied having drained a massive one. Jason’s dick lay flaccid, which still looked big despite being deflated. It was sad to see it pulled back from the hole. You could hear the rustling of clothing and hastened retreat. The stall door squeaked open with the familiar sound of shoes clicking against the tiled floor, growing farther.
“Thanks, man.”
That was the only thing the anonymous man said before leaving the bathroom. You were left in the bathroom stall, disheveled and sweaty, with your hand and the floor coated in ropes of cum. You weakly pushed yourself up, your knees flustered and ached as your skin dug into the rough tiled floor.
“Nasty, can’t believe I actually did this,” you mumbled, sitting on the toilet seat and yanking the cheap toilet paper from the holder. It was a fantasy to suck or fuck another man in public—in a discreet area, but it has the same adrenaline and risk that made your cock throb. Maybe you would’ve picked a more desirable location than a dirty bathroom on the beach, but you got to suck a massive dick.
That dick definitely and righteously earned its place as number one. The length and thickness, how it felt heavy and filled your mouth, and the flavor—you could keep sucking on it all day for the next fifty years.
But disappointingly, he was straight and most likely a one-time hookup. You should’ve expected something like this. You wiped off any remaining cum with the cheap toilet paper provided before leaving the stall to wash your hands. The room was quiet, other than the rushing sound of water going down the drain and your soft breathing.
Leaving the bathroom, you began your journey home. When you turned on your phone, the Sniffies website opened and loaded, showing you a new notification in your inbox.
“Name's Jason. Gonna need my dick sucked from now on.” The message reads, and below it was another picture of that massive dick.
Jason made you his official cocksucker.
…
It became a weekly, more like a daily occurrence.
Same bathroom and stalls, at the same time, but recently, morning and afternoon times were added. Jason was sticking his thick, massive cock through the hole, and you were quick to get your knees and worship that massive thing. Your warm mouth wrapped around it, eagerly sucking and choking as you wanted Jason to feed you his thick, creamy seed. You wanted to hear him let out those deep, manly groans as he unloads inside your mouth.
Never in a million years would Jason consider fucking another man, let alone getting his dick sucked. But after his encounter with you and how you sucked and gulped every drop of his cum down your gullet, he wanted more. Best blowjobs he’s ever received, his heavy balls being drained every day by an eager cocksucker. Your service also helped him with performance during an operation, earning praise and a bigger cut from his employer.
He was satisfied, but Jason wanted more. His dick and mind yearned for the feeling of another man’s tight ass wrapped around it. This need was further exacerbated by an extreme and fierce intake of gay porn and his partner babbling about how ass is better than pussy. You’re the best throat he’s had in years, and if your mouth is that good, he could only imagine what your ass feels like.
Your legs and cheeks spread open, your tiny rosebud eagerly waiting to be spilt. It wouldn’t be difficult to mount and fuck you into the ground. His dick leaked as he visualized the feeling and appearance of your tight anal walls clenching around his massive dick, pulling it deeper as he aggressively jackhammered your ass. He wasn’t going to stop until you were fucked dumb by his dick, nothing in your head, just moans and pleas for him to continue.
He was going to make this happen.
“Wanna fuck that ass.”
It was a simple, clear message, but it had you walking fast, quickening your pace as you didn’t hesitate to fulfill your own and his desire. Ever since you saw Jason’s dick through the gloryhole on that day, you wanted to feel it split your ass open and fuck you into oblivion. The length pushing into your tight, warm ass—deep thrusts as he rearranged your guts. The thickness spreading your anal walls, you could feel every vein and ridge grinding against your nerves, and his heavy balls slapping and mushing against yours. Despite being drained daily, they were still pumping huge loads—painting and filling your mouth with the thick goodness.
You could feel your hole aching and itching for Jason’s massive cock. The inside is burning and leaking for more, desperate to feel everything. The dildo you used beforehand might have been the reason for the aching sensation, and now, with the promise of being rammed by Jason, it demanded the real thing—rejecting the fake, silicon toy for the real deal.
You had been waiting for this moment. You didn’t want to bring it up in case it scared Jason away, and you’d lose access to easy dick and cum. At least, deep down, you had a hunch he’d come around eventually; they always do.
It was early in the morning, the sun having risen hours ago. You could see the once-closed businesses opening their doors and preparing for the day. There was a delicious, mouthwatering smell that mingled with the salty ozone aroma, the scent of food vendors, and the aroma of restaurants cooking their meals. There weren’t many people out, just scattered clusters along the sidewalk—no one on the beach.
Once you arrive at the bathroom, you do what you’ve been doing for the past couple of weeks: you wait for the accustomed sound. As you waited, a pit formed in your stomach. Your heart beat, and your breathing quickened, adrenaline rushing as an internal conflict took place. What if he chickens out, leaving you embarrassed and your time wasted? What if the wrong guy comes? Can you take it?
The big moment came when the door echoed the familiar squeaking and screeching. Footfalls clicked against the tiled floor, growing closer with each long stride. Then your stall closed and locked. You looked up, and your eyes were blessed with the sight of the sexiest man alive.
He had a polished yet rugged appearance—maturity that you liked. Light stubble dusted his chin and defined jawline, snaking beneath his nose. The rest of his features were covered. The wayfarer-style sunglasses blocked his eyes, but you could feel them boring into your being, predatory and hungry for what's coming next. He sported a backwards cap with strands of hair peaking out and sticking to his forehead.
That’s when you noticed he was sweating. Your gaze shifted to the rest of his body, taking in the eye candy that Jason was. His light-skinned complexion glistened with sweat, the fluid coating every nook and cranny. You made an educated guess about what he worked out before coming here. You zeroed in on his thick pectoral slabs; chest hair peeked from underneath his white tank top. You could make out the shape of his nipples—they were solid and pointy.
His tank top stuck to him like a second skin, giving you a full viewing pleasure of his ripped, sculpted body. His abs are etched deep and defined with bulging biceps and thighs as thick as trees. Everything about Jason was making you salivate and unimaginably horny—the itching was getting worse.
“Like what you see?” Jason teased, smirking as he peeled his sweaty tank top, revealing his chest hair matted with sweat. Your gaze followed the trail of hair, starting from his pectorals down the valley of his sculpted, defined abs. Your dick jumped when Jason peeled off his shorts, the belt clicking and clanking as he discarded it—tossing the garment to the side. His massive dick hangs between his thick, tree trunk thighs.
“Come on, don’t keep me waiting.” Jason grins, raising his muscular arm over his head, exposing his furry patch. Words stuck in your throat as Jason starts tugging his dick, the massive shaft growing in his hand.
You quickly stripped off your clothing, pulling and yanking at the fabric. Your heart was thumping, giddy with the anticipation of feeling Jason’s muscular body pressing against yours. The dream you’ve been having for weeks was coming true. You painted vivid images of Jason’s body, and he fit the description. You imagined running your hands over his shredded form, fingertips gliding over his coarse, scruffy hair, and feeling his warm, solid body molding against you.
Once your clothing was discarded, Jason paused his tugging and reached out to pull you closer. You let out a “oof” as you were pressed against the man’s solid, sweaty body. You could feel his dick throbbing against your thigh, pulsing from the contact of your relatively cold skin.
What caught your attention was Jason’s masculine funk. The man still had his arm over his head, letting his funk fill the air around you. It was making your head dizzy, causing it to swirl around in circles. Your breathing deepened as the heady scent filled your nose. Your body moved on its own, and without pause, you went in for that funk—burying your head and inhaling the sublime, heady mix of sweat and pheromones.
“Fuuucckk.” Jason exhaled, chuckling as he watched you worship his pit. You were something else. Hell, maybe he’s bisexual. He’s never experienced such depravity and eagerness.
You weren’t in control of your body as your primal instincts took over. You didn’t just sniff, you ran your tongue over the furry patch, licking and probing while your other hand kneaded Jason’s pecs. You began to thrust your hips, grinding your aching dick against Jason’s thick thighs—with him moving in rhythm.
“T-that’s it… keep g-going,” Jason stutters, letting out breathy and throaty moans. His free hand moves down to grope your ass, marveling at how it fills and spills through his fingers. Men have fat asses, too? Just feeling your ass in his palm was making his dick ooze precum—smearing against your thigh as he followed your eager rhythm. Your bodies moved in unison.
You licked slowly down his armpit, gliding your tongue to his hairy pecs as you wanted to feel every crevice of Jason’s body. Your dick throbbed from feeling Jason’s rough hands squeezing your ass—smearing fluids on his thigh. Soft moans escaped your lips, muffled by sucking and biting on his nipples. Jason tilts his head back, and another moan pulls from his lips. As much as he was enjoying this, he needed to be inside you.
“That’s enough. Now, how about you get my dick wet? I want to feel this tight ass.” Jason said, slapping your ass cheek, the skin rippling from the impact of his palm—the sound echoing off the tiled walls.
You didn’t hesitate, licking your way down his body, past his navel, following the happy trail to your happy meal. Kneeling before Jason’s ripped, dominant body, his dick came into your view, erect and standing proud, beads of sticky precum oozing, and his heavy, furry balls dangling. You took the massive thing into your mouth, lips tightening around it as it glided back and forth—holding and ramming your tonsils over and over.
Jason groans in ecstasy as he hears you slobbering and choking on his dick. Your wet mouth coating his thing with copious amounts of saliva, lathering and preparing it for penetration. He moved his hands to the back of your head, tangling his fingers in your hair—guiding and holding you in place. Your mouth was enough to make him cum, but he held back. If it were any other time, he would’ve fed you his load, but not now.
“Bend over.” Jason grunts, gripping your hair and pulling you off his dick.
You took deep breaths, eyes locked on Jason’s massive, glistening shaft—admiring the sight. Every ridge was generously lathered, the cockhead flustered and pulsing. You overworked your glands to produce enough saliva for preparation; you should’ve brought lube. When Jason spoke again, you scrambled off the floor and gripped the toilet’s tank—presenting your ass to the man who’s gonna fuck you as if you were a virgin.
“Mmm, this is what I like to see.” Jason groans, his hand making contact with your ass, delivering another slap that rocks your body. He marvels at your ass before lathering one and then two fingers.
You gasped as you felt Jason’s thick fingers teasing your hole, rimming the tight ring of muscles with his tips. Your hands hardened their grip on the ceramic tank, holding onto the porcelain for stabilization as Jason worked his fingers—stretching and scissoring your hole. You could feel them pressing around your inner walls, bumping and poking the flesh. It felt so good, your ass clenching around the invading fingers at the thought of Jason’s dick replacing them.
“So fucking tight,” Jason growls. He could hear your whines and moans growing louder as his fingers touched and rammed into a certain area. That must have been the elusive sweet spot inside of men. He could see your legs wobbling and your dick flopping between your legs—thick strings of precum gushing out as your dick was painfully throbbing and flustered.
Then Jason pulled his fingers out, deeming you prepared for the main event. He watched your entrance pulsing and clenching around nothing, searching for something to fill it and eagerly drag it in. Your hole went from stretched and gaping to small and tight—incredible. He needed to be inside you immediately.
You let out a disappointed whine, but that was quickly shut down when you felt a thick, blunt head pressing against your tight sphincter. Jason gripped his massive cock with one fist, positioning and pushing the helmet through your entrance. There was some resistance before his massive shaft pierced the tight ring, his cockhead stretching your hole as a flash of pain consumed you.
“Oh, f-fuck… y-you’re so huge.” You cried, your fingers digging into the ceramic tank. If it were a cheap toilet, the damn thing would’ve shattered from the force you were applying. You stood on your forefeet, your legs and body shivering as Jason continued to push his massive cock until he was balls deep—his heavy sack mashing against yours.
The oxygen was knocked out of you, and drool dribbled out of your mouth as you choked on your saliva. Your chest heaved rapidly as you tried to calm down and relax. Your mind was racing, but the immense sexual pleasure clouded you. This man was making you feel like a virgin again.
Your asshole is being split open beyond belief, the burning sensation from the massive shaft grinding against your inner, pink walls. You could feel Jason’s dick breaching depths you didn’t know were possible.
“Shhiitt. Fucking tight. Feels like I’m about to cum.” Jason said, letting out a bellowing groan. His rough, meaty hands moved to your hips, gripping them with an iron hold. Jason withheld from thrusting, biting back so he doesn’t cum, but you were making that impossible. Your ass was massaging and tightening around him, pulling him deeper.
The pause was grueling. It felt tight, figuratively and literally. The tight, closed space of the stall was becoming unbearable. There was no sound besides labored breathing and soft moans. The pause ended when Jason pulled out, leaving the cockhead before plummeting back into your ass. The once quiet room was filled with the sounds of skin slapping and moans.
Your eyes rolled back into your head from each forceful thrust—your dick flopping back and forth, slapping against Jason’s balls. Jason tilted his head back, groaning as this was the best sex he’s had in years. Your ass happily accepts his massive dick, seemingly learning the shape and size instantly.
“You like this dick inside this hot cunt?” Jason groans, slapping your ass with each thrust of his hips
“Y-yes! Feels so good.” You exclaimed, breathless with each thrust. Your dick is on the verge of shooting its load.
Then the bathroom’s entrance screeched open, the sound reverberating off the walls. Before you could react, Jason pulled you against his body—his sweaty, matted hair grinding against your back. He stilled his thrust and clasped his meaty hand on your mouth, ensuring total silence. You both listened to the clicking of sandals against the floors, followed by the familiar sound of piss streaming and hitting the urinal.
Jason didn’t care, though. This random stranger wasn’t going to prevent him from fucking your tight ass. He discreetly fucks you with short but deep thrusts. Your eyes widen before becoming half-lidded when you feel his free hand stroking your dick—each stroke mimicking his thrusts as he was determined to fuck your brains out.
He didn’t care that another man was a couple of feet away from them.
“Shhh. As much as I wanna hear those moans, I don’t wanna get caught—unless you want that.” Jason purrs into your ear, his voice low and deep. He never thought he’d be into exhibitionism, but the adrenaline was making his dick painfully throbbing inside your ass, signaling his impending orgasm.
“You want that?” Jason growls, disregarding the other man as he delivers a series of deep thrusts. Wet squelching and skin slapping grow louder—surely alerting the newcomer. Your moans were muffled by Jason’s hand, but you didn’t care, not with his other hand stroking your dick, tugging and squeezing the thing as he fully intended to make you cum.
Meanwhile, the other man was cleaning off his cockhead after relieving himself in the urinal. He bobbed his head side to side, jamming out to the music playing from his headphones. He was unaware of the debauchery happening a couple of feet away. That’s when he heard muffled groans and gruffing coming from the last stall. He shrugged it off as someone taking a dump—brave since it was a public bathroom; if it were him, he’d hold it in till he got home.
The groaning got louder, slicing through the stream of water from the faucet—even his headphones. Wow, that guy must be fighting demons. Probably constipation. Then he heard banging against the metal sheets, fists colliding in rhythm, and the signature groan ranging. It was getting kind of awkward. The poor guy was probably embarrassed about letting it rip.
“Good luck, dude,” the guy said, drying his hands and exiting the bathroom to continue his morning jog across the beach. He remained blissfully unaware that two men were having sex in the stall—the groaning and banging were products of their coupling.
“Finally, he’s gone… not gonna last much longer. Gonna breed this tight cunt.” Jason growls, removing his hand from your mouth. His thrusts became sloppy, but he continued to jackhammer your quivering hole. He’s since removed his hand from your dick, transferring it to your hips.
“P-please, shoot your load inside me!” you begged, tilting your head back to rest on Jason’s shoulders—arching your back to let him go deeper. Your prostate was constantly being rammed into, the cockhead hitting the bundle of nerves—setting your body ablaze as the message of pleasure travelled through you. You let your moans pour out of your mouth, no longer shackled by shame and Jason’s hand.
Jason didn’t get to respond when you overshadowed him with your bellowing moans. Your flopping dick burst, spraying cum all over the ground and toilet. Your thick seed flying up and down as you came hands-free. The orgasm left you exhausted, panting, and heaving as it felt like your soul was taken by the reaper. Jason held you close to him, pressing your sweaty bodies against each other.
“Oh fuck, I’m about to bust! Open that tight cunt.” Jason commanded as his dick was being suffocated. Your orgasm caused you to tighten around him, squeezing and milking him.
“Y-yes! B-breed…” you replied, completely out of it, but still hungry for Jason and his thick seed.
“Yeah, here it comes—yeah—yeah—fuuucckk,” Jason growls and groans, his body convulsing. He gave a few more thrusts, his heavy balls throbbing against yours as his big dick erupted in your ass. You could feel his dick throbbing before thick ropes of cum spewed from the slit, flooding your deepest recesses until his balls were drained.
You both were drained and exhausted. The smell of sex and semen choked the air. You both were panting, taking gulps of air. Jason kept his dick lodged deep inside you, preventing his seed from gushing out of your fucked hole. This was the best experience you both had. Jason is certain he can never go back; the damage was done, and he’ll gladly take it.
“Round 2? At my place?”
The End
Author’s note: Hello, my strawberries! I hope y’all enjoyed this fic! This is probably the fastest I’ve completed one. I feel like I really captured Jason. God, I need that man. There is certainly more content for him. Mark Grayson may be next.
Special thanks to my proofreader: @sagethegaywitch
relationships; platonic!batfam x neglectedbatsib!reader, Harry Osborn x neglectedbatsib!reader
⋆.˚summary; A freaky spider bite incident made your life a whole lotta messier.
tags; spidey!reader, angst, gender-neutral pronouns, not proofread, reader is Tim's age
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You leaned back on the backseat, your “costume” now changed into a classic white tee and pants. Alfred raised an eyebrow from the driver’s seat, looking at you through the rearview mirror.
“Master [Name], might I inquire… why are you sweating so profusely?” he asked, turning his gaze back to the road as he took all the familiar turns toward the manor.
You wiped your forehead. “Oh—uh! The air-conditioning was pretty bad today at the library.”
You had told Alfred to pick you up in the afternoon at the library instead of in the morning at the cemetery, claiming you had finals to study for—which was true. And you did visit Jason before heading down to the ring.
But you definitely did not need to study for your finals.
Then you remembered the package Alfred told you about in a text. “So there’s a package for me?” You didn’t accidentally order something online, right?
“Oh yes. I believe Mr. Harry sent it. I set it aside in the living room,” Alfred said.
That made sense. But why would Harry send you a package?
You smiled. “Thanks for letting me know, Alfred.”
By the time you arrived at the manor, you could hear the bustle in the dining room, plates clattering as they were set down.
Alfred excused himself to help the others, and you headed to the living room. You took a seat on the couch and held the box in your hands—the weight felt familiar.
“What do you have there, little bird?” Dick Grayson asked from the threshold, his casual, carefree smile easy and familiar, though his eyes flicked toward the box in your hands with quiet curiosity.
Seeing your brothers two days in a row? Was it your birthday or something?
The nickname made something in your chest tighten slightly, though you kept your expression in check.
“Nunya,” you replied shortly, turning the box in your hands.
Dick raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Nunya what?”
“Nunya business,” you snapped.
Dick’s smile faded just a little—not completely, but enough to show he got the message.
“…Right,” he muttered, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Tough crowd.”
You didn’t respond. You just kept your eyes on the box, fingers tracing along the edges.
“There’s dinner today,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Just wondering if you’d like to attend.”
You kind of felt bad for snapping at him, even if he deserved it—whether for asking questions so carelessly or for acting like you didn’t exist. You weren’t really sure which.
You just wanted to head up to your room and open the mysterious box your best friend sent, but his slightly pained expression made it difficult to say that out loud.
“Okay.”
In an instant, your older brother’s expression lit up like you’d given him a treat. You almost let out a bitter chuckle.
You set the box down where it was, making a mental note to grab it after dinner.
Dick smiled, stepping aside to give you room, then trailed behind you. The voices grew louder with each step you took, the pit in your stomach growing with them.
You were about to bail—tell your older brother your stomach hurt or something—when you heard his footsteps stop behind you.
You were about to turn and ask what was up when his hand reached out, settling gently on your head.
He stood beside you, and you felt that familiar ache settle in your chest—the same one that always came around your family. Whether it was anger or sadness, you couldn’t quite tell.
You weren’t sure about most things lately. Then again, anger and sadness had always been hard for you to tell apart.
Dick’s soft eyes met yours, a genuine smile tugging at his lips—bright enough to make your eyes squint slightly. You swallowed, pressing your lips together.
He sighed wistfully. “I’m sorry. For all the promises… and plans that never happened.”
You broke eye contact, afraid you might start tearing up. You couldn’t let them see that this affected you.
Your older brother kept gently petting your head the way he used to when you were younger. You clenched your fists.
“I promise—I’ll try to do better,” he said, finally removing his hand.
You tapped your shoe lightly against the clean floor, clearing your throat before responding. “Okay.”
He smiled at you one more time before pushing the slightly ajar door open.
As soon as you both entered the dining room, the bustle stopped. You felt their eyes all over you.
You berated yourself for giving in to Dick’s kicked-puppy expression and empty promises.
You fixed your gaze anywhere but them, taking the seat next to Dick with Damian across from you. Slowly, the conversations picked back up, the commotion returning.
You tuned them out, picking at your food and taking small bites. Your appetite always faded around them.
“Eat properly,” Damian muttered from across the table, not even looking up.
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, stabbing a piece of food just to prove a point.
“I am.”
“Poking at it does not qualify.”
You exhaled quietly through your nose, choosing not to argue further. From the corner of your eye, Dick sent you a small, almost apologetic glance. You ignored it.
“There’s been increased activity downtown,” Tim spoke up, his voice cutting cleanly through the noise. His eyes were glued to his phone, thumb scrolling lazily.
“Red Hood is old news, Tim,” Steph said mockingly.
You felt a flicker of recognition—the guy in the red helmet Uncle Ben had been reading about. Though, you only remembered because he’d gone on a whole tangent about Gotham and its never-ending freaks right after.
“Not him, Steph,” Tim rolled his eyes.
“Are you talking about the weirdo you met—the one in the big red hoodie with a paper bag on their head?” Duke asked, making you unconsciously whip your head toward him.
He didn’t seem to notice, his attention fixed on the piece of steak in front of him. You frowned and turned back to your plate, carefully cutting through your food.
Great. They’re talking about me.
Tim gave him a pointed look. “Yes, Duke. I saw them during a convenience store run.”
“Oh yeah, I saw in the papers those robbers at that retail store were apparently webbed up,” Dick hummed. The tune was familiar, but you couldn't place your finger on it.
Your older brother turned to you. “Wasn’t your friend—the Osborn kid, involved in that failed robbery?”
Just what you needed—every head in the room turning your way. You froze like a deer in headlights. Dick could be such a dick.
You were surprised he even remembered that. Though you couldn’t say you were surprised he didn’t know you were also involved.
Steph made a surprised noise. “You’re friends with the Harry Osborn?”
Your hands felt clammy with all the eyes on you. The heaviest of them all, you assumed, was Cass'.
“Uh… yeah.”
You were glad the topic shifted from you to Harry (not really, since the attention is still all on you).
From your peripheral vision, you caught a hint of surprise and something else that you can't name on your father’s face. He probably didn’t expect his kid to be mingling with his rival’s son.
There was some issue between them—something about unethical practices. It long died over now, but there was still some quiet tension simmering between them.
“How long have you been friends—if you don’t mind me asking?” Duke said with a sheepish smile.
You returned a small smile. “Nah, it’s okay. About five years, I think.”
Duke’s brows lifted slightly. “Five? That’s—wow. You don’t really talk about him—or your friends at all.. matter of fact.” at his last words, something in Duke seemed to click.
Your smile faltered, your only friend was Harry. Not like they'd know that. Especially Duke—this was your first time talking.
Damian narrowed his eyes at you, his snappish voice cut through the conversation you and Duke were having. “Are you unwell? You’re unnaturally tense.”
You blinked, caught off guard. Your shoulders were loose and your breathing was steady. You probably got more comfortable talking about something familiar.
You bit back a smart reply that would result in an another argument.
“I gue—” another voice cuts you off.
“Hm,” Bruce’s gruff tone made you flinch. “You should head up if you're not feeling well."
The others didn’t expect it either, looking at your father with wide eyes.
That familiar irritation and hurt flared up again—yes, you were going to leave anyway, but why couldn’t he at least pretend he wanted you here? In this dinner—In this life. Why couldn't he pretend to be a present father, at least?
You just couldn’t figure out what his problem was.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll go.” Your bitter tone made the tension even thicker.
Dick’s eyes flickered between you and Bruce—the two of you locked in a silent stare-down.
“Um,” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder. You turned to him, raising an unamused eyebrow.
The room was so quiet you were sure a pin drop could be heard.
You almost felt bad ruining their dinner.
“C’mon, I’ll walk you up,” he said, standing and offering his hand.
You ignored it and made a beeline for the door.
He followed you into the living room, where you grabbed the box and tucked it under your arm.
“Need any—”
“No thanks.”
After that, he trailed behind you in silence. You didn’t mind, but it made you tense—and the thought of your bed calling to you all the more inviting.
When you reached your door, you twisted the knob and stepped inside.
You lingered just past the threshold. If he followed you all the way up here, he must’ve wanted to say something, right?
Dick gave you a comforting smile. “I’m sure B meant well—”
You shut the door in his face.
You let out a quiet breath, jaw tightening as you stepped further into your room. The words he didn’t get to finish still lingered anyway—annoying and persistent.
You didn’t want to hear his excuses or reassurance.
Didn’t want the careful tone, the soft look, the way he always tried to smooth things over.
You dropped the box onto your bed, lips pressed into a thin line, staring at it like it could somehow ease the irritation in your chest.
You heard heavy footsteps pacing outside your door—back and forth, hesitant—before eventually fading away.
You exhaled slowly, shoulders still tense, then reached forward and pulled the box closer, the cardboard scraping softly against your sheets.
The tape peeled back with a quiet rip. When you finally opened the flaps, your brows knit together in soft amusement.
Like a switch, the frown on your lips faded—along with the heavy feeling sitting in your chest.
Your skateboard.
A small breath slipped out of you, almost like a laugh you didn’t mean to let escape.
You turned it slightly in your hands, fingers tracing the familiar surface—the worn grip, the chipped edges, the stickers peeling at the corners.
A small piece of paper caught your eye, tucked into the corner. You reached for it, setting your skateboard carefully across your lap.
Had to pull some strings to get this back! No need to repay me, okay? This is a thank you gift—and thank you gifts don’t get thank you gifts in return.
- Your bestest friend, Harry Osborn.
You chuckled softly. He even added his fancy signature next to his name.
For the next few days of school, you didn’t go home immediately. Instead, you went to an abandoned skatepark tucked behind rusted fences and overgrown weeds—forgotten, quiet, and smelly.
You found it when you hung out with Harry a few weeks ago, accidentally going the wrong way by cutting through an alleyway. So much for a shortcut.
It was bad for your enhanced sense of smell, but it just solidified that nobody else would be going there.
Alfred reluctantly agreed to not picking you up after school (you’re not a kid anymore, you could handle yourself!)—on one condition: that you get home before dark.
And it didn’t bother you. No bats, no problems.
It also gave you more practice time for web-swinging, with the same paper bag on top of your head just in case. You also made sure to take the sneakier routes.
One of your small mercies was that the security system recognized you and didn’t blare out big, loud red alarms.
The last day of the week.
You were getting senioritis real quick, even though you weren’t a senior yet.
The whole day was a mess—Flash egging you on, the heat beating down like death rays on your skin, and the cafeteria noise. It wouldn’t have bothered you before, but now, with your enhanced hearing, you’d rather bang your head against the table than sit in a room packed with 200 teenagers.
Another small mercy was Harry—God bless him—doing everything to make your day more tolerable and distracting you.
At this point, you were sure you're surviving your high school years because of him.
He was halfway through rambling about a science article he’d read last night, while you threw in questions and the occasional quip. Before either of you knew it, you were already outside the school—down the stairs from the entrance. Harry’s driver was waiting—right on time, as usual.
“Aw man, see you tomorrow,” you smiled a bit solemnly, though you were also excited to go to the abandoned skate park.
Ever since you started going there, you looked forward to doing wall runs, tic-tacs, and wall flips—launching yourself off cracked concrete as if gravity were optional.
You were afraid at first—of slipping, missing your footing, or hitting the pavement too hard. But when it did happen, the pain was little to nothing.
Harry nodded, a small sad smile on his face—when someone emerged from the passenger seat of the car.
It was Norman freaking Osborn.
The students, fresh from dismissal, started whispering amongst themselves. They were all wide-eyed—and you understood them, being wide-eyed yourself.
You composed yourself, looking up to meet Harry’s eyes—but he was just as stunned as you. He met your “Did you know about this?!” gaze and shook his head, then cleared his throat—trying to look composed and heir-like for his approaching father, still clad in a suit and tie as if he had a meeting right after.
Who are you kidding? He probably did.
“I see you’re faring well at this school of yours,” Norman said, smiling at Harry, who quickly put on a very PR-trained one in response.
“Yeah, Dad. What, uh… brings you here?”
Your best friend slipped his hands into his pockets, slicking back the hair that had fallen onto his forehead—but it didn’t matter, because the loose, slightly tousled waves fell right back into place. You figured he still looked great anyway.
“Just wanted to say hi,” Norman shrugged—and even you knew that couldn’t be it. He then turned his gaze to you, extending a hand to shake.
His eyes crinkled with his smile. “And you must be the [Name] Wayne my son is always talking about.”
You stiffly shook his hand with an equally stiff smile, already planning to point out later how Harry turned red beside you.
You mimicked Harry’s gesture of putting your sweaty hand in your pocket.
“Yup, that’s me. Nice meeting you—Mr. Osborn, sir.” You nodded. You were so going to grill Harry on what he said later.
Norman cleared his throat. “See, why couldn’t you be more polite like your partner?” He raised an eyebrow in amusement.
The two of you instantly tensed, cheeks heating up, and Harry lost his composed heir-like demeanor.
He straightened his back. “Dad. We’re not—not like that,” he responded in a quieter tone.
Norman raised an eyebrow, genuine confusion on his face, but he still humored the two of you.
“Ah, I see.”
You weren’t sure if he actually got the memo or not.
You lightly chuckled—cheeks still warm. “Harry is politer than me. You should see how he talks to the teachers—you’d think he was a teacher’s pet.”
Norman huffed a laugh at that.
From the corner of your eye, you could tell Harry was silently grateful for your attempt to defend him.
Norman looked slightly proud, his lips tugging into an actual genuine smile.
“Mm? Is that so?” he clicked his tongue. “So, how’s your father? Mr. Wayne?”
You almost forgot that man was your dad—and that you were high-key talking to the rival of his company.
This is just a casual conversation.. right?
“He’s doing fine, Mr. Osborn, sir.” You obviously didn’t know how he was faring, and you didn’t care to know.
“Please, call me Norman. Anyone who’s close with my son is a friend of mine.”
You didn’t feel entirely comfortable just calling him Norman—with your mom’s and Alfred’s lessons about politeness still drilled into your head.
“Okay, um, thank you, Mr. Norman. You can call me… [Name].”
You could almost smack yourself in the forehead at how lame you sounded. Your enhanced ears picked up an almost-quiet chuckle beside you.
Classic Harry—finding entertainment in your inconvenience. Though you were glad the tension he’d been carrying earlier seemed gone.
Norman turned back his gaze to his son. “Harry, it amazes me that you haven’t invited your fiancée to dinner.”
The two of you went silent. You searched Norman’s face for a hint of humor—but there was none. He was dead ass serious.
Harry sputtered, the earlier tension coming back like a boomerang. “Dad—what? How?”
You cleared your throat, your cheeks even warmer than before. You were glad the crowd from earlier had lost interest and gone home. Nothing to see here folks, just Norman Osborn thinking you were engaged to his son. Nothing really big.
Norman looked even more confused than before, a crease forming between his brows.
“Mr. Norman, Harry and I—we’re just friends, sir.” You were shocked you even managed to form a coherent sentence.
The man looked at you like you had just said the funniest joke of the century, letting out a real, guttural laugh.
“Oh! I’m sorry for assuming then!” He still looked amused, wearing that picture-perfect smile.
Genes, really.
Norman shook his head with a grin, looking younger. “I just assumed that if my son doesn’t call you his partner, then you must be his fiancée. He can be rather formal sometimes.”
You didn’t even want to think about how young the two of you were to be engaged.
Harry rolled his eyes. “Ugh, Dad. Seriously?” he muttered under his breath, embarrassed. You laughed softly in response.
“But still. Come by for dinner sometime.” He gestured to the sleek black car. “Would you like us to drive you home?”
You shook your head instantly. Even if you didn’t have plans after, you would’ve still refused.
“No thank you, Mr. Norman, sir,” you smiled. “I have my own ride—just got caught up in traffic.”
The older man nodded. “I see. It was nice meeting you, but we have to get going now.”
“It was nice meeting you too, sir.”
He nodded again and finally retreated into the passenger seat.
Harry looked a bit downcast as he heard your refusal. “I’ll see you next time, [Name].”
You rolled your eyes. “Of course you will. Don’t make your dad wait up.” You lightly pushed him toward the car door.
He smiled at you again before getting in. And while the car drove away in a moderate speed, your enhanced hearing caught their conversation.
“I was pleasantly surprised earlier, thinking the two of you were already engaged—” Norman sighed. “Turns out my son is too much of a coward.”
You could almost see Harry roll his eyes.
“Dad, we’re sixteen. Why would you even want me engaged at this age?”
“Smart, attractive, polite, and a Wayne. I wouldn’t expect anything less for my son.”
“Did you even hear anything I said?”
You quickly shifted your senses away—if you kept hearing that, you might actually explode. You walked down more hurriedly to the opposite sidewalk, grateful for the growing distance from the car.
Though, you were curious. Why would Norman Osborn want a Wayne to marry his son? must be a political move you won't understand yet.
You were lying on one of the walls. It wasn’t dizzying or anything—it was as if the world had adjusted its orientation for you.
It was getting late, and you had already texted Alfred that you wouldn’t come home to the manor—instead spending the night at your aunt’s.
The old man was worried, but you eased him by telling him you were already there (you obviously weren’t).
Practice took up more of your time, slowly turning the shameful warmth in your cheeks—whenever you thought back to that conversation—into an adrenaline rush.
It was like sending a risky text to someone you’re interested in, then instantly getting up to clean the entire house—anything to bury your nerves in something useful.
That adrenaline rush, combined with the amount of flips you were doing, eventually crashed down. You would’ve been like soggy noodles by now, but you weren’t. You weren’t even surprised anymore.
You were mindlessly scrolling through your socials, liking posts about something mundane—yet people still felt the need to share them with the internet.
Like, yeah, I guess you eating an ube cupcake at 4:00 p.m. counts as something worth sharing with the whole world.
A notification from Harry stopped your scrolling, and you could already feel your cheeks warming up. You shook your head like a madman, as if that would help.
You pressed it.
Hare 🐰
I've been having dinner at your Aunt's for a while now. What do you think of a change of pace by having one at mine?
Not to pressure you or anything yk but my dad really wants to meet you agqin
Not like he said it outloud but yiu could really just tell -_-
You blinked at the speed at which he was sending the texts, letting out a soft chuckle. Then you bit your bottom lip for a moment.
Dinner at Osborn’s? I mean, sure. But Mr. Norman was a huge ‘ehh’ factor in your decision-making.
You just hoped it wouldn’t be incredibly stuffy or uncomfortable. And it was the first time you’d be going to the house—or mansion—your best friend lived in.
You
Sure ig
Just send me a date or time! I wanna see the place where you grew up in, to be so spoiled lol
Hare 🐰
Hardy har har.
You
Don't you mean, Harry har har?
Hare 🐰
Very funny. I'm just bellowing out of laughter.
You laughed to yourself, but then you checked the time—and it was later than you hoped for it to be. Better to get going now.
You rummaged through your backpack, finding a new, neat paperbag. You just poked uneven holes on them, and swung away.
It was Saturday morning, and you were in the basement—looking for Uncle Ben’s toolbox.
Luckily, you got up early enough to climb out your window and knock on their door to pretend you had just arrived.
You swear karma will get you someday with all these lies.
The basement reeked of cobwebs and time, while water dripped steadily from the rusted pipes above.
You sneezed into your elbow, rubbing your nose afterward as you set down a pile of dusty boxes.
You wondered why the old man left his toolbox buried in a pile of boxes.
Then you raised an eyebrow.
A black suitcase—you could tell it was pristine, even with the layer of dust surrounding it.
You carefully set it down beside your leg, planning to ask Uncle Ben and Aunt May about it later.
With a sigh of relief, you bent down and opened the toolbox. You took out the paint roller in one hand, and kept the suitcase in the other.
You turned for the stairs, carefully making your way up, ducking under the low beam you always forgot about.
By the time you pushed the door open, the familiar warmth of the house settled around you.
“Hey, kiddo—did you find it?” Aunt May’s voice floated in from the table. She was enjoying her afternoon tea.
“Yeah,” you called back, setting the toolbox down beside her with a soft thud. “It was, uh… buried.”
“Sounds about right,” Uncle Ben chuckled from the kitchen, crouched under the sink as he worked. “I keep telling myself I’ll clean that place out.”
You shifted your weight. “For real, Uncle Ben,” you added, forcing a small laugh. “You’ve got, like, a whole secret world down there.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” he replied, his voice slightly muffled from under the sink. There was a metallic clink, then a quiet curse under his breath. “Half the stuff down there probably doesn’t even belong to me anymore.”
You huffed out a quiet laugh.
“Hey,” you said casually, lifting it slightly. “Speaking of… not yours—what’s this suitcase for?”
Aunt May tensed, stopping mid-sip of her tea to look at you with wide eyes. Uncle Ben stopped whatever he was tinkering with and slowly slid out from under the sink.
So it definitely wasn’t a case full of withered albums. That was too bad—you were kind of looking forward to seeing more of them in their younger years.
Uncle Ben stood up, meeting Aunt May’s gaze. They did that often—exchanging looks only they seemed to understand.
You stood there awkwardly, tapping your thumb against the suitcase handle.
With a sigh, Uncle Ben put his hand on your shoulder—and you already had a feeling you wouldn’t like whatever they were about to say.
Your mind raced with different possibilities: they were spies (why was that always your first thought?), witness protection, or—worse—it was about your mom.
“Kid… let’s sit you down,” he said gently, guiding you to the seat beside Aunt May before sitting down next to you.
You placed the suitcase at your feet. It was still dusty—and you didn’t want to risk getting it everywhere.
Aunt May’s eyes were glossy, as if she had spent her life trying to forget something, only for it to come back and haunt her.
You stared at the tablecloth, picking at it, wondering if it was too late to throw the suitcase back into the basement if it meant they’d stop acting so strange.
Uncle Ben sighed. “You see, kid… your mom’s job—before you—she was a scientist.”
Your eyes widened in shock, then softened into realization. She had always seemed far more knowledgeable than she let on.
She also prioritized your education above everything, dropping everything just to attend a parent-teacher conference.
You nodded, heart thrumming in anticipation.
“She was real good at it too,” your uncle said with a soft smile, his eyes glinting as though he were lost in a memory.
Your aunt nodded in agreement.
“We don’t know the full details—your mother was always secretive ‘bout that,” Aunt May added, looking at you with her ever-kind and gentle eyes.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the teacup. It had probably gone cold by now.
Like it pained him to say it, your uncle continued, “We do know one thing. Mary worked for Oscorp, or used to.”
The weight of everything settled in your chest. You couldn’t even begin to name the emotions swirling inside you—everything just felt heavy.
You had so many questions, and you weren’t sure if you would like the answers to them.
If your mom was brilliant enough to work for Oscorp, how did things go so wrong? How did she go from futuristic labs to a kitchen that barely functioned?
And if she was important enough not to disclose her work during her lifetime to Uncle Ben and Aunt May, how did everything about her just… vanish?
The last question lingered—pushed to the back of your mind, because thinking about it hurt too much.
Does Harry know anything?
That must be why Uncle Ben was always so suspicious of the Osborns.
Before you knew it, your hands were trembling, accidentally scraping against the wooden table.
The two of them didn’t seem to notice, both struggling to find the right words. And you couldn’t seem to find any words at all.
“Your mother gave us this and told us it contained her life’s work. That she’d like for you to see it one day,” Uncle Ben said, placing his hand over your trembling ones.
Aunt May swallowed. “She gave us permission to look, but we thought it would be better if you saw it first.”
The room felt suffocating.
“Would you have told me this if I hadn’t found it in the basement?” you asked, your voice trembling.
They exchanged another glance, and you couldn’t tell what they were thinking.
Uncle Ben exhaled slowly—the kind that seemed to carry years with it. “We would have,” he said, though the hesitation before the words didn’t go unnoticed.
Aunt May set her teacup down with a soft clink, her hands lingering as if it grounded her. “We were waiting for the right time,” she added gently, though she didn’t sound fully convinced. “You’ve already been through so much. We didn’t want to… add to it.”
You licked your lips, blinking away the tears forming in your eyes. You wanted to believe them, but it was hard right now.
Uncle Ben rubbed his hands together, like he was steadying himself. Then he nodded toward the stairs.
“You can… head up,” he said quietly. “Take it with you. Look through it, study it… at your own pace.”
Aunt May glanced at him, concern flickering across her face.
You stood up a little too fast. The wooden chair scraped loudly against the floor, cutting through the silence.
Then you grabbed the suitcase, clutching the handle tighter than you meant to.
“I’ll be upstairs,” you muttered, not quite meeting their eyes.
Uncle Ben gave a small nod. “Take your time,” he said softly.
The stairs creaked under your steps, each one louder than the last. By the time you reached the top, your grip was clammy, your heart thudding in your ears.
You rubbed your eyes, sniffling.
You dropped the suitcase onto your bed, the mattress dipping under its weight.
The latches clicked open. Inside—files. Dozens of them. Neatly stacked, labeled, organized in a way that felt almost obsessive.
You pulled one out, fingers brushing over the paper.
Your eyes carefully skimmed over the words. Then you took another page. And another. And another—and another—
It was daybreak by the time you stopped reading, your eyes sunken and tired.
After what felt like forever, you leaned back, letting yourself sink into the soft pillows. You draped an arm over your eyes.
It was genius.
Cross-species genetics was something Oscorp openly promoted—framed as the next breakthrough in curing diseases and repairing the human body.
But what you read was something almost entirely different. It was left unfinished, scattered with question marks—yet it was something you had never seen before. Strangely, it felt almost better than anything Oscorp had been putting out.
You didn’t know that for sure, since not every piece of information was released to the public.
You exhaled slowly.
Only one name kept appearing in the papers: Dr. Curt Connors.
You were still shaken from the new knowledge you’d acquired, but like they say—the world kept spinning.
Dr. Curt Connors was the leading scientist for the cross-genetics experiment that is still on-going, but you believed that if they had your mother's work—they’d probably be much more progress. You would have to do some investigating about Dr. Curt someday.
Talking with Harry was weird, but you got over it quickly. Maybe.
You figured you’d talk to him about it soon, just not today. When you were still processing things.
The two of you had just gotten out of class, walking side by side on the way to the cafeteria.
“And you know? That asshole didn’t even say sorry!” you ranted, a vein practically popping from the irritation you were feeling.
Harry rolled his eyes. “No offense, but your brothers piss me off.” His brows creased for a moment. “Actually. Your whole other family pisses me off.”
The idiot, Tim—bumped into you earlier in the morning, breaking half your project that you had to redo in a haste at school.
You were getting angry all over again just by retelling—or remembering—the story. It didn’t help that you and Harry barely had any classes together today.
Then, you perked up. Cheers and shouting could be heard in the other hallway opposite the cafeteria.
You walked toward it, Harry following you, a bit confused. Then you assumed he’d finally heard the noise, as his confusion slowly shifted into curiosity.
A group of people, phones raised, crowded around Flash Thompson—you assumed; no one else would be causing such a ruckus at school. You and Harry weaved through the crowd, muttering quiet “sorry”s as you passed.
Your assumption was correct—Flash was beating on a poor kid who looked like he just wanted it to be over.
Unfortunately for him, the blonde jock dragged it out, surrounding him with his sidekicks, hurling humiliating quips as they shoved him around.
You took a look around. They were all on their phones—recording the scene.
“Flash! Cut it out!” Harry yelled, brows furrowed.
Your temper flared again, and before you knew it—you were in front of the roughed-up boy. He took that chance to scurry into the crowd and leave the scene.
You stood face-to-face with the jock, his sidekicks right behind him wearing disbelieving, mocking smirks. Flash was taken aback for a second before grinning devilishly.
“Puny Wayne! Just what we needed!” He made a show of arrogantly spreading his arms. The crowd got even more hyped, finally able to see Puny Wayne get his ass kicked.
You could feel Harry’s pointed, incredulous gaze on you, but you couldn’t care less.
Flash rolled his shoulders, cracking his knuckles one by one as the circle around you tightened. Someone in the back whooped, the sound sharp and ugly.
“Came to play hero?” Flash tilted his head, stepping closer—close enough that you could smell the mint gum and arrogance on his breath.
“Back off, Flash,” Harry barely made it a step forward before two of Flash’s goons slipped behind him, grabbing his arms and yanking him back.
“Hey—what the hell? Let go!” Harry struggled, twisting against their grip, but they only tightened it, laughing under their breath.
“Stay out of it, rich boy,” one of them muttered.
“Aw, look at that,” Flash drawled, glancing over your shoulder. “Your babysitter’s benched.”
A few people in the crowd laughed, phones tilting to catch Harry struggling.
Flash turned back to you, rolling his neck lazily. “Guess that means no one’s gonna save you now.”
You smirked mockingly at Flash, clenching your fist. “Yeah?”
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough for it to feel personal.
“You really should’ve stayed in your lane, Wayne.”
Without warning, he swung. A wide, cocky punch meant more to impress the crowd than land clean.
You dropped low, leaning your upper body downward as the punch cut through the space above you.
You met Harry’s surprised upside-down eyes.
His expression flickered—shock, concern, and a silent “why are you still doing this?” all at once—while he was still half-struggling in the grip of Flash’s goons.
Flash stumbled a half-step forward from the missed momentum, his confidence cracking for just a split second.
The crowd erupted—some gasping, others shouting louder, the energy spiking instantly.
“Yo—he missed that!”
“No way!”
Then he came at you faster. His punches kept coming, and you kept deflecting with your arms or slipping out of the way.
When he had you backed up against the lockers, you had nowhere left to go—his fist was inches from your face when you caught it, redirecting the strike and driving your own punch straight into his nose.
The impact snapped his head back, the sound sharp enough to cut through the noise. Flash staggered, stumbling a step before catching himself, one hand flying up instinctively.
The jock lowered his hand slowly—a thin line of red slipping past his fingers, his eyes wide with shock.
“Woah!”
“Flash got beaten up by Puny Wayne? Am I dreaming?”
You were grateful you’d managed to pull your punch at the last second, because you were sure he would’ve ended up with more than just a nosebleed if you hadn’t.
A migraine was already forming from how loud everything was. You could barely hear your own thoughts.
“HEY! BREAK IT UP!”
Now that, you could hear.
Teachers were pushing through the students now, the crowd parting reluctantly as phones dipped and whispers spiked.
“Move! Move!”
“Who started this?”
Flash straightened quickly, wiping under his nose, suddenly very aware of the attention around him. His sidekicks shifted too, loosening their grip on Harry as the situation changed—they hurried back to Flash’s side. At least they were loyal enough minions.
“I’m gonna need to call your parent—” The guidance counselor reached for the phone, but you immediately shook your head.
You cleared your throat. You hadn’t exactly been listening for the past ten minutes—just nodding along in agreement. All you caught was “something, something, behavioral issues, something,” frankly.
“Um, my dad’s busy, so if you could call my uncle and aunt instead?”
The counselor raised an eyebrow but let you punch in the numbers. Uncle Ben picked up the call—fortunately for you, or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it, since you were the one who’d have to explain the situation.
The next thirty minutes, you stood outside the guidance counselor’s office, fiddling with your blazer.
The ride home was quiet in a suffocating way.
Uncle Ben didn’t say much at first. Just kept his eyes on the road, jaw set like he was trying to hold back every sentence he was already forming.
Aunt May kept glancing between you and him, like she was quietly hoping someone would say the right thing before it got worse.
You stared out the window the whole time. Streetlights smeared past in long streaks.
When you got home, no one rushed inside. Uncle Ben finally spoke the moment the door clicked shut behind you.
“Why did you humiliate that boy?” he started.
You scoffed. “I didn’t humiliate him.”
Flash is fine. He humiliated you half your high school years—he’ll be fine.
Aunt May’s eyes softened as she leaned by the wall near Uncle Ben. “Let’s ask the kid what happened first, Ben.”
Uncle Ben gestured for you to continue.
You crossed your arms, tapping your finger on your bicep. “The boy, he—he was gonna get beaten up by Flash and two other guys if I didn’t intervene.”
The older man nodded. “And you did that by?”
You furrowed your eyebrows, looking down at your shoes—you could see where you went wrong here, but… Flash deserved it.
“…I just stopped them,” you muttered. “I didn’t let them hurt him.”
Uncle Ben didn’t answer right away. That pause was worse than anything he could’ve said.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, kid, I’m glad you’re okay from that fight—but Flash wasn’t. That poor boy went home with a bleeding nose.”
His eyes softened. “I know things have been difficult, but—” his voice stayed gentle. “You don’t get to decide who deserves what just because you’re angry.”
You scoffed under your breath. “So what, I was supposed to just stand there?”
“No.” Ben’s voice was firmer now, but not raised. “You were supposed to think.”
Ben continued, “You’ve got a good heart, like your mother, I see that—”
“But I did think,” you snapped, cutting him off. “I thought about him getting roughed up. I thought about doing something instead of just watching it happen.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Ben said quickly, trying to hold onto you.
But you were already shaking your head.
“No, it is. You just don’t like how I did it.”
Aunt May’s voice came in softly from the side. “Sweetheart—”
“Everyone keeps talking like I messed something up,” you said, voice tightening. “I didn’t. I helped someone.”
Ben stepped forward slightly. “Kid, just listen—”
You turned your back sharply and stormed out, slamming the door so hard it came off its hinges behind you.
It was nighttime, so you carried yourself with more alertness than usual. Your emotions felt like a rollercoaster—anger, regret, and just general sadness.
You shouldn’t have talked to Uncle Ben that way—but hearing about your mother just set something off in you.
With a sigh, you buried your hands in your blazer pockets. A convenience store wasn’t far away, and you had a small amount of money on you.
Frustrating, depressing thoughts plagued your mind the entire walk, enough to show on your face and ward off any weirdos.
It didn’t help that you didn’t have any music to cheer you up.
The small bell above the door dinged as you pushed it open. The man working at the counter looked up for a moment before returning to whatever he was doing.
You headed to the refrigerated drinks section and grabbed one to your liking. Then you walked to the counter and set it down, placing two cents into the paper plate meant for tips.
“2.10, you’re short,” he said. You were exactly two cents short, so you reached back for the paper plate—before the cashier tutted.
You looked up at him with a questioning gaze. He replied, “Leave a penny, take a penny. Not the other way around. Pay an extra ten dollars if you wanna take it.”
You really weren’t having it, so you searched for words that didn’t make you sound like a total asshole.
“I—”
“Store policy, kid. Don’t have enough money for your milk? Go run back to your mommy. You’re holding up my line,” he mocked, raising his hands.
You scoffed, leaving your drink on the counter and shoving the rest of your money back into your pockets.
You were just about to leave when the guy behind you made his move—reaching into the register and grabbing the cash while the cashier fumbled for the loose change the man “accidentally” dropped.
You stared for a moment, then decided the cashier had it coming. Uncle Ben’s words faintly rang in the back of your head, but you ignored them.
The man grinned at you, a gold tooth glinting, and tossed your drink your way—you caught it without missing a beat.
He ran out the other exit, and the cashier finally noticed, chasing after him. You shrugged and walked the other way—ignoring his, “Aren’t ya gonna help, kid?!” as he grumbled and headed back into his shop.
Maybe if you weren’t such a jerk, I would—
A sharp gunshot cut through your thoughts.
You’ve never turned your back so fast—your body reacting before your mind could. The sound still rang in your ears.
A familiar hand, fingers slack, hit the gravel with a dull thud.
You slowly started approaching, before breaking into a full sprint. Your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.
“…Ben?” Your shoes scraped against the gravel as you dropped beside him.
“Hey—hey, no, no, no—” Your hands hovered over the wound, not knowing what to do. The bullet had torn into his abdomen, and with how much blood he was losing—
No, no—you could swing him to the hospital—but that wouldn’t work either. You might make it worse.
A frustrated sound tore out of you. You’ve never felt so utterly helpless.
“Uncle Ben?” your lips trembled as your hand gently clasped his.
“Uncle Ben, look at me,” your voice cracked, breaking halfway through. “Look at me, I’m right here.”
His chest rose unevenly, each breath thinner than the last. His eyes struggled to stay open, but they found you anyway—like they always did.
“…hey, kid,” he murmured, voice barely there.
“Don’t talk,” you shook your head quickly, tightening your grip on his hand. “You’re gonna be okay, alright? Just—just stay with me. I’m here.”
“You’re… a good kid,” he whispered.
Your vision blurred. “Ben, please—”
His fingers shifted weakly in yours, like he was trying to hold on even though he no longer had the strength.
“There’s… something…” He swallowed, wincing. “Something I should’ve told you more often…”
“Save it,” you said quickly, voice breaking. “You can tell me later, okay? When we get you help—”
You should’ve been looking around, calling for help, doing something—but you couldn’t. Your gaze stayed locked on him, fear tightening in your chest at the thought that these might be your last moments with him.
“With great power…” he started, slow and uneven. “…comes great responsibility.”
It sounded final.
Your breath hitched. “Ben—no, no, you’re not—don’t say it like that—” you whimpered, tears finally spilling.
His eyes softened, an apology flickering through them.
“Take care of… May…”
His hand tightened—just barely—before slipping from yours.
“Ben, please,” you choked out.
You held on tighter, clinging to it—the same hand that had rested on your shoulder in comfort whenever you were in trouble, the same hand that had always made you feel like things would be okay, even when they weren’t.
The same warm, steady hand you might never feel again for the rest of your life.
You broke into uncontrollable sobs—you didn’t even know when the police arrived, or when their blue and red lights began flickering, painting the scene around you.
All the sounds around you faded as they tried to separate you from him. Officers spoke gently, but it barely reached you.
One of them cut through your haze—“Yes, I saw a man with a gold tooth running earlier, holding a gun. We tried chasing him, but he got away,” he panted.
They finally separated you from Uncle Ben, guiding your trembling form to sit on the curb. One of them placed a jacket around your shoulders.
Memories flashed through your head—the man with the gold tooth. The same guy from the fight.
Your uncle was dead.
And it was your fault.
If only you had listened to Uncle Ben.
If only you hadn’t let that guy go, he would still be alive.
Alive—and then he would’ve found you and then he would’ve rubbed your back and scolded you and dragged you back to dinner with Aunt May, and then—
Summary: Bruce Wayne is proud to say that he has one child that never devoted their life to fighting crime. You were the easy one. The healthy one. The normal one. After years of radio silence, he decided to reach out to you.
Masterlist, Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2
The bus stopped with a screech loud enough to go over your headphones. Around you, people stood up, pushing each other out of the way to get out of the vehicle as soon as possible. You stayed seated, listening to the music as you watched three elderly women in matching costumes heaving a big bag, whispering to each other. Your gaze met theirs, and they smiled, turning to each other with big grins. As the bus emptied, you finally stood up, shouldering your travel bag. You listened to the last tunes of ‘Road to Hell’ before plucking your headphones out and stepping out.
The first thing that hit you was the acidic smell of Gotham burning into your nostrils. Black fumes rose into the sky, blocking out every bit of warmth the winter sun was willing to give. A breeze hit you, cutting through your thick clothing as you scanned Gotham City Central Bus Station for a familiar face.
Sure enough, between homeless people searching for food, overcautious tourists, and dead-eyed commuters stood Alfred Pennyworth in an impeccably pressed suit and ruler straight posture. A polite smile stretched on his thin lips, a practiced combination of distantly professional and perfectly welcoming, as he greeted you with ease.
You greeted him back, more familiar than he greeted you, and together you made your way to the car. Alfred insisted on taking your bag, lightly reprimanding you that you hopefully haven’t forgotten your manners before switching over to small talk. A strange feeling settled over you as you took in the city that you left so many years ago. She didn’t seem any different. It was the same desperation clothed in hungry eyes and hollowed cheeks meeting numbness - or maybe just indifference.
Despite Gotham’s ugly nature, the towering buildings vanishing into the dark sky and shadows of hidden gargoyles leave you in awe. Stepping into Gotham was stepping into a different world. A darker one, without question, but also one in which you stand still and let yourself be swallowed by the oppressive waves of the disturbing. Gotham cradled you in her arms, comforting the most terrible facets of your self, screaming that you were not the worst monster in this city.
Years ago, before you left to live with Wren, Gotham soothed you like a mother singing their child a lullaby. Today you only felt unsettled.
You forced yourself not to fiddle with the seatbelt, sitting in the back seat of the expensive grey car Alfred was driving. Simple piano tunes trilled from the soundboxes distinct to baroque music. Probably Bach, if Alfred had chosen the music.
As your conversation stilled, you took your phone out. The first message that popped up was by Vic Sage. He asked if you had time to meet up after the New Year's celebrations for a puzzle night with him and Renee. You sent him a quick confirmation; puzzle nights with Vic were always a delight.
A friend of yours sent you a link to a newspaper article talking about the tragic accident in which a century-old manor burned down in New York. You ignored the jab and went to Wren’s chat. You texted them that you arrived safely in Gotham. Almost immediately three dots popped up, and you waited for their response.
Upon hearing that your father has invited you over for the holidays, Wren was not excited. For some reason, they never seemed really fond of your family. They never met, but every time you told them a childhood story from your time in the manor, their lips curled in the distinctive way they only did when a guest at their restaurant asked for their steak to be well done.
Wren almost came with you, but you reasoned that at least somebody had to show up at Wren’s family dinner and bring home the cookies that Wren’s parents always baked for Christmas. You could never survive going a year without them.
By the time you drove towards the ivory gate, you promised to call them before going to bed. Stepping out of the car, you tried to compare Wayne Manor with your memory. It failed, the pictures in your mind blurry and indistinct. You remember running up stairs, walking down corridors, and lazing in your bed. The memories were there: vague, fleeting, and of no particular importance.
The manor towered above you like a giant, casting the world around it into darkness. Gloomy towers and ivy-covered facades rose into the sky, piercing the heavy clouds. The garden was gray, despite the lush grass being finely groomed with not a single blade of grass too long or too short, and the fountain in the center of the driveway was dry and seemingly only close to the purpose of its creation when Gotham was once again ravaged by one of its thunderstorms. You waited for a sense of familiarity to settle in, but it never came.
You decided not to mull over the lack of feeling, being ushered up the stairs by Alfred. You cast a look over your shoulder. Your bag was still in the trunk, but you had a gut feeling that Alfred would speak of manners again if you told him that.
“At the moment, the manor is rather full,” Alfred informed you, keys in his gloved hand. “You have been a topic of discussion lately.”
You frowned at that, tucking that piece of information away. Of course, you knew of your siblings, even if you haven’t met most of them. It was hard not to know about them when every magazine and newspaper filled their pages with stories of the new child The Bruce Wayne took in.
Alfred opened the portal, the heavy door not making a sound as it moved. Loud voices stopped from one moment to the next, their echoes still traveling through the Grand Foyer. You stepped in, looking around as if you had never been here. Paintings and photographs adorned the walls. No artist that you knew, you surmised upon closer inspection. The biggest painting hung up over the grand staircase, like a silent watcher inspecting everybody who came into the house. It took you a moment to realize that it was a family painting. Fine brushstrokes formed a lustrous picture of a great family. A middle-aged man sat in the middle, the center of the painting, with a little boy standing next to him and a dog on the other side. Four boys and a girl fanned behind them with varying degrees of genial smiles, sharing a space like it was the most natural act in the world. On the side stood the butler, looking at them with warm approval.
Cold rays of Gotham’s sun hit the stained glass above the portal, casting glowing colors on the painting and splitting it apart. This was your family, you realized somewhat late. Alfred appeared next to you, following your gaze up to the staircase. “A shame that you hadn’t been here for the making.”
“I didn’t know about it,” you assured, making clear in your tone that you would have been here otherwise.
Alfred merely nodded, leading you away from the painting. “The family is waiting in the first sitting room. Dinner will be finished shortly. I assume you are quite famished from your travel?”
Wren had made you a lunch box with fantastic sandwiches and homemade pie that you finished shortly before arriving in Gotham. Seldom have you been so grateful to your best friend for being a chef, a culinary angel who came down to earth to bless people with the gospel of delicious food. You smiled politely at Alfred. “Quite famished.”
You made your way to the sitting room. There were no spoken words behind the door, but as soon as Alfred stepped forward to open the door, the tapping of footsteps reached your ears and shadows moved behind the door slit. Undeterred by the obvious form of eavesdropping, Alfred opened the door, announcing your presence as if you were royalty entering a ball.
The sitting room was a big room, maybe bigger than your whole apartment, with Persian carpets decorating the floors and handmade furniture that rather belonged in a museum than in a house full of children. You tried to place this room in your memories, but you guessed that you never really used it back then.
Six pairs of eyes landed on you as soon as you stepped in, inspecting you similarly to the way you looked at the foyer. Next to you, Alfred slinked away into the kitchen, leaving you alone amidst your family. The first one to catch your eye was Dick, lounging too casually on a recamier. Your older brother, you reminded yourself. He seemed to have lost his depressing demeanor in the time you were away with the light way he carried himself. Next to him sat a child - Damian, if your memory served you correctly, your only blood-related sibling – staring at you with unhidden intensity. His nose was turned slightly to the air, as if it was a hassle to have to categorize you. A purring cat perched on his lap, wholly uninterested in what got his owner’s attention.
Your name was spoken, and you turned away, towards the voice. Bruce has greeted you, standing up with open arms and an unfamiliar smile on his face. Grey hair began to spread from his temples through his black hair, but you wouldn’t know if he had these when you left or if it was a new development. His scarred hands landed heavy on your shoulders, squeezing as his blue eyes shined down on you in endearment.
You slipped from his hold but smiled simply as you said, “Hello, Dad.”
The attention of the room shifted, turning from you to him, as if they couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Damian pressed his lips to a straight line while Dick openly gawked at Bruce. “What the hell?” muttered a blonde girl, hitting an asian girl next to her - that must be Cass - as if she didn’t watch the same thing she just did. Another boy frowned, attention twitching between you and Bruce. It was Tim. You remember Tim. You have met Tim. The weird little neighbor’s boy who never stopped staring at your brothers and Bruce like the sun was shining right from – oh, no need to get into detail.
You greeted everybody as Bruce led you to the couches, sitting down next to you. You can’t remember seeing him ever so happy. These children here must be a good influence on him.
One by one the new faces – aren’t you a new face if anything? - introduced themselves to you, exchanging shallow pleasantries till the blonde girl, Steph, clapped her hands together and leaned towards you. “I’m curious,” she confessed in a tone like she committed a great crime. “Apparently you have been in this family almost as long as Dick, but I didn’t know of you till like, last week.”
Besides you, Bruce tensed. If you hadn’t sat directly next to him, you would have missed the slight shift under his clothes. Dick froze for a moment, easy smile falling before returning to normal.
“Well, I’m a flighty fella,” was your excuse. You didn’t know what to say to that. Ever since moving out, there has never been a reason to visit the manor. And why should Bruce mention you if you weren’t even in Gotham? “Good thing I took the bus, huh?” You chuckled at your own joke – the only one. Steph was as amused by you as the average person was by plain toast, while Cass looked at you with something akin to pity. Tim lifted an unimpressed brow, and Damian – his expression said that you just killed the cat on his lap.
Dick laughed, too late and too loud for a joke like that, clapping his hand on his thigh as if you were the funniest person in the room. “Good one,” he wheezed, grinning like a madman. From one of the other moments, the room was silent again, an awkward tension you could cut with a knife. The firewood cracked, and a grandfather clock ticked in the background.
The door opened. Alfred entered the room, feeling but not commenting on the mood. He cleared his throat. “Dinner is ready to be served.”
Thank God.
Dividers: @uzmacchiato
A/N: the second chapter is already out. i surprised myself with this one. I am very happy that the first chapter were liked by quite a few people and i hope you like this chapter as well <3 the story has a slow start but i wanted to build a good foundation before going into the deep. btw, the song in this chapter is 'Road to Hell' from the musical Hadestown. and while the reader is inspired by benoit blanc, the plot is inspired by Hadestown. do with that information what you want :) it goes the same way as before: if you find any big mistakes in grammar/spelling please tell me! also if you have any particular thoughts on this chapter let me know, even if there just a swarm of emojy, as you can tell im a yapper and i love to listen to other yappers
𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ juggling between two really hot sugar daddies is all fun and games, until they finally discover the truth, and both of them completely ruin you.
𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 10.3k words, 18+ [ MDNI! ], explicit sexual content, threesome, age gap, double penetration, pet names, blowjob, handjob, unprotected sex (p in a), crying during sex, creampie, nipple play, heavy praise kink, size kink, manhandling, cum play, dirty talk, begging, obsessive behavior, emotional vulnerability, marking / biting, overstimulation, mild jealousy, hair pulling, fingering, rimming, multiple orgasms, aftercare.
it started innocently enough.
well… maybe not innocently, because nothing about your arrangement with nanami kento had ever been innocent; not the way he looked at you over his reading glasses when you walked into his apartment wearing nothing but one of his oversized dress shirts, not the way his voice dropped an octave when he called you his good boy after you'd done something particularly pleasing, not the way he fucked you slow and deep and so so so perfect on his expensive sheets every tuesday and friday night.
nanami was your first sugar daddy.
you'd met him through a friend of a friend who knew someone who knew someone, and from the moment you'd sat across from him at a quiet café in the business district, you'd been hooked. the man was thirty-seven, broad-shouldered, with sandy blond hair that fell across his forehead in a way that made you want to push it back. he wore suits that cost more than your monthly rent, but he took them off with the kind of careful precision that suggested he respected his clothes more than most people respected other human beings.
he was quiet and steady; the kind of man who made you feel safe just by existing in the same room.
and god, he was generous.
not just with his wallet (though that too, definitely that) but with his time, his attention, and his care.
nanami remembered everything about you; your coffee order, the name of your childhood pet, the way you liked your eggs in the morning (over easy, with toast, never bacon because you were picky about meat textures). he'd text you good morning every day without fail, and good night every evening, and if you ever mentioned being stressed or tired or overwhelmed, he'd show up at your door with takeout from your favorite restaurant and a quiet offer to run you a bath.
oh, and the sex was just as good as everything else.
nanami fucked like he lived — deliberate, controlled, and devastatingly effective. he took his time with you, learned every sound you made, every spot that made you gasp, every angle that made you see stars. he was bigger than average in every sense, thick and heavy and curved just slightly to the left, and when he pushed inside you it felt like being filled with warm honey; slow and sweet and so, so much.
he never rushed, never demanded, never made you feel like anything less than the center of his universe.
and the way nanami looked at you after sex, with those tired brown eyes gone soft and fond, running his fingers through your hair while you caught your breath... god, it made you want to keep him forever.
but then there was higuruma hiromi.
you met higuruma three months into your arrangement with nanami, purely by accident. you'd been at a gallery opening — one of those pretentious art things where the wine is free and the conversations are even emptier — when a man in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit bumped into you near the bar.
"sorry," he'd said, and his voice was rough, used, like he'd spent too many hours in courtrooms arguing with people who should have known better. "didn't see you there."
you'd looked up and nearly choked on your champagne.
higuruma hiromi was striking; not handsome in the same way nanami was handsome, but striking in a way that made your stomach completely flip — sharp jaw, darker skin, dark hair that curled slightly at the ends, falling into his face in a way that looked effortless but probably wasn't. and his eyes were intelligent and tired and so hungry all at once, and when they landed on you, they stayed.
"it's fine," you'd managed, and then, because you'd had three glasses of champagne and your filter was nonexistent; "you look like you'd rather be anywhere else."
higuruma had blinked at that, then laughed — a real laugh, low and a little surprised, like he really hadn't expected to find anything funny tonight.
"that obvious?"
"only to someone else who'd rather be anywhere else."
he'd bought you another glass of champagne after that, and then another, and then the man had walked you to your car and asked for your number in a way that made it clear he wasn't used to asking for anything.
the very first time you went to higuruma’s apartment — a penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the city that made your chest ache — you'd told yourself it was just à simple dinner, just getting to know each other, just two adults enjoying each other's company.
the second time you went to higuruma’s apartment, you'd ended up on your knees on his ridiculously expensive rug while he stood over you with his shirt unbuttoned and his belt undone, looking down at you like you were the only thing in the world worth looking at.
higuruma was different from nanami.
where nanami was controlled, higuruma was intense. where nanami took his time, higuruma wanted you now, wanted you desperate, wanted to watch you fall apart for him over and over until you couldn't remember your own name. he was a prosecutor, which meant he spent his days arguing and his nights exhausted, and somehow, with you, he'd found a way to pour all that intensity into something that wasn't rage.
and higuruma was rougher than nanami.
not in a way that hurt — never in a way that hurt, because higuruma might have been intense but he was also careful, always checking in, always making sure you were okay — but in a way that left you breathless. he liked to hold you down, he liked to pull your hair, he liked to fuck you from behind while he whispered filthy things in your ear about how good you felt, how tight you were, how you were his, weren't you?
and you were. god, you were.
higuruma was also bigger than nanami.
longer, maybe not quite as thick, but long enough that when he pushed inside you it felt like he was reaching somewhere no one else had ever touched. the first time he'd fucked you, you'd come so hard you'd blacked out for a second, and when you came back to yourself he was hovering over you with genuine panic in his eyes.
"hey. hey, baby, stay with me. are you okay? shit, i'm sorry, i should have—"
you'd kissed him quiet and told him you'd never been better.
and it was true.
so, just like that, you'd ended up with two sugar daddies; two older men, both successful, both ridiculously wealthy, both completely and utterly obsessed with you, and neither of them knew about the other.
at first, it was really easy.
nanami had you every tuesdays and fridays, and higuruma had you every mondays and thursdays. you had wednesdays and weekends to yourself, to recover, to sleep, to answer texts from both of them that grew increasingly desperate the longer you went without seeing them.
thinking about you, nanami would randomly text, and somehow those three words in his steady, understated way made your heart race just as much as the things higuruma sent; come over. i need you. now.
you told yourself it was fine; you weren't lying to either of them, exactly — you just weren't telling them the whole truth. and it wasn't like you'd agreed to be exclusive or anything. the arrangements were clearly open-ended, casual in theory if not in practice, and neither of them had ever asked if you were seeing anyone else or not.
maybe they'd assumed, maybe they'd hoped, but neither of them had asked.
so you let yourself have both of them, you let yourself sink into nanami's steady warmth on tuesdays and fridays, let yourself burn in higuruma's intensity on mondays and thursdays, you let yourself be taken care of, financially and emotionally and sexually, in ways you'd never imagined possible.
you didn't work — really, didn't have to. nanami had set up an account for you within the first month, transferring a generous allowance every week without you ever having to ask about or, and higuruma had done the same, though he'd handed you a black card during your third week together and said,
"spend whatever you want. i mean it."
you'd bought a lot of books, and some very nice loungewear, and a new mattress because your old one had been giving you back pain, and when both of them had asked about the charge on their respective statements, you'd told them the truth and they'd both offered to buy you a better one.
( nanami had actually gone with you to test mattresses, lying down next to you on display models in the middle of a showroom while you tried not to laugh at how serious he looked. higuruma had just sent you a link to a five-thousand-dollar mattress and said; "get this one, it's the best."
you'd gotten the one nanami helped you pick, and then you'd used higuruma's card to buy the sheets. )
it was the perfect setup imaginable.
you had everything you wanted — money, attention, the kind of sex that left you walking funny for days — and you didn't have to choose, didn't have to give up one for the other.
except…
except nanami was observant; it was one of the things you loved about him, the way he noticed everything, the way he remembered details that other people would have forgotten. and over time, he'd started to notice things.
the way you'd sometimes wince when you sat down on friday nights, even though you hadn't seen him since tuesday. the way you'd have fresh bruises on your hips that he hadn't put there, smaller finger-shaped marks than his that spoke of someone who held you way harder than nanami ever did. the way you'd sometimes smell faintly of a cologne that wasn't his at all— something woody and expensive, with notes of cedar and something darker, something almost smoky.
nanami hadn't said anything. well, not at first; he'd just filed the information away, let it sit in the back of his mind, turned it over like a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.
and then, one tuesday night, you'd fallen asleep on his couch after an especially thorough fucking, and your phone had buzzed on the coffee table.
nanami hadn't meant to look at your phone. he really hadn't. but the screen had lit up with a text message, and he'd glanced over automatically, the way literally anyone would, and he'd seen the name at the top of the notification, and the message underneath;
higuruma hiromi ♥︎
you're not answering my texts. are you with someone?
nanami had felt something cold settle in his chest. it was not anger, exactly — he wasn't really sure what it was. something heavier, something that tasted like betrayal and mine and how dare you all at once.
he'd known the name; everyone in the legal world in tokyo knew higuruma hiromi — the defense attorney turned prosecutor with the perfect conviction rate and the reputation for being impossible to read. nanami had never met the man personally, but he'd seen his picture in legal journals, heard colleagues talk about him in hushed, respectful tones.
and now, apparently, higuruma hiromi was texting you.
nanami hadn't confronted you that night, he hadn't mentioned the text when you woke up and stretched and smiled at him like he was the only person in the world; he'd just kissed your forehead and made you breakfast and watched you leave with the same careful, measuring gaze he used in boardrooms when he knew someone was lying.
but he'd started paying closer attention after that.
meanwhile, higuruma had his own suspicions.
he wasn't a detective, but he'd spent enough time in courtrooms to know when someone was hiding something, and you, for all your sweetness, for all your desperate little sounds and the way you curled into him after sex like you never wanted to leave, were definitely hiding something.
it was the little things; the way you'd sometimes check your phone when you thought he wasn't looking, a guilty flush spreading across your cheeks. the way you'd never let him stay over on tuesdays or fridays, always making some excuse about needing to wake up early or having plans with friends. the way you'd sometimes say things that didn't quite add up, details shifting just slightly from one conversation to the next.
and then there were the marks, too.
higuruma always marked you.
not in a possessive way — well, maybe a little in a possessive way — but in a way that felt natural, instinctive. he liked to bite your neck, your shoulders, the inside of your thighs. he liked to leave bruises on your hips where his fingers dug in while he fucked you. he liked to watch you look at them in the mirror the next morning, he liked knowing that you'd carry pieces of him with you throughout your day.
but sometimes, when he saw you closely, there were marks he didn't recognize.
not bruises, exactly. more like... tenderness. a slight redness around your wrists that suggested someone had held them down, but way softer than the way higuruma held you. a faint little mark on your collarbone that looked like it had been made by lips, not by teeth.
and the way you moved sometimes — carefully, like you were sore in places that he hadn't touched recently — made something dark curl in his stomach.
higuruma really wasn't the jealous type. or at least, he hadn't thought he was, but the idea of someone else touching you, someone else making you gasp and moan and fall apart, someone else seeing you the way he saw you...
it made him want to do unreasonable things.
so when he'd sent that text on tuesday night — "you're not answering my texts. are you with someone?" — and you'd only replied the next morning with a string of apologies and excuses that didn't quite hold together, he'd started doing his own little investigating.
and it hadn't taken long.
nanami kento was not a subtle man; he was quiet, yes, and really reserved, but he wasn't subtle at all. his name appeared on your credit card statements when you bought groceries at the store near his apartment. your location — which you'd foolishly left shared with higuruma — showed you spending tuesday and friday nights at an address in a very wealthy neighborhood that wasn't yours.
and when higuruma had driven past that address one friday evening, just to see, he'd recognized the car in the driveway.
it was a very nice, understated and expensive car. the kind of car that belonged to someone who didn't need to show off because they already knew what they were worth.
and it was nanami kento's car.
higuruma had silently sat in his own car for a very, very long time that night, gripping the steering wheel, trying to decide how he felt. angry? yes, a little. hurt? more than a little. but mostly — mostly, he was determined.
because you were his, and he was going to prove it.
the confrontation happened on a saturday.
you'd been careless; you'd spent friday night with nanami, as usual, and then you'd agreed to see higuruma on saturday afternoon, even though you'd told both of them you needed the weekend to yourself.
but higuruma had sounded so needy on the phone, his voice rough in that way it got when he'd been thinking about you too much, and you'd caved.
"come over," he'd said. "please. i need to see you."
and you'd gone, because you could never say no to higuruma when he said please.
you'd been at his apartment for about an hour, curled up on his couch in one of his t-shirts, when the doorbell rang.
higuruma had frowned. the man wasn't expecting anyone, and he'd told his doorman not to let anyone up, which meant whoever was at the door had either been cleared by security or had found another way in.
"stay here," he'd said, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before standing up.
you'd nodded, pulling a blanket over your lap, and watched him walk to the door. he'd looked through the peephole first, and you'd seen his entire body go still.
"who is it?" you'd asked, suddenly nervous.
higuruma hadn't answered, he'd just unlocked the door and pulled it open, and there, standing in the hallway with his arms crossed over his chest and an expression on his face that you'd never seen before, was nanami kento.
"we need to talk," nanami had said, his voice flat, not looking at higuruma, but looking at you.
your heart had completely stopped.
"kento—" you'd started, but your voice came out as a squeak, and you'd had to stop and clear your throat before speaking again. "kento, i can explain—"
"can you?" he'd stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him. his eyes hadn't left yours. "because i've been waiting for an explanation for quite some time now."
higuruma had moved to stand between you and nanami, his posture defensive. "how did you get up here?"
"your doorman is very professional," nanami had said, still looking at you. "but he's also very easy to persuade when you tell him you're here to see your boyfriend."
"you're not his—"
"neither are you," nanami had cut him off, finally turning to face him. "not exclusively, anyway. which i think is the point we're both here to discuss."
the air in the room had been thick enough to cut with a knife. you'd pulled your knees up to your chest, making yourself as small as possible, trying to disappear into the couch cushions.
"i'm not going to yell," nanami had said, and his voice was still calm, still steady, but there was something underneath it that made you shiver. "i'm not going to make a scene. but we are going to talk about this. all three of us."
higuruma had looked at you then, and his expression had softened slightly, just enough to make your chest ache.
"is this true?" he'd asked. "have you been seeing both of us?"
you'd swallowed hard, and you nodded.
"for how long?"
"...six months."
higuruma had closed his eyes, and nanami had exhaled slowly through his nose.
and then, instead of yelling, instead of leaving, instead of any of the things you'd imagined happening in your worst-case scenarios, they'd both sat down.
nanami on the armchair across from the couch, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. higuruma next to you on the couch, not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body.
"here's what's going to happen," nanami had said, and his voice was calm in a way that made your stomach flip. "we're going to talk. you're going to tell us the truth. and then we're going to figure out what comes next."
"but—"
"no buts," higuruma had interrupted, and his voice was rougher than usual, strained. "you owe us that much."
so you'd talked.
you'd told them everything — how you'd met nanami first, how you'd fallen into the arrangement with him, how you'd met higuruma by accident and hadn't been able to say no. you'd told them about the lies you'd told, the schedules you'd juggled, the guilt you'd felt (sometimes) and the way you'd convinced yourself it was totally fine because neither of them had asked for exclusivity.
you'd cried a little, towards the end.
not because you were scared — though you were, a little — but because saying it all out loud made it real in a way it hadn't been before, made you see yourself through their eyes; selfish, greedy, taking everything both of them had to offer without giving either of them the full truth.
when you'd finished, the silence had stretched out for a long time, and nanami had been the first to speak.
"i'm not going to pretend i'm not hurt," he'd said quietly. "because i am. i thought... i thought what we had was special. i thought you felt the same way i did."
"i do—"
"but i'm also not going to pretend i don't understand," he'd continued, cutting you off gently. "you're young. you wanted to be taken care of. and neither of us ever asked if you were seeing anyone else. that's on us as much as it's on you."
higuruma had made a little sound, something between a laugh and a scoff.
"you're being very reasonable about this."
"would you prefer i wasn't?"
"no," higuruma had admitted. "i'd just... you know, i'd expected more of a fight."
nanami had looked at higuruma then, and something had passed between them, something you couldn't quite read.
"i'm not going to fight you," nanami had said. "that's not productive. but i'm also not going to walk away."
"neither am i," higuruma had said, and his voice had hardened a little. "so what does that leave?"
another silence, this one was longer this time.
and then nanami had said, very quietly;
"it leaves us with a choice. we can both walk away, and let him find someone else. or we can..."
"can what?"
nanami had looked at you; his eyes were unreadable, but there was something in them that made your breath catch.
"or we can share."
the conversation that followed had been... intense.
not angry, exactly. neither nanami nor higuruma seemed interested in yelling, which honestly surprised you; you'd expected more fireworks, accusations, maybe some thrown furniture. instead, they'd talked to each other, and to you, with the kind of measured calm that felt almost more unnerving than anger would have been.
nanami had asked practical questions — how often do you see him? what does your schedule look like? has he been tested recently? — he'd approached it like a business negotiation, which made sense given nanami’s background, but there was something underneath the practicality that you recognized: the man was hurting, trying to maintain control because he didn't know what else to do.
higuruma had been less composed; he'd paced the length of the living room while they talked, running his hands through his hair, stopping every few minutes to look at you like he was trying to memorize your face. he'd asked different questions, too — why didn't you tell me? did you think i wouldn't understand? do you have any idea how i felt when i figured it out? — and his voice had cracked on the last one, just slightly, in a way that made your heart clench.
you'd answered everything honestly. no more lies. no more half-truths. you owed them that much.
and somehow, impossibly, they'd come to an agreement.
"we're not going to make you choose," nanami had said finally, after nearly two hours of talking. "that wouldn't be fair to anyone. but things are going to change."
"what kind of changes?" you'd asked, your voice small.
higuruma had stopped pacing, and he looked at nanami, and then he nodded once, sharply.
"from now on," nanami had said, "you don't lie to us. about anything. if you're seeing one of us, the other knows. if you need something, you simply ask. and if you want to be with both of us at the same time..."
he'd trailed off, and the look he'd exchanged with higuruma had been loaded with something you couldn't quite name.
"we'll figure that out as we go," higuruma had finished. "but right now—"
"right now," nanami had said, standing up from the armchair, "i think we need to establish some things."
he'd walked over to the couch, stood in front of you, looked down at you with those tired brown eyes that had gone dark with something that looked a lot like hunger.
"stand up," he'd said quietly.
you'd stood.
"take off his shirt."
you'd blinked, and looked at higuruma, who was watching you both with an expression that made your stomach flip.
"kento—"
"you heard me," nanami’s voice was still calm, but there was an edge to it now. "you've been lying to us for six months. keeping secrets. letting us think we were the only ones. don't you think you owe us something?"
your mouth had gone dry.
slowly, keeping your eyes on nanami's, you'd pulled the shirt over your head, then dropped it on the floor, and stood there in nothing but your underwear, shivering slightly even though the apartment was warm.
nanami had looked at you for a very long moment.
then he'd slowly reached out and traced a finger down your chest, over your stomach, stopping just above the waistband of your underwear.
"you're beautiful," he'd said, and the words had sounded almost reluctant, like he didn't want to admit it. "you know that, don't you? you know why we both put up with this?"
you'd shaken your head, not trusting your voice.
"because you're ours," higuruma had said from behind you, and his voice was rough, ragged. "or you were supposed to be. and we're going to remind you of that."
you'd felt higuruma move closer, felt his chest press against your back, felt his breath hot on your neck. nanami was still in front of you, still tracing patterns on your skin, and you were trapped between them, surrounded by them, drowning in the smell of both their colognes and the heat of their bodies.
"what—" you'd started, but you couldn't finish, because nanami had leaned in and kissed you.
it wasn't like his usual kisses; those were slow, gentle, almost reverent. this one was hungry. his hand came up to cup the back of your neck, holding you in place, and his tongue pushed into your mouth like he was claiming you, marking you, reminding you who you belonged to.
you'd moaned into his mouth, and behind you, higuruma had made a sound — low and dark and possessive — and then his hands were on your hips, pulling you back against him, and you could feel him hard through his pants.
"kento," you'd gasped when he finally pulled back. "h-hiromi, please—"
"please what?" nanami had asked, and his voice was rough now, not calm at all. "please fuck you? please remind you that you're ours? please make you forget every lie you've ever told?"
"yes," you'd breathed. "yes."
higuruma had turned your head to the side, captured your mouth in a kiss that was nothing like nanami's; this one was all teeth and tongue and need, and when he pulled back you were dizzy, barely able to stand.
"bedroom," higuruma had said, and it wasn't a question.
higuruma’s bedroom was as impressive as the rest of his luxurious apartment — floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the city, a king-sized bed with sheets that probably cost more than your first car, soft lighting that made everything feel hazy and unreal.
you barely had time to take it in before you were being pushed onto the bed, falling back against the pillows, looking up at two very hot men who were both staring at you like you were the last meal they'd ever have.
nanami was unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate, careful movements, the way he did everything. his chest was broad, muscular without being bulky, with a smattering of blond hair that you'd spent hours tracing with your fingers. he caught you looking and raised an eyebrow, and something about the expression on his face made your cock twitch.
higuruma was less patient; the man had already pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his skin stretched over lean muscle, a body that looked like it had been carved out of something harder than flesh. his pants came next, then his boxers, and when he was fully naked you had to remind yourself how to breathe.
you'd seen both of them naked before, of course, many times, but seeing them together, standing side by side, both of them hard and watching you with the same dark intensity...
it was a lot.
"like what you see, baby?" higuruma asked, and there was something almost challenging in his voice. "because we've been looking at you for six months. wondering. imagining what it would be like to have you like this."
"i—"
"take off your underwear," nanami interrupted, and his voice was calm again, a little more controlled, but his eyes were anything but. "slowly."
you did as he said, hooking your thumbs into the waistband and pushing them down your legs; your cock sprang free, already hard, leaking precum onto your stomach, and both of them watched with matching expressions of hunger.
"fuck," higuruma breathed. "look at you, baby. so desperate for it already."
"he's always desperate," nanami said, and there was something almost fond in his voice. "that's one of the things i like about him. he never pretends he doesn't want it."
"i don't," you admitted, your voice shaking. "i want it. i want you. both of you—please."
nanami climbed onto the bed first, settling on his knees just beside you. he reached out and ran his hand down your chest, over your stomach, wrapping his fingers around your cock in a grip that made you gasp.
"you're going to take both of us tonight," he said, stroking you slowly, watching your face. "do you understand what that means, sweetheart?"
you nodded frantically.
"i want to hear you say it."
"i'm going to take both of you," you repeated, and your voice cracked on the last word. "i want to. i want—"
"what do you want?" higuruma asked, climbing onto the bed on your other side.
his huge hand joined nanami's on your cock, and the insane sensation of both of them touching you at once made your hips buck off the bed.
"tell us exactly what you want, baby. use your words."
"i… i want you to fuck me," you gasped. "both of you. at the same time. i want—i want you to ruin me, i want to be so full i can't think, i want you to use me until i can't remember my own name—please."
"that's enough," nanami said, and there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "we'll give you what you want. but we're going to take our time."
higuruma leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, while nanami's hand kept moving on your cock. you were already close, embarrassingly close, but they didn't seem to care; they just kept touching you, kissing you, surrounding you until you couldn't tell where one of them ended and the other began.
"turn over," nanami said eventually, and his voice was soft but firm. "on your hands and knees."
you moved without thinking, rolling onto your stomach and pushing up onto your hands and knees.
you could easily feel both of them behind you now, you could feel the heat of their bodies, you could hear the sounds of them moving — the rustle of sheets, the soft exhale of breath, the wet click of a lube bottle opening — and you had to close your eyes because it was too much.
"so pretty like this," higuruma murmured, and then you felt his hands on your ass, spreading you open.
his thumbs pulled your cheeks apart, and you knew he could see everything — your hole, still slightly pink from earlier in the week, the way it was already clenching around nothing.
"look at this perfect little hole. do you know how many times i've thought about this? about having you like this while someone else watches?"
"or helps," nanami added, and then you felt his finger — wet with lube, cool against your heated skin — press against your entrance, with higuruma still spreading you open
you moaned, pushing back against him, and he slid inside you easily. one finger, then two, stretching you open, and behind you higuruma was watching, breathing hard, his hands still on your ass, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there.
"he's so tight," nanami said, and his voice was strained now, all the calm control slipping away. "even after everything we've done to him, he's still so fucking tight."
"add another," higuruma said, and it wasn't a request.
nanami did, and you cried out at the stretch, at the fullness, at the way both of them were looking at you like you were something precious and filthy all at once.
nanami's fingers curled inside you, searching, and when he found that sweet little spot — the one that made your vision go completely white — you collapsed forward onto your elbows, your whole body shaking.
"there," higuruma said, and his voice was low, almost reverent. "that's it, isn't it? that's the spot that makes him fall apart."
"it is," nanami agreed, and he pressed against it again, harder this time, watching your reaction. "he's so responsive. look at him. he's already crying."
he was right; there were tears on your cheeks, sliding down to drip onto the sheets below. you hadn't even noticed.
"ready?" nanami asked.
you nodded, not trusting your voice.
but it wasn't nanami who pushed into you first.
it was higuruma.
he lined himself up behind you, and you felt the head of his cock — long and thick and so much, too much, exactly enough — press against your stretched hole. he pushed in slowly, so slowly, giving you time to adjust, and you buried your face in the pillows and screamed.
not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming size of him, the way he seemed to go on forever, filling you inch by inch until you were sure he was going to split you open.
"shh," higuruma said, but his voice was shaking. "shh, baby, i've got you. just breathe."
you tried to breathe, but it was really hard when higuruma was inside you, filling you up, reaching deeper than anyone had ever reached before. when he was finally fully seated, his hips flush against your ass, you were trembling, tears already leaking from your eyes in earnest.
"good boy," nanami said softly, and then you felt him move.
he'd positioned himself in front of you, kneeling between your hands and your head, and you looked up at him through tear-blurred eyes; nanami’s huge cock was right there, hard and heavy and already leaking, the head flushed dark, and you understood what he wanted.
"open," he said, and you opened your mouth.
he pushed inside slowly, not as deep as he could have, giving you time to adjust. you had higuruma in your ass and nanami in your mouth, and you were so full, so impossibly full, and you could feel yourself shaking apart at the seams.
"there you go," nanami murmured, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. "just like that. take it."
higuruma started moving first — slow, deep thrusts that pushed you forward onto nanami's cock. nanami groaned, his hips twitching, and then he started moving too, thrusting into your mouth in rhythm with higuruma's thrusts.
in. out. in. out.
you were nothing but a body between them, a place for them to fuck, and somehow it was exactly what you needed. you wanted to be used. wanted to be filled. wanted to forget everything except the feeling of them inside you.
"he's taking us so well," higuruma said, and his voice was completely wrecked, desperate. "look at him. look at how well he's taking us."
nanami looked down at you, and his eyes were dark, almost black, his pupils blown wide.
"he's perfect," he said, and the words were simple but they hit you like a physical blow. "our perfect boy."
you moaned around nanami's cock, and the vibration made him swear, his hips stuttering.
"f-fuck—do that again," he said, and you did, moaning as higuruma hit that sweet spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyes.
"found it," higuruma said, and there was satisfaction in his voice, a dark kind of pleasure. "found that spot, didn't i, baby? that spot that makes you see god?"
you tried to answer, but all that came out was another moan, and nanami's grip on your head tightened.
"keep going," nanami said, and you couldn't tell if he was talking to you or to higuruma. "don't stop."
they didn't stop.
they fucked you like they'd been waiting their whole lives for this moment, like they were trying to make up for six months of not knowing, like they wanted to leave marks on you that would never fade. higuruma's thrusts got harder, faster, and each one pushed you further onto nanami's cock, and you were drooling, crying, making sounds you'd never made before — high-pitched, desperate, almost animal.
"close," you heard yourself say, or maybe you just thought it, because you literally couldn't feel your mouth anymore. "i'm close, i'm gonna—"
"not yet," nanami said, and he pulled out of your mouth, leaving you gasping, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the head of his cock. "you don't come until we tell you to."
you sobbed at the loss, at the denial, at the way your body was screaming for release; but you didn't cum. you held on, because nanami had told you to, because higuruma was still fucking you, because you would do anything they asked.
"turn him over," nanami said, and higuruma simply pulled out, and you whimpered at the sudden emptiness, at the sudden absence of being filled.
they flipped you onto your back with gentle but firm hands, and then nanami was above you, pushing your legs up, spreading you open. he lined himself up — you saw him do it, saw the head of his cock press against your slick, stretched hole — and pushed inside in one smooth movement.
you screamed again because nanami was different from higuruma — he was thicker, not as long, but the stretch was almost too much, a different kind of fullness that made your toes curl and your back arch off the bed.
"fuck," nanami breathed, and his composure was gone now, completely gone. his forehead was beaded with sweat, his jaw tight, and his eyes half-closed. "fuck, you're tight. you're so fucking tight, sweetheart."
"please," you begged. "please, kento, please—"
"higuruma," nanami said, and his voice was commanding despite the way it shook. "get behind him."
you felt the bed shift, you felt higuruma move behind you, you felt him lift your head and shoulders onto his lap, and you were angled now; your hips raised, your hole completely exposed, and nanami was still inside you, still filling you, still stretching you in the most delicious way.
"ready?" higuruma asked, and you felt his cock — slick with lube, thank god, thank every deity that had ever existed — press against your hole alongside nanami's.
"wait—" you started, but it was too late.
they pushed in together.
you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do a damn thing except feel — feel the impossible stretch, the burning fullness, the way they both fit inside you like they'd been made to be there. you were so full you thought you might break, might shatter into a million pieces and never come back together.
"breathe," nanami said, and his voice was strained, shaking, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "breathe, sweetheart. you can take it."
"he's taking it," higuruma said from behind you, and his voice was wonderstruck, almost reverent. "he's actually taking both of us. look at him."
you couldn't look at yourself. actually, you could barely keep your eyes open at all.
but you could feel the way your body was stretched around them, feel the way they were both so deep inside you that you couldn't tell where one of them ended and the other began. you could feel your own heartbeat pulsing around them, feel every inch of them both.
"move," you gasped. "please, please move, i need—"
nanami moved first, pulling out halfway and pushing back in. higuruma followed, and suddenly they were fucking you in tandem, one pulling out while the other pushed in, a rhythm that left you gasping and crying and begging for more.
"so good," nanami groaned, and his forehead was pressed against yours, his eyes locked on your face. "so good for us, sweetheart. our perfect boy."
"ours," higuruma echoed, and his hand came around to grip your hip, holding you in place while he thrust up into you. "you're ours now. no more lies. no more secrets. just us."
"just us," you repeated, and you didn't know if you meant it or if you were just saying words, but it didn't matter.
nothing mattered except the way they were moving inside you, the way they were completely filling you, the way they were taking you apart piece by piece.
you came first — without permission, without warning, your cock spurting onto your stomach as your body clenched around them both. you heard yourself scream, felt them both groan, felt them both thrust deeper as your orgasm ripped through you like a freight train.
"fuck," nanami said, and his voice was wrecked. "fuck, he's clenching around us."
"can't—can't hold on—" higuruma started, but then he was coming too, you could feel it, feel him spilling inside you, hot and thick and so much, filling you even more.
nanami followed a moment later, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself into you, adding to the mess inside you, making you feel impossibly, obscenely full.
and then there was silence.
just the sound of three people breathing, trying to remember how to exist outside of this moment.
you thought it was over.
oh, you were so so so wrong.
nanami pulled out first, and you whimpered at the loss, at the feeling of his cum and higuruma's leaking out of you, dripping down onto the sheets. higuruma pulled out a moment later, and you felt emptier than you'd ever felt in your entire life.
"don't," you started, but you didn't know what you were asking for. don't stop? don't leave? don't make me feel this alone?
"we're not done with you," nanami said, and his voice was soft but certain. "not even close."
he rolled you onto your side, and you felt fingers — whose, you couldn't tell anymore — push back into you, pushing their cum deeper, making you moan and arch your back.
"he's still hard," higuruma said, and there was disbelief in his voice. "look. he's still hard."
you looked down and saw that he was right; your cock was already pathetically filling again, twitching against your stomach, desperate for more despite everything you'd already just been through.
"he's young," nanami said, like that explained everything. "and he wants this. don't you, sweetheart? you want more?"
"y-yes, please," you said, and your voice was hoarse from screaming. "please. more. i can take more."
and oh, they did gave you more.
this time, they properly took turn, thoroughly, like they were trying to see who could make you fall apart faster.
higuruma went first.
he pulled you onto your hands and knees again, and nanami positioned himself in front of you, sitting against the headboard with his legs spread, his cock hard and waiting.
"come here, sweetheart," nanami said, and you crawled toward him on shaky limbs, your body trembling with exhaustion and want. "suck me while he fucks you."
you opened your mouth and took nanami's cock as deep as you could, moaning around him as you felt higuruma line up behind you. this time there was no hesitation — he pushed in in one smooth movement, and you were full again, so full, and you could feel every inch of him as he started to move.
"that's it," higuruma said, his hands gripping your hips, his thrusts deep and slow and deliberate. "take it. take all of it."
nanami's hand was in your hair, not forcing you, just resting there, guiding you gently.
"you're doing so well," he murmured. "so good for us. look at you, taking both of us like you were made for it."
you wanted to say something, to tell them how good it felt, how much you really needed this, but your mouth was so full and your brain was completely melting and all that came out was a desperate, muffled sound.
higuruma fucked you like that for what felt like hours — deep, rolling thrusts that hit that spot every single time, that made you see stars behind your closed eyelids. nanami's cock was heavy on your tongue, and you could taste yourself on him, could taste the salt of his skin, could feel the way his thighs tensed every time you swallowed around him.
"fuck—i'm close," higuruma said, his voice tight. "where do you want it, baby?"
"inside," you gasped, pulling off nanami's cock just long enough to say it. "please, inside, want to feel it—"
higuruma came with a groan that sounded like your name, spilling inside you for the second time that night, and the feeling of him pulsing inside you pushed you over the edge again; you came with a cry, your cock twitching against your stomach, and nanami watched it all with dark, hungry eyes.
"my turn," nanami said, and there was something almost competitive in his voice.
nanami pulled you into his lap, your back against his chest, your legs spread wide over his thighs. he was inside you before you could even catch your breath, his thick cock filling you in a way that made your eyes roll back.
"hold him," nanami said to higuruma, and higuruma moved to kneel in front of you, his hands coming up to cup your face, to tilt your head down so you could see.
"watch," higuruma said softly. "watch him fuck you."
you obediently looked down and saw it — saw nanami's cock disappearing into your ruined hole, saw the way your body stretched around him, saw the mess of cum and lube that coated your thighs. it was obscene. it was perfect.
nanami's hands were on your hips, lifting you up and down on his cock, using you like a toy.
"you feel that, sweetheart?" nanamo asked, his mouth against your ear, his breath hot. "you feel how deep i am, hm? you're never going to forget this. never going to forget what it feels like to have both of us."
"n-never," you agreed, because it was true.
you could feel him in your throat, in your fingertips, in the way your heart was pounding.
higuruma leaned forward and kissed you while nanami fucked you, slow and deep and filthy. his tongue slid against yours, and you could taste yourself on him, too — or maybe that was just the air, thick with the smell of sex and sweat and three bodies tangled together.
nanami's thrusts got faster, harder, and you broke the kiss to bury your face in higuruma's shoulder, to sob against his skin as nanami hit your sweet spot over and over and over again.
"come for him," higuruma murmured against your hair. "come for him, baby. you can do it."
you came again — a dry, shaking orgasm that left you gasping, your body convulsing in nanami's arms. nanami followed right after, his hips stuttering as he filled you for the third time, adding to the mess inside you.
"good boy," nanami said, kissing your shoulder, your neck, the spot behind your ear. "such a good boy."
you thought maybe that was it.
yeah, maybe they'd finally had enough of you.
but holy shit, when nanami pulled out and softly laid you down on the bed, higuruma was already moving between your legs, his cock hard again, his eyes dark.
"again," he said, and it wasn't a question.
"again," nanami agreed, and damn, he was hard too, already reaching for the lube.
you should have been scared, you should have been exhausted, and you were exhausted — but your body was still on fire, still hungry, still desperate for more.
"please," you heard yourself say. "please, i need—"
"we know what you need," nanami said, and then they were both inside you again, and you couldn't think, couldn't even breathe, couldn't do anything except feel, once again.
they fucked you together for a third time — and then a fourth.
each time was always different; sometimes they moved in tandem, one pulling out as the other pushed in, a rhythm that left you completely gasping. sometimes they moved together, both thrusting at the same time, stretching you so wide you were sure you'd never be the same. sometimes they stopped moving entirely, just stayed buried deep inside you, letting you feel how full you were, how completely owned.
"look at you," higuruma said during one of those pauses, his hand tracing down your chest, your stomach, stopping just above where they were both buried inside you. "look at how well you're taking us, baby."
you couldn't look, after all, you could barely keep your eyes open, but you could feel — feel the way your body had adjusted to them, the way your hole was stretched and slick and completely ruined.
"he's crying again," nanami observed, and his voice was soft, almost gentle. "are you okay, sweetheart?"
you nodded, even though you weren't sure if it was true. you were more than okay. you were something else entirely — something that didn't have words.
"he's so pretty when he cries," higuruma said, and he leaned down to sweetly kiss the tears off your cheeks. "so so pretty. our pretty boy."
"yours," you dumbly agreed, because you really couldn't say anything else. "yours, yours, yours."
they took turns again after that.
higuruma fucked you while nanami watched, his hand on your cock, stroking you in time with higuruma's thrusts. you came again — you'd lost count by now — and higuruma followed right after, spilling inside you for god knows how much time.
then nanami fucked you while higuruma held you, your back against his chest, his hands pinching your nipples, his mouth whispering filthy things in your ear. you came again, a weak, shaking orgasm that left you sobbing, and nanami came inside you with a groan that sounded like your name.
then they both fucked you again, together, and you lost count of how many times you came. lost track of time. lost track of everything except the feeling of being filled, used, loved.
at some point, the tears stopped being just from pleasure.
they started being from something else entirely — something that felt more like release, like forgiveness, like being seen for the first time in your life.
you'd spent six months lying to these men. six months sneaking around, splitting your time, convincing yourself that you weren't doing anything wrong because they were both giving you what you needed. but they'd been giving you more than that; they'd been giving you pieces of themselves — their time, their attention, their bodies, their hearts.
and you'd been too scared to give them the same.
"i'm sorry," you sobbed, and you didn't even know which one of them you were talking to. "i'm so so so sorry, i should have told you, i should have —"
"shh," nanami said, and he was inside you again — or maybe he'd never left, you couldn't tell anymore — and his voice was so gentle, softer than you'd ever heard it. "shh, baby. it's okay. we're not angry."
"we're not," higuruma agreed, and his hand was on your cheek, wiping away tears. "we were, at first. but not anymore."
"why not?" you asked, because you didn't understand.
you'd lied to them, betrayed their trust, done exactly what they'd been afraid of.
"because you're here, sweetheart," nanami said simply. "because you let us do this. because you could have run, but you didn't. you stayed."
"and because we love you," higuruma added, and the words hung in the air, heavy and real. "both of us. we love you, even though you're an idiot."
you laughed at that — a wet, broken sound that turned into another sob.
"i love you too," you said. "both of you. i didn't—i didn't know how to choose."
"you don't have to choose," nanami said. "that's what we're trying to tell you."
they fucked you one more time after that — slow this time, gentle, like they were trying to prove something to you.
nanami was deep inside you while higuruma was deep in your mouth, and you could feel both of them getting close, could feel your own orgasm building again even though you didn't think you had anything left.
"together," nanami said, and his voice was strained.
you came together, the three of you, and it felt like something breaking and something healing all at once.
to be honest, you don't remember much after that.
there are flashes — nanami carrying you to the bathroom, the warm water of the shower, gentle hands washing you clean. higuruma's voice, low and soothing, telling you that you did so well, that you're so good, that they're so proud of you.
you remember being laid down on fresh sheets — when did they even change the sheets? — and covered with a blanket that smells like both of them. you remember nanami pressing a glass of water to your lips, making you drink, making you eat small bites of something sweet. you remember higuruma brushing your hair back from your forehead, his touch so gentle it made you want to cry all over again.
and then you remember waking up.
you're in the middle of higuruma’s bed, sandwiched between two warm bodies.
nanami is the one on your left; his arm draped across your chest, his face pressed into your shoulder. his breathing is slow and even, and even in sleep he looks like he's thinking about something — his brow is slightly furrowed, his lips pressed together. higuruma is the one on your right; his hand on your hip, his forehead against your temple. he's snoring, just a little, a soft sound that you've never heard before because you've never stayed the night.
they're both asleep.
you lie there for a long time, just breathing, just feeling; your body aches in ways you didn't know it could ache — your hole is sore, your thighs are bruised, your throat is raw, and there's a dull throb in your lower back that you're pretty sure is going to hurt like hell tomorrow.
but underneath the pain, there's something else; something that feels like peace.
nanami stirs first, his eyes fluttering open. he looks at you for a moment, and then he smiles — a real smile, small and soft and so full of love that it makes your chest hurt.
"how are you feeling?" he asks, his voice rough with sleep.
"sore," you admit. "but good. really, really good."
"good," he says, and he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "you were amazing last night. i've never seen anything like that."
"neither have i," higuruma mumbles from your other side, and you realize he's awake too. his hand squeezes your hip, and he shifts closer, pressing his chest against your back. "you're fucking incredible, you know that?"
you blush, hiding your face in the pillow.
"you guys are just saying that because you came inside me like… five times."
"six," nanami corrects, and there's something like amusement in his voice. "i counted."
"i counted seven," higuruma says. "but i lost track at the end."
you groan, and they both laugh — real laughs, warm and genuine, and the sound of them laughing together makes something loosen in your chest.
"we need to talk," nanami says eventually, and his voice is softly serious again. "about what happens now."
your body slowly tense, but higuruma's hand rubs circles on your hip, soothing you.
"not like that," higuruma says. "we're not going anywhere. we just need to figure out... logistics."
"logistics," you repeat, and you can't help but laugh. "you want to talk about logistics? right now? when i can barely walk?"
"i'll carry you," nanami says simply. "if you need me to. but yes, we need to talk about logistics. because i'm not sharing you if it means i only get to see you twice a week."
"neither am i," higuruma agrees. "so we need to figure out a schedule. or..."
"or?" you ask.
nanami and higuruma look at each other, and something passes between them, some silent communication you're not privy to — a raised eyebrow, a slight nod, an understanding that seems to happen without words.
"or," nanami says slowly. "we could stop pretending this is casual. stop pretending we're just sugar daddies and you're just a sugar baby. and try... something else."
"what kind of something else?"
higuruma takes a deep breath.
"the kind where you move in with us. where we take care of you together. where you don't have to choose because you don't have to choose. you can have both of us, if you want. if we can figure out how to make it work."
you stare at him, then at nanami, then back at higuruma.
"you're serious?" you say.
"i've never been more serious about anything in my life," nanami says, and his voice is quiet but fierce. "i've spent six months falling in love with you. and last night, watching you with him... i realized that loving you doesn't mean i have to keep you to myself. it means i want you to be happy. and if being with both of us makes you happy..."
"it does," you say quickly. "god, it really does. but are you sure? like, both of you? because this is—this is insane. you barely know each other."
"we know each other well enough," higuruma says, and there's something almost sheepish in his voice. "we talked. while you were asleep. for like, three hours."
"you talked about me for three hours?"
"we talked about us," nanami corrects. "about what we want. about what we're willing to try. and we both agree that you're worth it. that this is worth it."
you don't know what to say. your eyes are stinging again, but this time it's not from pleasure or pain or overwhelm; it's from something else, something that feels like relief.
"okay," you say, your voice barely a whisper. "okay. let's try."
nanami kisses you first — soft, sweet, and full of promise. then higuruma kisses you too, deeper, slower, like he's trying to memorize the taste of you. and then they both kiss you, and it's clumsy and awkward and perfect, and you laugh against their mouths because you can't help it.
"one more thing," higuruma says when you break apart. "no more secrets. no more lies. if something's wrong, you tell us. if you need something, you ask. and if you want something—"
"i'll tell you," you finish. "i promise. no more secrets."
"good," nanami says, and he pulls you closer to him, tucking you against his chest. "because i don't think my heart can take any more surprises."
"my heart either," higuruma agrees, pressing against your back. "you're going to be the death of us, you know that?"
"but what a way to go," nanami murmurs, and you can hear the soft smile in his voice.
you close your eyes, surrounded by warmth, by love, by two men who are completely and utterly obsessed with you.
and for the very first time in six months, you don't feel guilty about it at all; you feel home.
bonus — three months later.
the apartment is ridiculous.
it's a penthouse — bigger than both of their previous places combined — with three bedrooms (one for each of you, though you've never slept in yours), a kitchen that looks like it belongs in a magazine, and a view of the city that still makes you catch your breath every time you look out the window.
nanami is in the kitchen, making breakfast; he's wearing an apron over his dress shirt — he has a meeting later, something about investments and portfolios and words that go in one ear and out the other — and he's humming something under his breath, his movements precise and efficient.
higuruma is on the couch, reading a case file, his reading glasses perched on his nose; he looks exhausted — he was in court until late last night — but there's a small smile on his face when he looks up and catches you watching him.
"stop staring," he says, but his voice is fond.
"can't help it," you say, stretching out on the couch with your head in his lap. "you're pretty."
higuruma snorts. "i'm pretty?"
"very pretty. the prettiest."
"what am i?" nanami calls from the kitchen, and there's amusement in his voice. "chopped liver?"
"you're handsome," you correct. "there's a difference."
"is there?"
"definitely. higuruma is pretty, you're handsome, and i'm adorable. we all have our roles."
higuruma laughs, and the sound makes your chest warm.
"adorable," he repeats. "that's one word for it."
"what other words would you use?"
"insatiable," higuruma says. "exhausting. the reason i can't walk straight half the time."
"you love it."
"i do," he admits, and he leans down to kiss your forehead. "i really, really do."
nanami comes over with three plates — eggs and toast and fruit, arranged perfectly, because he's nanami kento and he literally can't help himself.
he hands one to higuruma, one to you, and keeps one for himself, settling into the armchair across from the couch.
"what are your plans today?" he asks, and the question is casual but you know what he's really asking; are you free? can we spend time together? will you be here when i get home?
"nothing," you say. "i thought i'd stay here. maybe do some laundry. maybe take a nap. maybe wait for both of you to come home so we can—"
"don't," higuruma says, but he's smiling. "don't start. i have to go back to court in an hour."
"so?"
"so, i can't show up with a boner."
nanami chokes on his toast, and you and higuruma both laugh, and the sound fills the apartment like sunlight.
this is your life now.
two men, one immense apartment, no secrets, no lies; just love, in all its messy, complicated, beautiful glory.
𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ juggling between two really hot sugar daddies is all fun and games, until they finally discover the truth, and both of them completely ruin you.
𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 10.3k words, 18+ [ MDNI! ], explicit sexual content, threesome, age gap, double penetration, pet names, blowjob, handjob, unprotected sex (p in a), crying during sex, creampie, nipple play, heavy praise kink, size kink, manhandling, cum play, dirty talk, begging, obsessive behavior, emotional vulnerability, marking / biting, overstimulation, mild jealousy, hair pulling, fingering, rimming, multiple orgasms, aftercare.
it started innocently enough.
well… maybe not innocently, because nothing about your arrangement with nanami kento had ever been innocent; not the way he looked at you over his reading glasses when you walked into his apartment wearing nothing but one of his oversized dress shirts, not the way his voice dropped an octave when he called you his good boy after you'd done something particularly pleasing, not the way he fucked you slow and deep and so so so perfect on his expensive sheets every tuesday and friday night.
nanami was your first sugar daddy.
you'd met him through a friend of a friend who knew someone who knew someone, and from the moment you'd sat across from him at a quiet café in the business district, you'd been hooked. the man was thirty-seven, broad-shouldered, with sandy blond hair that fell across his forehead in a way that made you want to push it back. he wore suits that cost more than your monthly rent, but he took them off with the kind of careful precision that suggested he respected his clothes more than most people respected other human beings.
he was quiet and steady; the kind of man who made you feel safe just by existing in the same room.
and god, he was generous.
not just with his wallet (though that too, definitely that) but with his time, his attention, and his care.
nanami remembered everything about you; your coffee order, the name of your childhood pet, the way you liked your eggs in the morning (over easy, with toast, never bacon because you were picky about meat textures). he'd text you good morning every day without fail, and good night every evening, and if you ever mentioned being stressed or tired or overwhelmed, he'd show up at your door with takeout from your favorite restaurant and a quiet offer to run you a bath.
oh, and the sex was just as good as everything else.
nanami fucked like he lived — deliberate, controlled, and devastatingly effective. he took his time with you, learned every sound you made, every spot that made you gasp, every angle that made you see stars. he was bigger than average in every sense, thick and heavy and curved just slightly to the left, and when he pushed inside you it felt like being filled with warm honey; slow and sweet and so, so much.
he never rushed, never demanded, never made you feel like anything less than the center of his universe.
and the way nanami looked at you after sex, with those tired brown eyes gone soft and fond, running his fingers through your hair while you caught your breath... god, it made you want to keep him forever.
but then there was higuruma hiromi.
you met higuruma three months into your arrangement with nanami, purely by accident. you'd been at a gallery opening — one of those pretentious art things where the wine is free and the conversations are even emptier — when a man in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit bumped into you near the bar.
"sorry," he'd said, and his voice was rough, used, like he'd spent too many hours in courtrooms arguing with people who should have known better. "didn't see you there."
you'd looked up and nearly choked on your champagne.
higuruma hiromi was striking; not handsome in the same way nanami was handsome, but striking in a way that made your stomach completely flip — sharp jaw, darker skin, dark hair that curled slightly at the ends, falling into his face in a way that looked effortless but probably wasn't. and his eyes were intelligent and tired and so hungry all at once, and when they landed on you, they stayed.
"it's fine," you'd managed, and then, because you'd had three glasses of champagne and your filter was nonexistent; "you look like you'd rather be anywhere else."
higuruma had blinked at that, then laughed — a real laugh, low and a little surprised, like he really hadn't expected to find anything funny tonight.
"that obvious?"
"only to someone else who'd rather be anywhere else."
he'd bought you another glass of champagne after that, and then another, and then the man had walked you to your car and asked for your number in a way that made it clear he wasn't used to asking for anything.
the very first time you went to higuruma’s apartment — a penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the city that made your chest ache — you'd told yourself it was just à simple dinner, just getting to know each other, just two adults enjoying each other's company.
the second time you went to higuruma’s apartment, you'd ended up on your knees on his ridiculously expensive rug while he stood over you with his shirt unbuttoned and his belt undone, looking down at you like you were the only thing in the world worth looking at.
higuruma was different from nanami.
where nanami was controlled, higuruma was intense. where nanami took his time, higuruma wanted you now, wanted you desperate, wanted to watch you fall apart for him over and over until you couldn't remember your own name. he was a prosecutor, which meant he spent his days arguing and his nights exhausted, and somehow, with you, he'd found a way to pour all that intensity into something that wasn't rage.
and higuruma was rougher than nanami.
not in a way that hurt — never in a way that hurt, because higuruma might have been intense but he was also careful, always checking in, always making sure you were okay — but in a way that left you breathless. he liked to hold you down, he liked to pull your hair, he liked to fuck you from behind while he whispered filthy things in your ear about how good you felt, how tight you were, how you were his, weren't you?
and you were. god, you were.
higuruma was also bigger than nanami.
longer, maybe not quite as thick, but long enough that when he pushed inside you it felt like he was reaching somewhere no one else had ever touched. the first time he'd fucked you, you'd come so hard you'd blacked out for a second, and when you came back to yourself he was hovering over you with genuine panic in his eyes.
"hey. hey, baby, stay with me. are you okay? shit, i'm sorry, i should have—"
you'd kissed him quiet and told him you'd never been better.
and it was true.
so, just like that, you'd ended up with two sugar daddies; two older men, both successful, both ridiculously wealthy, both completely and utterly obsessed with you, and neither of them knew about the other.
at first, it was really easy.
nanami had you every tuesdays and fridays, and higuruma had you every mondays and thursdays. you had wednesdays and weekends to yourself, to recover, to sleep, to answer texts from both of them that grew increasingly desperate the longer you went without seeing them.
thinking about you, nanami would randomly text, and somehow those three words in his steady, understated way made your heart race just as much as the things higuruma sent; come over. i need you. now.
you told yourself it was fine; you weren't lying to either of them, exactly — you just weren't telling them the whole truth. and it wasn't like you'd agreed to be exclusive or anything. the arrangements were clearly open-ended, casual in theory if not in practice, and neither of them had ever asked if you were seeing anyone else or not.
maybe they'd assumed, maybe they'd hoped, but neither of them had asked.
so you let yourself have both of them, you let yourself sink into nanami's steady warmth on tuesdays and fridays, let yourself burn in higuruma's intensity on mondays and thursdays, you let yourself be taken care of, financially and emotionally and sexually, in ways you'd never imagined possible.
you didn't work — really, didn't have to. nanami had set up an account for you within the first month, transferring a generous allowance every week without you ever having to ask about or, and higuruma had done the same, though he'd handed you a black card during your third week together and said,
"spend whatever you want. i mean it."
you'd bought a lot of books, and some very nice loungewear, and a new mattress because your old one had been giving you back pain, and when both of them had asked about the charge on their respective statements, you'd told them the truth and they'd both offered to buy you a better one.
( nanami had actually gone with you to test mattresses, lying down next to you on display models in the middle of a showroom while you tried not to laugh at how serious he looked. higuruma had just sent you a link to a five-thousand-dollar mattress and said; "get this one, it's the best."
you'd gotten the one nanami helped you pick, and then you'd used higuruma's card to buy the sheets. )
it was the perfect setup imaginable.
you had everything you wanted — money, attention, the kind of sex that left you walking funny for days — and you didn't have to choose, didn't have to give up one for the other.
except…
except nanami was observant; it was one of the things you loved about him, the way he noticed everything, the way he remembered details that other people would have forgotten. and over time, he'd started to notice things.
the way you'd sometimes wince when you sat down on friday nights, even though you hadn't seen him since tuesday. the way you'd have fresh bruises on your hips that he hadn't put there, smaller finger-shaped marks than his that spoke of someone who held you way harder than nanami ever did. the way you'd sometimes smell faintly of a cologne that wasn't his at all— something woody and expensive, with notes of cedar and something darker, something almost smoky.
nanami hadn't said anything. well, not at first; he'd just filed the information away, let it sit in the back of his mind, turned it over like a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.
and then, one tuesday night, you'd fallen asleep on his couch after an especially thorough fucking, and your phone had buzzed on the coffee table.
nanami hadn't meant to look at your phone. he really hadn't. but the screen had lit up with a text message, and he'd glanced over automatically, the way literally anyone would, and he'd seen the name at the top of the notification, and the message underneath;
higuruma hiromi ♥︎
you're not answering my texts. are you with someone?
nanami had felt something cold settle in his chest. it was not anger, exactly — he wasn't really sure what it was. something heavier, something that tasted like betrayal and mine and how dare you all at once.
he'd known the name; everyone in the legal world in tokyo knew higuruma hiromi — the defense attorney turned prosecutor with the perfect conviction rate and the reputation for being impossible to read. nanami had never met the man personally, but he'd seen his picture in legal journals, heard colleagues talk about him in hushed, respectful tones.
and now, apparently, higuruma hiromi was texting you.
nanami hadn't confronted you that night, he hadn't mentioned the text when you woke up and stretched and smiled at him like he was the only person in the world; he'd just kissed your forehead and made you breakfast and watched you leave with the same careful, measuring gaze he used in boardrooms when he knew someone was lying.
but he'd started paying closer attention after that.
meanwhile, higuruma had his own suspicions.
he wasn't a detective, but he'd spent enough time in courtrooms to know when someone was hiding something, and you, for all your sweetness, for all your desperate little sounds and the way you curled into him after sex like you never wanted to leave, were definitely hiding something.
it was the little things; the way you'd sometimes check your phone when you thought he wasn't looking, a guilty flush spreading across your cheeks. the way you'd never let him stay over on tuesdays or fridays, always making some excuse about needing to wake up early or having plans with friends. the way you'd sometimes say things that didn't quite add up, details shifting just slightly from one conversation to the next.
and then there were the marks, too.
higuruma always marked you.
not in a possessive way — well, maybe a little in a possessive way — but in a way that felt natural, instinctive. he liked to bite your neck, your shoulders, the inside of your thighs. he liked to leave bruises on your hips where his fingers dug in while he fucked you. he liked to watch you look at them in the mirror the next morning, he liked knowing that you'd carry pieces of him with you throughout your day.
but sometimes, when he saw you closely, there were marks he didn't recognize.
not bruises, exactly. more like... tenderness. a slight redness around your wrists that suggested someone had held them down, but way softer than the way higuruma held you. a faint little mark on your collarbone that looked like it had been made by lips, not by teeth.
and the way you moved sometimes — carefully, like you were sore in places that he hadn't touched recently — made something dark curl in his stomach.
higuruma really wasn't the jealous type. or at least, he hadn't thought he was, but the idea of someone else touching you, someone else making you gasp and moan and fall apart, someone else seeing you the way he saw you...
it made him want to do unreasonable things.
so when he'd sent that text on tuesday night — "you're not answering my texts. are you with someone?" — and you'd only replied the next morning with a string of apologies and excuses that didn't quite hold together, he'd started doing his own little investigating.
and it hadn't taken long.
nanami kento was not a subtle man; he was quiet, yes, and really reserved, but he wasn't subtle at all. his name appeared on your credit card statements when you bought groceries at the store near his apartment. your location — which you'd foolishly left shared with higuruma — showed you spending tuesday and friday nights at an address in a very wealthy neighborhood that wasn't yours.
and when higuruma had driven past that address one friday evening, just to see, he'd recognized the car in the driveway.
it was a very nice, understated and expensive car. the kind of car that belonged to someone who didn't need to show off because they already knew what they were worth.
and it was nanami kento's car.
higuruma had silently sat in his own car for a very, very long time that night, gripping the steering wheel, trying to decide how he felt. angry? yes, a little. hurt? more than a little. but mostly — mostly, he was determined.
because you were his, and he was going to prove it.
the confrontation happened on a saturday.
you'd been careless; you'd spent friday night with nanami, as usual, and then you'd agreed to see higuruma on saturday afternoon, even though you'd told both of them you needed the weekend to yourself.
but higuruma had sounded so needy on the phone, his voice rough in that way it got when he'd been thinking about you too much, and you'd caved.
"come over," he'd said. "please. i need to see you."
and you'd gone, because you could never say no to higuruma when he said please.
you'd been at his apartment for about an hour, curled up on his couch in one of his t-shirts, when the doorbell rang.
higuruma had frowned. the man wasn't expecting anyone, and he'd told his doorman not to let anyone up, which meant whoever was at the door had either been cleared by security or had found another way in.
"stay here," he'd said, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before standing up.
you'd nodded, pulling a blanket over your lap, and watched him walk to the door. he'd looked through the peephole first, and you'd seen his entire body go still.
"who is it?" you'd asked, suddenly nervous.
higuruma hadn't answered, he'd just unlocked the door and pulled it open, and there, standing in the hallway with his arms crossed over his chest and an expression on his face that you'd never seen before, was nanami kento.
"we need to talk," nanami had said, his voice flat, not looking at higuruma, but looking at you.
your heart had completely stopped.
"kento—" you'd started, but your voice came out as a squeak, and you'd had to stop and clear your throat before speaking again. "kento, i can explain—"
"can you?" he'd stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him. his eyes hadn't left yours. "because i've been waiting for an explanation for quite some time now."
higuruma had moved to stand between you and nanami, his posture defensive. "how did you get up here?"
"your doorman is very professional," nanami had said, still looking at you. "but he's also very easy to persuade when you tell him you're here to see your boyfriend."
"you're not his—"
"neither are you," nanami had cut him off, finally turning to face him. "not exclusively, anyway. which i think is the point we're both here to discuss."
the air in the room had been thick enough to cut with a knife. you'd pulled your knees up to your chest, making yourself as small as possible, trying to disappear into the couch cushions.
"i'm not going to yell," nanami had said, and his voice was still calm, still steady, but there was something underneath it that made you shiver. "i'm not going to make a scene. but we are going to talk about this. all three of us."
higuruma had looked at you then, and his expression had softened slightly, just enough to make your chest ache.
"is this true?" he'd asked. "have you been seeing both of us?"
you'd swallowed hard, and you nodded.
"for how long?"
"...six months."
higuruma had closed his eyes, and nanami had exhaled slowly through his nose.
and then, instead of yelling, instead of leaving, instead of any of the things you'd imagined happening in your worst-case scenarios, they'd both sat down.
nanami on the armchair across from the couch, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. higuruma next to you on the couch, not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body.
"here's what's going to happen," nanami had said, and his voice was calm in a way that made your stomach flip. "we're going to talk. you're going to tell us the truth. and then we're going to figure out what comes next."
"but—"
"no buts," higuruma had interrupted, and his voice was rougher than usual, strained. "you owe us that much."
so you'd talked.
you'd told them everything — how you'd met nanami first, how you'd fallen into the arrangement with him, how you'd met higuruma by accident and hadn't been able to say no. you'd told them about the lies you'd told, the schedules you'd juggled, the guilt you'd felt (sometimes) and the way you'd convinced yourself it was totally fine because neither of them had asked for exclusivity.
you'd cried a little, towards the end.
not because you were scared — though you were, a little — but because saying it all out loud made it real in a way it hadn't been before, made you see yourself through their eyes; selfish, greedy, taking everything both of them had to offer without giving either of them the full truth.
when you'd finished, the silence had stretched out for a long time, and nanami had been the first to speak.
"i'm not going to pretend i'm not hurt," he'd said quietly. "because i am. i thought... i thought what we had was special. i thought you felt the same way i did."
"i do—"
"but i'm also not going to pretend i don't understand," he'd continued, cutting you off gently. "you're young. you wanted to be taken care of. and neither of us ever asked if you were seeing anyone else. that's on us as much as it's on you."
higuruma had made a little sound, something between a laugh and a scoff.
"you're being very reasonable about this."
"would you prefer i wasn't?"
"no," higuruma had admitted. "i'd just... you know, i'd expected more of a fight."
nanami had looked at higuruma then, and something had passed between them, something you couldn't quite read.
"i'm not going to fight you," nanami had said. "that's not productive. but i'm also not going to walk away."
"neither am i," higuruma had said, and his voice had hardened a little. "so what does that leave?"
another silence, this one was longer this time.
and then nanami had said, very quietly;
"it leaves us with a choice. we can both walk away, and let him find someone else. or we can..."
"can what?"
nanami had looked at you; his eyes were unreadable, but there was something in them that made your breath catch.
"or we can share."
the conversation that followed had been... intense.
not angry, exactly. neither nanami nor higuruma seemed interested in yelling, which honestly surprised you; you'd expected more fireworks, accusations, maybe some thrown furniture. instead, they'd talked to each other, and to you, with the kind of measured calm that felt almost more unnerving than anger would have been.
nanami had asked practical questions — how often do you see him? what does your schedule look like? has he been tested recently? — he'd approached it like a business negotiation, which made sense given nanami’s background, but there was something underneath the practicality that you recognized: the man was hurting, trying to maintain control because he didn't know what else to do.
higuruma had been less composed; he'd paced the length of the living room while they talked, running his hands through his hair, stopping every few minutes to look at you like he was trying to memorize your face. he'd asked different questions, too — why didn't you tell me? did you think i wouldn't understand? do you have any idea how i felt when i figured it out? — and his voice had cracked on the last one, just slightly, in a way that made your heart clench.
you'd answered everything honestly. no more lies. no more half-truths. you owed them that much.
and somehow, impossibly, they'd come to an agreement.
"we're not going to make you choose," nanami had said finally, after nearly two hours of talking. "that wouldn't be fair to anyone. but things are going to change."
"what kind of changes?" you'd asked, your voice small.
higuruma had stopped pacing, and he looked at nanami, and then he nodded once, sharply.
"from now on," nanami had said, "you don't lie to us. about anything. if you're seeing one of us, the other knows. if you need something, you simply ask. and if you want to be with both of us at the same time..."
he'd trailed off, and the look he'd exchanged with higuruma had been loaded with something you couldn't quite name.
"we'll figure that out as we go," higuruma had finished. "but right now—"
"right now," nanami had said, standing up from the armchair, "i think we need to establish some things."
he'd walked over to the couch, stood in front of you, looked down at you with those tired brown eyes that had gone dark with something that looked a lot like hunger.
"stand up," he'd said quietly.
you'd stood.
"take off his shirt."
you'd blinked, and looked at higuruma, who was watching you both with an expression that made your stomach flip.
"kento—"
"you heard me," nanami’s voice was still calm, but there was an edge to it now. "you've been lying to us for six months. keeping secrets. letting us think we were the only ones. don't you think you owe us something?"
your mouth had gone dry.
slowly, keeping your eyes on nanami's, you'd pulled the shirt over your head, then dropped it on the floor, and stood there in nothing but your underwear, shivering slightly even though the apartment was warm.
nanami had looked at you for a very long moment.
then he'd slowly reached out and traced a finger down your chest, over your stomach, stopping just above the waistband of your underwear.
"you're beautiful," he'd said, and the words had sounded almost reluctant, like he didn't want to admit it. "you know that, don't you? you know why we both put up with this?"
you'd shaken your head, not trusting your voice.
"because you're ours," higuruma had said from behind you, and his voice was rough, ragged. "or you were supposed to be. and we're going to remind you of that."
you'd felt higuruma move closer, felt his chest press against your back, felt his breath hot on your neck. nanami was still in front of you, still tracing patterns on your skin, and you were trapped between them, surrounded by them, drowning in the smell of both their colognes and the heat of their bodies.
"what—" you'd started, but you couldn't finish, because nanami had leaned in and kissed you.
it wasn't like his usual kisses; those were slow, gentle, almost reverent. this one was hungry. his hand came up to cup the back of your neck, holding you in place, and his tongue pushed into your mouth like he was claiming you, marking you, reminding you who you belonged to.
you'd moaned into his mouth, and behind you, higuruma had made a sound — low and dark and possessive — and then his hands were on your hips, pulling you back against him, and you could feel him hard through his pants.
"kento," you'd gasped when he finally pulled back. "h-hiromi, please—"
"please what?" nanami had asked, and his voice was rough now, not calm at all. "please fuck you? please remind you that you're ours? please make you forget every lie you've ever told?"
"yes," you'd breathed. "yes."
higuruma had turned your head to the side, captured your mouth in a kiss that was nothing like nanami's; this one was all teeth and tongue and need, and when he pulled back you were dizzy, barely able to stand.
"bedroom," higuruma had said, and it wasn't a question.
higuruma’s bedroom was as impressive as the rest of his luxurious apartment — floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the city, a king-sized bed with sheets that probably cost more than your first car, soft lighting that made everything feel hazy and unreal.
you barely had time to take it in before you were being pushed onto the bed, falling back against the pillows, looking up at two very hot men who were both staring at you like you were the last meal they'd ever have.
nanami was unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate, careful movements, the way he did everything. his chest was broad, muscular without being bulky, with a smattering of blond hair that you'd spent hours tracing with your fingers. he caught you looking and raised an eyebrow, and something about the expression on his face made your cock twitch.
higuruma was less patient; the man had already pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his skin stretched over lean muscle, a body that looked like it had been carved out of something harder than flesh. his pants came next, then his boxers, and when he was fully naked you had to remind yourself how to breathe.
you'd seen both of them naked before, of course, many times, but seeing them together, standing side by side, both of them hard and watching you with the same dark intensity...
it was a lot.
"like what you see, baby?" higuruma asked, and there was something almost challenging in his voice. "because we've been looking at you for six months. wondering. imagining what it would be like to have you like this."
"i—"
"take off your underwear," nanami interrupted, and his voice was calm again, a little more controlled, but his eyes were anything but. "slowly."
you did as he said, hooking your thumbs into the waistband and pushing them down your legs; your cock sprang free, already hard, leaking precum onto your stomach, and both of them watched with matching expressions of hunger.
"fuck," higuruma breathed. "look at you, baby. so desperate for it already."
"he's always desperate," nanami said, and there was something almost fond in his voice. "that's one of the things i like about him. he never pretends he doesn't want it."
"i don't," you admitted, your voice shaking. "i want it. i want you. both of you—please."
nanami climbed onto the bed first, settling on his knees just beside you. he reached out and ran his hand down your chest, over your stomach, wrapping his fingers around your cock in a grip that made you gasp.
"you're going to take both of us tonight," he said, stroking you slowly, watching your face. "do you understand what that means, sweetheart?"
you nodded frantically.
"i want to hear you say it."
"i'm going to take both of you," you repeated, and your voice cracked on the last word. "i want to. i want—"
"what do you want?" higuruma asked, climbing onto the bed on your other side.
his huge hand joined nanami's on your cock, and the insane sensation of both of them touching you at once made your hips buck off the bed.
"tell us exactly what you want, baby. use your words."
"i… i want you to fuck me," you gasped. "both of you. at the same time. i want—i want you to ruin me, i want to be so full i can't think, i want you to use me until i can't remember my own name—please."
"that's enough," nanami said, and there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "we'll give you what you want. but we're going to take our time."
higuruma leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, while nanami's hand kept moving on your cock. you were already close, embarrassingly close, but they didn't seem to care; they just kept touching you, kissing you, surrounding you until you couldn't tell where one of them ended and the other began.
"turn over," nanami said eventually, and his voice was soft but firm. "on your hands and knees."
you moved without thinking, rolling onto your stomach and pushing up onto your hands and knees.
you could easily feel both of them behind you now, you could feel the heat of their bodies, you could hear the sounds of them moving — the rustle of sheets, the soft exhale of breath, the wet click of a lube bottle opening — and you had to close your eyes because it was too much.
"so pretty like this," higuruma murmured, and then you felt his hands on your ass, spreading you open.
his thumbs pulled your cheeks apart, and you knew he could see everything — your hole, still slightly pink from earlier in the week, the way it was already clenching around nothing.
"look at this perfect little hole. do you know how many times i've thought about this? about having you like this while someone else watches?"
"or helps," nanami added, and then you felt his finger — wet with lube, cool against your heated skin — press against your entrance, with higuruma still spreading you open
you moaned, pushing back against him, and he slid inside you easily. one finger, then two, stretching you open, and behind you higuruma was watching, breathing hard, his hands still on your ass, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there.
"he's so tight," nanami said, and his voice was strained now, all the calm control slipping away. "even after everything we've done to him, he's still so fucking tight."
"add another," higuruma said, and it wasn't a request.
nanami did, and you cried out at the stretch, at the fullness, at the way both of them were looking at you like you were something precious and filthy all at once.
nanami's fingers curled inside you, searching, and when he found that sweet little spot — the one that made your vision go completely white — you collapsed forward onto your elbows, your whole body shaking.
"there," higuruma said, and his voice was low, almost reverent. "that's it, isn't it? that's the spot that makes him fall apart."
"it is," nanami agreed, and he pressed against it again, harder this time, watching your reaction. "he's so responsive. look at him. he's already crying."
he was right; there were tears on your cheeks, sliding down to drip onto the sheets below. you hadn't even noticed.
"ready?" nanami asked.
you nodded, not trusting your voice.
but it wasn't nanami who pushed into you first.
it was higuruma.
he lined himself up behind you, and you felt the head of his cock — long and thick and so much, too much, exactly enough — press against your stretched hole. he pushed in slowly, so slowly, giving you time to adjust, and you buried your face in the pillows and screamed.
not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming size of him, the way he seemed to go on forever, filling you inch by inch until you were sure he was going to split you open.
"shh," higuruma said, but his voice was shaking. "shh, baby, i've got you. just breathe."
you tried to breathe, but it was really hard when higuruma was inside you, filling you up, reaching deeper than anyone had ever reached before. when he was finally fully seated, his hips flush against your ass, you were trembling, tears already leaking from your eyes in earnest.
"good boy," nanami said softly, and then you felt him move.
he'd positioned himself in front of you, kneeling between your hands and your head, and you looked up at him through tear-blurred eyes; nanami’s huge cock was right there, hard and heavy and already leaking, the head flushed dark, and you understood what he wanted.
"open," he said, and you opened your mouth.
he pushed inside slowly, not as deep as he could have, giving you time to adjust. you had higuruma in your ass and nanami in your mouth, and you were so full, so impossibly full, and you could feel yourself shaking apart at the seams.
"there you go," nanami murmured, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. "just like that. take it."
higuruma started moving first — slow, deep thrusts that pushed you forward onto nanami's cock. nanami groaned, his hips twitching, and then he started moving too, thrusting into your mouth in rhythm with higuruma's thrusts.
in. out. in. out.
you were nothing but a body between them, a place for them to fuck, and somehow it was exactly what you needed. you wanted to be used. wanted to be filled. wanted to forget everything except the feeling of them inside you.
"he's taking us so well," higuruma said, and his voice was completely wrecked, desperate. "look at him. look at how well he's taking us."
nanami looked down at you, and his eyes were dark, almost black, his pupils blown wide.
"he's perfect," he said, and the words were simple but they hit you like a physical blow. "our perfect boy."
you moaned around nanami's cock, and the vibration made him swear, his hips stuttering.
"f-fuck—do that again," he said, and you did, moaning as higuruma hit that sweet spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyes.
"found it," higuruma said, and there was satisfaction in his voice, a dark kind of pleasure. "found that spot, didn't i, baby? that spot that makes you see god?"
you tried to answer, but all that came out was another moan, and nanami's grip on your head tightened.
"keep going," nanami said, and you couldn't tell if he was talking to you or to higuruma. "don't stop."
they didn't stop.
they fucked you like they'd been waiting their whole lives for this moment, like they were trying to make up for six months of not knowing, like they wanted to leave marks on you that would never fade. higuruma's thrusts got harder, faster, and each one pushed you further onto nanami's cock, and you were drooling, crying, making sounds you'd never made before — high-pitched, desperate, almost animal.
"close," you heard yourself say, or maybe you just thought it, because you literally couldn't feel your mouth anymore. "i'm close, i'm gonna—"
"not yet," nanami said, and he pulled out of your mouth, leaving you gasping, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the head of his cock. "you don't come until we tell you to."
you sobbed at the loss, at the denial, at the way your body was screaming for release; but you didn't cum. you held on, because nanami had told you to, because higuruma was still fucking you, because you would do anything they asked.
"turn him over," nanami said, and higuruma simply pulled out, and you whimpered at the sudden emptiness, at the sudden absence of being filled.
they flipped you onto your back with gentle but firm hands, and then nanami was above you, pushing your legs up, spreading you open. he lined himself up — you saw him do it, saw the head of his cock press against your slick, stretched hole — and pushed inside in one smooth movement.
you screamed again because nanami was different from higuruma — he was thicker, not as long, but the stretch was almost too much, a different kind of fullness that made your toes curl and your back arch off the bed.
"fuck," nanami breathed, and his composure was gone now, completely gone. his forehead was beaded with sweat, his jaw tight, and his eyes half-closed. "fuck, you're tight. you're so fucking tight, sweetheart."
"please," you begged. "please, kento, please—"
"higuruma," nanami said, and his voice was commanding despite the way it shook. "get behind him."
you felt the bed shift, you felt higuruma move behind you, you felt him lift your head and shoulders onto his lap, and you were angled now; your hips raised, your hole completely exposed, and nanami was still inside you, still filling you, still stretching you in the most delicious way.
"ready?" higuruma asked, and you felt his cock — slick with lube, thank god, thank every deity that had ever existed — press against your hole alongside nanami's.
"wait—" you started, but it was too late.
they pushed in together.
you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do a damn thing except feel — feel the impossible stretch, the burning fullness, the way they both fit inside you like they'd been made to be there. you were so full you thought you might break, might shatter into a million pieces and never come back together.
"breathe," nanami said, and his voice was strained, shaking, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "breathe, sweetheart. you can take it."
"he's taking it," higuruma said from behind you, and his voice was wonderstruck, almost reverent. "he's actually taking both of us. look at him."
you couldn't look at yourself. actually, you could barely keep your eyes open at all.
but you could feel the way your body was stretched around them, feel the way they were both so deep inside you that you couldn't tell where one of them ended and the other began. you could feel your own heartbeat pulsing around them, feel every inch of them both.
"move," you gasped. "please, please move, i need—"
nanami moved first, pulling out halfway and pushing back in. higuruma followed, and suddenly they were fucking you in tandem, one pulling out while the other pushed in, a rhythm that left you gasping and crying and begging for more.
"so good," nanami groaned, and his forehead was pressed against yours, his eyes locked on your face. "so good for us, sweetheart. our perfect boy."
"ours," higuruma echoed, and his hand came around to grip your hip, holding you in place while he thrust up into you. "you're ours now. no more lies. no more secrets. just us."
"just us," you repeated, and you didn't know if you meant it or if you were just saying words, but it didn't matter.
nothing mattered except the way they were moving inside you, the way they were completely filling you, the way they were taking you apart piece by piece.
you came first — without permission, without warning, your cock spurting onto your stomach as your body clenched around them both. you heard yourself scream, felt them both groan, felt them both thrust deeper as your orgasm ripped through you like a freight train.
"fuck," nanami said, and his voice was wrecked. "fuck, he's clenching around us."
"can't—can't hold on—" higuruma started, but then he was coming too, you could feel it, feel him spilling inside you, hot and thick and so much, filling you even more.
nanami followed a moment later, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself into you, adding to the mess inside you, making you feel impossibly, obscenely full.
and then there was silence.
just the sound of three people breathing, trying to remember how to exist outside of this moment.
you thought it was over.
oh, you were so so so wrong.
nanami pulled out first, and you whimpered at the loss, at the feeling of his cum and higuruma's leaking out of you, dripping down onto the sheets. higuruma pulled out a moment later, and you felt emptier than you'd ever felt in your entire life.
"don't," you started, but you didn't know what you were asking for. don't stop? don't leave? don't make me feel this alone?
"we're not done with you," nanami said, and his voice was soft but certain. "not even close."
he rolled you onto your side, and you felt fingers — whose, you couldn't tell anymore — push back into you, pushing their cum deeper, making you moan and arch your back.
"he's still hard," higuruma said, and there was disbelief in his voice. "look. he's still hard."
you looked down and saw that he was right; your cock was already pathetically filling again, twitching against your stomach, desperate for more despite everything you'd already just been through.
"he's young," nanami said, like that explained everything. "and he wants this. don't you, sweetheart? you want more?"
"y-yes, please," you said, and your voice was hoarse from screaming. "please. more. i can take more."
and oh, they did gave you more.
this time, they properly took turn, thoroughly, like they were trying to see who could make you fall apart faster.
higuruma went first.
he pulled you onto your hands and knees again, and nanami positioned himself in front of you, sitting against the headboard with his legs spread, his cock hard and waiting.
"come here, sweetheart," nanami said, and you crawled toward him on shaky limbs, your body trembling with exhaustion and want. "suck me while he fucks you."
you opened your mouth and took nanami's cock as deep as you could, moaning around him as you felt higuruma line up behind you. this time there was no hesitation — he pushed in in one smooth movement, and you were full again, so full, and you could feel every inch of him as he started to move.
"that's it," higuruma said, his hands gripping your hips, his thrusts deep and slow and deliberate. "take it. take all of it."
nanami's hand was in your hair, not forcing you, just resting there, guiding you gently.
"you're doing so well," he murmured. "so good for us. look at you, taking both of us like you were made for it."
you wanted to say something, to tell them how good it felt, how much you really needed this, but your mouth was so full and your brain was completely melting and all that came out was a desperate, muffled sound.
higuruma fucked you like that for what felt like hours — deep, rolling thrusts that hit that spot every single time, that made you see stars behind your closed eyelids. nanami's cock was heavy on your tongue, and you could taste yourself on him, could taste the salt of his skin, could feel the way his thighs tensed every time you swallowed around him.
"fuck—i'm close," higuruma said, his voice tight. "where do you want it, baby?"
"inside," you gasped, pulling off nanami's cock just long enough to say it. "please, inside, want to feel it—"
higuruma came with a groan that sounded like your name, spilling inside you for the second time that night, and the feeling of him pulsing inside you pushed you over the edge again; you came with a cry, your cock twitching against your stomach, and nanami watched it all with dark, hungry eyes.
"my turn," nanami said, and there was something almost competitive in his voice.
nanami pulled you into his lap, your back against his chest, your legs spread wide over his thighs. he was inside you before you could even catch your breath, his thick cock filling you in a way that made your eyes roll back.
"hold him," nanami said to higuruma, and higuruma moved to kneel in front of you, his hands coming up to cup your face, to tilt your head down so you could see.
"watch," higuruma said softly. "watch him fuck you."
you obediently looked down and saw it — saw nanami's cock disappearing into your ruined hole, saw the way your body stretched around him, saw the mess of cum and lube that coated your thighs. it was obscene. it was perfect.
nanami's hands were on your hips, lifting you up and down on his cock, using you like a toy.
"you feel that, sweetheart?" nanamo asked, his mouth against your ear, his breath hot. "you feel how deep i am, hm? you're never going to forget this. never going to forget what it feels like to have both of us."
"n-never," you agreed, because it was true.
you could feel him in your throat, in your fingertips, in the way your heart was pounding.
higuruma leaned forward and kissed you while nanami fucked you, slow and deep and filthy. his tongue slid against yours, and you could taste yourself on him, too — or maybe that was just the air, thick with the smell of sex and sweat and three bodies tangled together.
nanami's thrusts got faster, harder, and you broke the kiss to bury your face in higuruma's shoulder, to sob against his skin as nanami hit your sweet spot over and over and over again.
"come for him," higuruma murmured against your hair. "come for him, baby. you can do it."
you came again — a dry, shaking orgasm that left you gasping, your body convulsing in nanami's arms. nanami followed right after, his hips stuttering as he filled you for the third time, adding to the mess inside you.
"good boy," nanami said, kissing your shoulder, your neck, the spot behind your ear. "such a good boy."
you thought maybe that was it.
yeah, maybe they'd finally had enough of you.
but holy shit, when nanami pulled out and softly laid you down on the bed, higuruma was already moving between your legs, his cock hard again, his eyes dark.
"again," he said, and it wasn't a question.
"again," nanami agreed, and damn, he was hard too, already reaching for the lube.
you should have been scared, you should have been exhausted, and you were exhausted — but your body was still on fire, still hungry, still desperate for more.
"please," you heard yourself say. "please, i need—"
"we know what you need," nanami said, and then they were both inside you again, and you couldn't think, couldn't even breathe, couldn't do anything except feel, once again.
they fucked you together for a third time — and then a fourth.
each time was always different; sometimes they moved in tandem, one pulling out as the other pushed in, a rhythm that left you completely gasping. sometimes they moved together, both thrusting at the same time, stretching you so wide you were sure you'd never be the same. sometimes they stopped moving entirely, just stayed buried deep inside you, letting you feel how full you were, how completely owned.
"look at you," higuruma said during one of those pauses, his hand tracing down your chest, your stomach, stopping just above where they were both buried inside you. "look at how well you're taking us, baby."
you couldn't look, after all, you could barely keep your eyes open, but you could feel — feel the way your body had adjusted to them, the way your hole was stretched and slick and completely ruined.
"he's crying again," nanami observed, and his voice was soft, almost gentle. "are you okay, sweetheart?"
you nodded, even though you weren't sure if it was true. you were more than okay. you were something else entirely — something that didn't have words.
"he's so pretty when he cries," higuruma said, and he leaned down to sweetly kiss the tears off your cheeks. "so so pretty. our pretty boy."
"yours," you dumbly agreed, because you really couldn't say anything else. "yours, yours, yours."
they took turns again after that.
higuruma fucked you while nanami watched, his hand on your cock, stroking you in time with higuruma's thrusts. you came again — you'd lost count by now — and higuruma followed right after, spilling inside you for god knows how much time.
then nanami fucked you while higuruma held you, your back against his chest, his hands pinching your nipples, his mouth whispering filthy things in your ear. you came again, a weak, shaking orgasm that left you sobbing, and nanami came inside you with a groan that sounded like your name.
then they both fucked you again, together, and you lost count of how many times you came. lost track of time. lost track of everything except the feeling of being filled, used, loved.
at some point, the tears stopped being just from pleasure.
they started being from something else entirely — something that felt more like release, like forgiveness, like being seen for the first time in your life.
you'd spent six months lying to these men. six months sneaking around, splitting your time, convincing yourself that you weren't doing anything wrong because they were both giving you what you needed. but they'd been giving you more than that; they'd been giving you pieces of themselves — their time, their attention, their bodies, their hearts.
and you'd been too scared to give them the same.
"i'm sorry," you sobbed, and you didn't even know which one of them you were talking to. "i'm so so so sorry, i should have told you, i should have —"
"shh," nanami said, and he was inside you again — or maybe he'd never left, you couldn't tell anymore — and his voice was so gentle, softer than you'd ever heard it. "shh, baby. it's okay. we're not angry."
"we're not," higuruma agreed, and his hand was on your cheek, wiping away tears. "we were, at first. but not anymore."
"why not?" you asked, because you didn't understand.
you'd lied to them, betrayed their trust, done exactly what they'd been afraid of.
"because you're here, sweetheart," nanami said simply. "because you let us do this. because you could have run, but you didn't. you stayed."
"and because we love you," higuruma added, and the words hung in the air, heavy and real. "both of us. we love you, even though you're an idiot."
you laughed at that — a wet, broken sound that turned into another sob.
"i love you too," you said. "both of you. i didn't—i didn't know how to choose."
"you don't have to choose," nanami said. "that's what we're trying to tell you."
they fucked you one more time after that — slow this time, gentle, like they were trying to prove something to you.
nanami was deep inside you while higuruma was deep in your mouth, and you could feel both of them getting close, could feel your own orgasm building again even though you didn't think you had anything left.
"together," nanami said, and his voice was strained.
you came together, the three of you, and it felt like something breaking and something healing all at once.
to be honest, you don't remember much after that.
there are flashes — nanami carrying you to the bathroom, the warm water of the shower, gentle hands washing you clean. higuruma's voice, low and soothing, telling you that you did so well, that you're so good, that they're so proud of you.
you remember being laid down on fresh sheets — when did they even change the sheets? — and covered with a blanket that smells like both of them. you remember nanami pressing a glass of water to your lips, making you drink, making you eat small bites of something sweet. you remember higuruma brushing your hair back from your forehead, his touch so gentle it made you want to cry all over again.
and then you remember waking up.
you're in the middle of higuruma’s bed, sandwiched between two warm bodies.
nanami is the one on your left; his arm draped across your chest, his face pressed into your shoulder. his breathing is slow and even, and even in sleep he looks like he's thinking about something — his brow is slightly furrowed, his lips pressed together. higuruma is the one on your right; his hand on your hip, his forehead against your temple. he's snoring, just a little, a soft sound that you've never heard before because you've never stayed the night.
they're both asleep.
you lie there for a long time, just breathing, just feeling; your body aches in ways you didn't know it could ache — your hole is sore, your thighs are bruised, your throat is raw, and there's a dull throb in your lower back that you're pretty sure is going to hurt like hell tomorrow.
but underneath the pain, there's something else; something that feels like peace.
nanami stirs first, his eyes fluttering open. he looks at you for a moment, and then he smiles — a real smile, small and soft and so full of love that it makes your chest hurt.
"how are you feeling?" he asks, his voice rough with sleep.
"sore," you admit. "but good. really, really good."
"good," he says, and he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "you were amazing last night. i've never seen anything like that."
"neither have i," higuruma mumbles from your other side, and you realize he's awake too. his hand squeezes your hip, and he shifts closer, pressing his chest against your back. "you're fucking incredible, you know that?"
you blush, hiding your face in the pillow.
"you guys are just saying that because you came inside me like… five times."
"six," nanami corrects, and there's something like amusement in his voice. "i counted."
"i counted seven," higuruma says. "but i lost track at the end."
you groan, and they both laugh — real laughs, warm and genuine, and the sound of them laughing together makes something loosen in your chest.
"we need to talk," nanami says eventually, and his voice is softly serious again. "about what happens now."
your body slowly tense, but higuruma's hand rubs circles on your hip, soothing you.
"not like that," higuruma says. "we're not going anywhere. we just need to figure out... logistics."
"logistics," you repeat, and you can't help but laugh. "you want to talk about logistics? right now? when i can barely walk?"
"i'll carry you," nanami says simply. "if you need me to. but yes, we need to talk about logistics. because i'm not sharing you if it means i only get to see you twice a week."
"neither am i," higuruma agrees. "so we need to figure out a schedule. or..."
"or?" you ask.
nanami and higuruma look at each other, and something passes between them, some silent communication you're not privy to — a raised eyebrow, a slight nod, an understanding that seems to happen without words.
"or," nanami says slowly. "we could stop pretending this is casual. stop pretending we're just sugar daddies and you're just a sugar baby. and try... something else."
"what kind of something else?"
higuruma takes a deep breath.
"the kind where you move in with us. where we take care of you together. where you don't have to choose because you don't have to choose. you can have both of us, if you want. if we can figure out how to make it work."
you stare at him, then at nanami, then back at higuruma.
"you're serious?" you say.
"i've never been more serious about anything in my life," nanami says, and his voice is quiet but fierce. "i've spent six months falling in love with you. and last night, watching you with him... i realized that loving you doesn't mean i have to keep you to myself. it means i want you to be happy. and if being with both of us makes you happy..."
"it does," you say quickly. "god, it really does. but are you sure? like, both of you? because this is—this is insane. you barely know each other."
"we know each other well enough," higuruma says, and there's something almost sheepish in his voice. "we talked. while you were asleep. for like, three hours."
"you talked about me for three hours?"
"we talked about us," nanami corrects. "about what we want. about what we're willing to try. and we both agree that you're worth it. that this is worth it."
you don't know what to say. your eyes are stinging again, but this time it's not from pleasure or pain or overwhelm; it's from something else, something that feels like relief.
"okay," you say, your voice barely a whisper. "okay. let's try."
nanami kisses you first — soft, sweet, and full of promise. then higuruma kisses you too, deeper, slower, like he's trying to memorize the taste of you. and then they both kiss you, and it's clumsy and awkward and perfect, and you laugh against their mouths because you can't help it.
"one more thing," higuruma says when you break apart. "no more secrets. no more lies. if something's wrong, you tell us. if you need something, you ask. and if you want something—"
"i'll tell you," you finish. "i promise. no more secrets."
"good," nanami says, and he pulls you closer to him, tucking you against his chest. "because i don't think my heart can take any more surprises."
"my heart either," higuruma agrees, pressing against your back. "you're going to be the death of us, you know that?"
"but what a way to go," nanami murmurs, and you can hear the soft smile in his voice.
you close your eyes, surrounded by warmth, by love, by two men who are completely and utterly obsessed with you.
and for the very first time in six months, you don't feel guilty about it at all; you feel home.
bonus — three months later.
the apartment is ridiculous.
it's a penthouse — bigger than both of their previous places combined — with three bedrooms (one for each of you, though you've never slept in yours), a kitchen that looks like it belongs in a magazine, and a view of the city that still makes you catch your breath every time you look out the window.
nanami is in the kitchen, making breakfast; he's wearing an apron over his dress shirt — he has a meeting later, something about investments and portfolios and words that go in one ear and out the other — and he's humming something under his breath, his movements precise and efficient.
higuruma is on the couch, reading a case file, his reading glasses perched on his nose; he looks exhausted — he was in court until late last night — but there's a small smile on his face when he looks up and catches you watching him.
"stop staring," he says, but his voice is fond.
"can't help it," you say, stretching out on the couch with your head in his lap. "you're pretty."
higuruma snorts. "i'm pretty?"
"very pretty. the prettiest."
"what am i?" nanami calls from the kitchen, and there's amusement in his voice. "chopped liver?"
"you're handsome," you correct. "there's a difference."
"is there?"
"definitely. higuruma is pretty, you're handsome, and i'm adorable. we all have our roles."
higuruma laughs, and the sound makes your chest warm.
"adorable," he repeats. "that's one word for it."
"what other words would you use?"
"insatiable," higuruma says. "exhausting. the reason i can't walk straight half the time."
"you love it."
"i do," he admits, and he leans down to kiss your forehead. "i really, really do."
nanami comes over with three plates — eggs and toast and fruit, arranged perfectly, because he's nanami kento and he literally can't help himself.
he hands one to higuruma, one to you, and keeps one for himself, settling into the armchair across from the couch.
"what are your plans today?" he asks, and the question is casual but you know what he's really asking; are you free? can we spend time together? will you be here when i get home?
"nothing," you say. "i thought i'd stay here. maybe do some laundry. maybe take a nap. maybe wait for both of you to come home so we can—"
"don't," higuruma says, but he's smiling. "don't start. i have to go back to court in an hour."
"so?"
"so, i can't show up with a boner."
nanami chokes on his toast, and you and higuruma both laugh, and the sound fills the apartment like sunlight.
this is your life now.
two men, one immense apartment, no secrets, no lies; just love, in all its messy, complicated, beautiful glory.
This is gonna sound weird but this has been in my mind for a while. What if reader has a musk kink and the boys from Taskforce 141 caught them sniffing their clothes. What would they do. Would they indulge or would they push them away?
cw: musk kink, smut
It started with a lost bet to Johnny which ended up with you having to do his laundry for the week and as you found yourself rummaging through the basket and sorting them by colour, something caught your eye. It was one of his neon colored t-shirts with the sleeves cut off into a makeshift tank top that he wore when working out. You recognized this one from just this morning and the image of Johnny's muscles bulging under the weights comes to your mind, bringing the piece of clothing to your nose and inhaling deeply. The leathery sweet smell making your eyes roll in pleasure. If you used his tank top for personal recreation, Johnny didn't need to know about it.
From then on you started going through their laundry and stealing the best smelling pieces. The freshest ones were the best, the material still warm from where it clung to their bodies. They didn't seem to notice anything in the begining so you got bolder over time, Gaz's boxers that he took off just a few minutes ago to get in the shower were your most prized possesion. Perhaps you've gotten a bit too greedy when you went for one of Ghost's masks, but you just couldn't help yourself.
When the door of your room suddenly flies open, an irritated expression on Ghost's face, the other three coming to see the commotion, you feel like a deer in headlights. While stammering all the excuses and apologies you could come up with, you fail to notice the way his lips curl into a mean smile. As he gets closer to your bed, he starts unzipping his pants, his groin only a few centimeters away from your face and the first whiffs of the woody and slightly salty smell makes your mouth water.
"Now if you're so sorry, how about giving a proper apology?"
Not a moment later you dig right in, licking and sucking around, not even embarassed by Soap's and Gaz's presence, a hungry look in their eyes. Ghost keeps a firm hand on the back of your head, pulling hard on your hair when he thinks you're getting a little too greedy.
From then on they completely indulge you, getting more physically affectionate, pulling you into their bodies after a day training recruits, slightly amused at the blissed out expression on your face. After that you start rewearing their clothes openly at their encouragement. It starts with Gaz lending you his t-shirt from the night before, bringing the collar to your face and lightly sucking on it, rotating their clothes through the week, Ghost's balaclava always a special treat. Usually one of them sleeps next you so the morning finds you nuzzling into Gaz's curls or Johnny's mohawk, feeling their smell cling to you the rest of the day.
Price uses it as a reward system for when you do good on a mission. Burly arms dusted with dark hairs take your head as he shoves your face into his hairy armpit, skin damp from him working in the sun, the smell hitting you in an instant. Melting under his arm you start rubbing against his skin and licking all over. A chuckle escapes the captain's lips seeing you so eager, wondering if he should give Nik a call so he could join in, he has a feeling that you might like the idea.
SUBTOP READER WITH ARTHUR MORGAN IM ON MY KNEES … like, reader who 6’4 type beat (arthur’s 6’1 !!) and younger than arthur by a few years. reader could be characterized as a playboy dare i say … anyway arthur wants to squeeze his brains out, but he does #WANTTHAT crumbl Cookie. they have very cat and mouse relationship (arthur wants him dead … or does he …)
i’m thinking arthur shows up at unsuspecting readers little cabin, rides him like a #real cowboy would 🙏🏼🙏🏼 but is so soooo disrespectful with it … literally forcing his way in, disses reader’s dead mom (SLASH JAYSLASHJAY), and then pushes reader back to sit on his little couch. need it sloppy like a joe … overuse of lube question mark. and overall, arthur enjoying it a little too much. playboy!reader finally being at a loss for words and just looking up at arthur with the most babydoll eyes ever. oh em gee reader whimpering and moaning anime girl style and arthur keeps telling him to shut up 🙁
— 🍈 anon* excuse any mistakes, Gorjus …
I believe this is the one who wanted me to replace Arthur with Dutch (?) if I'm wrong correct me, I'm a little slow 😔. Also I didn't really know how to incorporate the playboy part so it's probably not exactly what you wanted...
Cw; Porn with a little bit of plot (just for you because you complimented me and I low-key needed that 😼), riding, sub top reader, sadism, crying kink(brief), somewhat proofread
Dutch looked up after igniting his pipe, smoke curling out of his nostrils at the sight of you approaching. “What is it now, boy?”
“Just wanted to see if Mr. Boss man was gonna get his ass to work for once. Leaving in the heavy lifting to us because your poor little muscles can't handle it.” You tease, leaning over slightly and casting a shadow over him just to speak down to him.
“Who the hell you think you're talking to.” Dutch scoffed, taking the pipe out of his mouth. “You would have been left rotting on that damned farm if it weren't for me. Show me some god-damn respect.” He growled, stepping forward.
You took a step back as his chest bumped just under yours. “I could've just as easily lived without you and your group of nobodies, you fucking coward!” You defended, jabbing him in the chest.
Dutch grabbed your arm and twisted it, making your knees buckle slightly as it was pulled so you were level with him. “These nobodies are the only reason you're still alive. I could've fucking gutted you after stealing from your half broken little home. Behave, boy.” He sneered, shoving you away. “Clean Micah's horse. It's covered in shit and beer.”
You clutched at your arm and backed up like a wounded puppy. “Fine— I'll clean the sorry bastards horse!”
Baylock was a nightmare to clean, covered in cow manure and alcohol from a mission failed due to Micah's carelessness. It took until the sun began to set to get the knots and mats out of his hair. Especially since Baylock kept running from the water you were trying to dump on him.
Exhausted and stressed, you decided to rent a hotel room in Valentine as a bedroll infested with bugs didn't seem like a good option at the moment.
As you were resting up in your hotel room, you hear a knock. Thinking it was one of the prostitutes; you eagerly open the door. But instead of a handsome hunk you're greeted by Dutch, a tired, grumpy man.
“Did I fucking tell you you could leave camp?” He sneered, shoving you out of the doorway to get passed you and into the room. “You still got shit to do.” He shoved you again, this time onto the bed.
Dutch grabbed your throat, restraining himself to a light squeeze rather than the strangling grasp he oh so wanted. “You're making it harder and harder to deal with your sorry ass. Constantly leaving when you have shit to do just to what? Fuck some hopeless sack of shit behind the bar?” He squeezed a little tighter.
“I've given you so many damn chances, Y/N.” Dutch paused as you grasped his wrist and looked up at him with big eyes full of fear. It...turned him on a little. A playboy reduced to a cowering deer in his hold.
Dutch stared into your eyes for a moment before crashing his lips into yours. You grunted in surprise, your hands flailing before finally finding purchase gripping his hair and shoulder.
Your shock soon completely melted away as Dutch shoved his tongue into your mouth, tasing of smoke. You groaned, your tongue sliding and tangling with his.
“Dutch—”
“Shut it, boy. Lay down properly and hold still.” He ordered which you quickly followed, laying down flat on your back in the middle of the bed. Dutch quickly straddled you, leaning in to latch onto your neck.
“You gonna behave, Cowboy?” Dutch rasped, biting into the sensitive flesh of your your neck. You squirmed beneath him, panting heavily.
“Y— mmphff! Fuck, yes..Yes, I'll behave f'you.” You stuttered out, your words slurred.
“Good boy.” The words made you whine, mindlessly bucking your hips. Dutch quickly removed your shirt, harshly biting down on your collar bone before licking the sting with his hot, wet tongue. You clenched your jaw, trying not to let your noises slip— the sounds would only boost Dutch's ego after all.
Dutch harshly grinded against your crotch, his ass rubbing against your clothed, aching dick. Your back arched and you let out a low whine at the sudden friction, unable to help yourself anymore.
“Fuckin' hell, boy. Hard as a damn rock already. How fucking pathetic.” Dutch sneered, promoting you to whimper. “Just a dirty fucking cowboy, ain't cha?” Dutch groaned as he grinded down on your cock in tiny circles.
His hands trailed along your stomach and to the waistband of your pants which were hurriedly shoved down along with your underwear. Dutch eyes your cock like its a mountain of gold, practically salivating.
“Fuck, L/N. I need this inside me.” He opened the drawer beside the nightstand. Surely a hotel with prostitutes would have some kind of lube? And sure enough, it did.
He dumped the whole bottle on your dick, to hurried to give a damn about how much he was supposed to use. You squirmed as the cold liquid coated your shaft, oozed onto your balls, and splattered against your pelvis.
Dutch grabbed you dick, squeezing it harshly and furiously pumping it up and down to spread the oil all over your shaft (not that it really needed to be spread, it was all over you). You let out a loud whine which was quickly muffled by Dutch slamming his hand over your mouth.
“Shut up, L/N!” He sneered, remembering they were in a hotel.
Dutch removed his hands from you to quickly strip himself down. He couldn't give a fuckless about prep— he just needed that dick.
He angled your dick up and slammed down, the mass amounts of lube making the whole thing slip inside him. He covered his mouth and tossed his head back, his cock already spurting a strings of cum.
You tried to take the moment to seize control but with Dutch's walls so tightly clamped around your throbbing dick it was hard to do anything but cry out.
“Didn't I tell you to shut the hell up, boy?” Dutch growled after coming down from his high, shoving your face into the pillow. He panted for a second, still trying to adjust to the size plummeted inside him.
After a few moments of heavy breathing— he finally moved. His velvety walls felt heavenly as they slid along up your cock before smothering it once more when he slammed down.
You let out a mewl as Dutch began a frantic pace, his ass slamming down against your groin over and over again.
“Damnit, boy. You want us caught? Shu— nghh...Shut the fuck up.” Dutch ended up gagging you with his underwear, tired of your echoing noises.
Dutch's frantic pace only grew sloppier and sloppier, his pace slightly sluggish as his thighs started to burn. “Fuck...Making me feel so damn good.” He groaned to himself.
His hole fluttered around your poor cock which caused tears to well in your eyes. You looked at him with those wet and bleary eyes, silently begging him to let you cum as you slobbered into his underwear.
“Fuck, you wanna cum, huh? You wanna stuff me full?” Dutch's face contorted into pleasure as he grew impossibly close. “Cum inside me, cowboy.” He ordered.
You didn't need to be told twice as you screamed into your makeshift gag, your cock instantly erupting inside him and stuffing him to the brim with your hot semen.
“F-fuck!” Dutch came just after you, painting both your abdomens a second time.
You spat the gag out, panting heavily. Dutch rested his hands on your chest to support himself, trying to catch his breath.
When you finally stopped breathing so hard you managed to murmur a; “Round two?”
I'm imagining if Arthur had been allowed to live a gentler life, one without so much grief and violence.
Like how John got a few beautiful years of living on a farm with his family, what if Arthur got that too?
Something something Arthur Morgan being turned into a cuddly bastard.
You laid on that old bed, the one with the frame that Arthur built by hand. Under a quilt that was worn by years and years of being Arthur’s favorite.
Then like an oversized teddy bear, Arthur was cuddled up behind you. His face shoved against the nape of your neck because he wanted every breath to be filled with you. His hands that were still rough from labor having messed with your sleepwear so his palms can be warmed against your abdomen.
If you were to wake and try to move, he'd blearly blink and try to shift closer again. Muttering sleepily and incoherently because for once in his life, he didn't have to wake with a jolt.
If you had to go to the bathroom, he'd huff and sit up. Trying to stay awake while you took your time, his hands messing with some of the stitches on the blanket.
When you finally return he's cuddled up with you again, wanting a kiss before eventually falling asleep. Deep, deep sleep. Without worry that he will have someone kill him in his sleep, because he knows he's safe with you.
When the morning eventually comes, he'll steal a kiss or two. Slowly getting ready and asking your opinion on what he should wear. Eventually heading out to fix a fence or tend to the animals. He much prefers that then the constant fire fights of before. Now that he isn't worrying for his life, he gets to indulge in his hobbies and interests more.
He's doodle cows and goats under the shade of a tree instead of praying that these bullets don't hit him. He's cooing at his horse and feeding them treats instead of looting dead bodies in hopes of supplies. He's picking flowers and berries to bring home to you instead of shoving every single plant into his mouth in hopes of soothing his hungry belly.
It's around 3pm when he comes back inside, enjoying a nap as the sun comes through the curtains. Eventually being woken up by you so he can help prepare supper. Not that he would complain, he loves the time to listen to you talk.
Though, you will have to stay vigilant because he's either sneaking tastes of the meal or trying to pull you in for a kiss. When dinner eventually is finished, he is pretty quiet as he eats. Enjoying the comfort silence and the food, thinking about how lucky he is or what projects he wants to do.
Then, before bed, he hums songs he remembers from Dutch's gramophone. Trying to convince you to dance with him so he can kiss at your neck and hold you close.
The night usually goes into two directions after that. Either you two end up in the bedroom because Arthur needs to remind himself of every inch of bare skin you have. Or, he's cuddled up to you in the living room, winding down and reading as his head rests against your shoulder.
Then, of course the cycle repeats. Arthur gets to wake up the next day and enjoy it. Maybe he'll fish or maybe he'll go on a ride, but at least he always knows he'll come home somewhere safe. Somewhere with tasty meals and a warm bed. Most importantly, he knows he'll have you waiting for him.
