[sacredsorceress]

NAVIGATION

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ cassie - 24 - she/her - morally ambiguous man enjoyer - big fan of the oxford comma - i have a lot of drafts ⊹ ࣪ ˖𓂃

come chat ⋮ archive ⋮ wattpad

MY WRITING MASTERLISTS .ᐟ

𖥻 MCU

0.1 logan howlett 0.2 bob reynolds 0.3 bucky barnes

0.4 druig 0.5 matt murdock 0.6 xu shang-chi

0.7 peter parker 0.8 jack russell

𖥻 DCU

0.1 adrian chase 0.2 clark kent 0.3 jason todd

0.4 bruce wayne 0.5 jimmy olsen

REC LISTS .ᐟ

0.1 jason todd 0.2 dick grayson 0.3 bruce wayne

©sacredsorceress

[twentytomidnight]

find your way home

Guy Gardner/Reader, 4.2K

a/n: a request that I very much enjoyed the challenge of a dynamic I haven’t captured yet. Hope you enjoy too! :)

cw: toxic exes/dynamic, unresolved unresolved sexual tension, harassment, groping, unwanted advances (Lobo), gn!reader

masterlist ao3 rules for requests

PREVIEW:

“I could say the same for you, big boy.” You return, secretly enjoying the way his eyes alight with ill intent at your nickname.  “Yeah—but that’s the difference between me and you, huh?” He doesn’t cross that line in the sand, but it feels like something is stringing back tightly, threatening to snap the longer he remains in your room. In your space, in front of you, flaunting himself like this—daring you to do something about it.  You squint dubiously. “You want to run that one by me?” “I ain’t goin’ out to have some fucker sniff around private property, baby.” At the phrase ‘private property,’ which is already inspiring a reaction you are desperate to keep from him cluing into, his hand drifts up your wrist, thumb brushing your pulse already accelerating into overdrive.  tl;dr: it’s not over even when you say it’s over. Guy Gardner/Reader

You’ve been broken up three days when Beatriz and Tora invite you out, and you find yourself agreeing more readily than you expected. You’re in the process of moving your stuff out of the shared quarters you and Guy had, lugging a few years worth of wadded clothes, half-used toiletries, crumpled magazines—everything that was a part of the lifetime that the two of you had set up between each other, now piecemeal as you try to rearrange the pieces. 

“You could use the distraction,” Tora reassures you, putting a steadying hand to your forearm. “I mean, you’ve been packing up everything for the last three days.” 

“And my back could use the break,” Bea grunts as she hefts down another box onto the untouched mattress, devoid of covers and sheets that are still hastily folded up somewhere. The long look that you give the bed, blank of any personality, any touch of homeliness, makes you swallow thickly. 

“Hey,” Bea says, distracting you from your ruminations, “It sucks now. But give it some time—and a few drinks. What do you say?” 

You look away from the boxes helter-skelter over the empty room, waiting for you to turn it back into a home again. When you turn back to Bea and Tora, both steadfastly awaiting your decision, your mind is already made up. 

“Sure,” you agree with a grimace. “I don’t want to remember this night at all.” 

So you get gussied up, finding something especially risqué for the night. Sure, it exposes the same amount of skin that you would’ve had before. But there’s something about the fact that you’re untethered to anyone now, unattached, that makes it feel so much more suggestive. 

You cast a quick glance to yourself in the mirror, satisfied with the way you’ve done your hair, taking a moment to admire the fit for the night. Then, another moment to stare down at the small roller in your hands—if it was purchased by the person that you’re moving across the hall from, you are not sparing it a second thought. 

It’s a quiet moment of unscrewing the cap, trying not to let the ideas corkscrewing around your brain really take root, before you look back up to your reflection. 

It takes all of your training not to start at the appearance of a familiar face in the mirror behind you, manifested in the doorway. 

“Heard you’re going out tonight.” Guy asserts with his presence, his shoulder propped into the door frame, cool and casual. But you know better—there’s something dangerous in the way he’s composed himself. 

“Who told you that?” You ask, turning back to your ministrations, dabbing the pad to your wrists. You watch through the mirror’s reflection as he slinks into the room, openly appraising what little work you’ve done. Wrinkling up his nose at what he sees, as though it’s left a bad taste in his mouth, before his eyes zero back in on you. 

“I got ears everywhere, honey.” He returns unhurriedly, taking a second to peruse the choice of two pairs of shoes you’re torn between, from where they lie on the floor. “I’d go with the black ones if I was you, babe.” 

“Thanks for the input.” You grin—it’s just like him to offer his two cents even after everything that’s gone down. “And I’m just going to get some drinks and have a good time.” 

He rubs his jaw, turning away from the footwear back to you; you meet his eyes in the mirror, valiantly ignoring the shudder of heat that rocks up your spine. The quiet longing you feel as you recognize the overt want in his. 

“You know where you’re goin’?” Guy asks, nearing you; his voice is back to that affectedly casual tone once more. 

“Not yet—”—You shrug, making a few swipes to your neck and collarbone with the roller. “But that’s part of the adventure, isn’t it?” 

“You better be careful, lookin’ like that out there.” He informs you, drawing up sidelong so that there’s no ignoring him now. He’s laid back as he continues, drinking in the view of you openly. “Don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

“And what’s the wrong idea, Guy?” You ask in a deadpan as you twist the lid back on. Curious, he reaches for it to get a better gander, and you let him take it from you. As if you could deny him the privilege of the smug smirk that crosses his face, as he recognizes who purchased it for you. 

He returns, holding up the glass to the light, “Lettin’ anyone think that they got a chance with you when I’m still in the picture.” 

You pointedly take back the roller from his upturned palm, giving him a dry smile. “I don’t think that’s how this is supposed to work.”

He chuckles, as if he knows something you don’t. “You can say whatever you want, honey—”—at this, he and his reflection move as one to come close enough to have access to any inch of you he wants—“—But you know you ain’t never forgettin’ this.”

Now is not the time to give in to the base instincts that demand you cross the rubicon, grab him into your arms, kiss that gloating expression right off of him. So you opt for the only response you can think of, crossing your arms. 

“I could say the same for you, big boy.” You return, secretly enjoying the way his eyes alight with ill intent at your nickname. 

“Yeah—but that’s the difference between me and you, huh?” He doesn’t cross that line in the sand, but it feels like something is stringing back tightly, threatening to snap the longer he remains in your room. In your space, in front of you, flaunting himself like this—daring you to do something about it. 

You squint dubiously. “You want to run that one by me?”

“I ain’t goin’ out to have some fucker sniff around private property, baby.” At the phrase ‘private property,’ which is already inspiring a reaction you are desperate to keep from him cluing into, his hand drifts up your wrist, thumb brushing your pulse already accelerating into overdrive. 

“I got higher standards than that.” He tacks on for good measure, in a manner that seems to say ‘so fucking there.’

“You’ve got an interesting line of thinking, Guy.” You say, and you mentally applaud yourself for the fact that your voice doesn’t waver, though you feel like your legs might start to soon. 

“Hey—”—he holds up his hands, not quite conceding defeat in the battle, because to him, this is no loss, only a tactical maneuver on his part—“—You wanna go ahead an’ see reason, you know where to find me, honey. I’m in our room.”

His point made, he begins to make for the door. You send back his way, “It’s your room again, Guy.”

“Yeah?” He asks, not even turning back to you, confidence rolling off his shoulders as he leaves. “Let’s see how long that lasts, huh?” 

You’ve been broken up for two weeks when things get testy. 

Nothing happened on the night out of course, other than a swelteringly bad hangover the next day. Maddeningly enough, the first person to visit was your across-the-hall neighbor, who of course hadn’t had the house training to even knock first. 

“Have a good time?” Guy asked, sickeningly sweet as he invaded your privacy, looming over you. 

“Are all four of my limbs still attached?” You groaned weakly from the bed, caught in a tangle of sheets. He had the prudence of mind to lift up a corner and take a lingering look to check on your behalf. The most you could do was softly bat away his roaming hand.

“Still looks mighty fine to me,” he returned glibly. “Get lucky last night?” 

His open interrogation was expected, of course, though you would have assumed he would go to shake down your drinking buddies first. Nope—apparently he’s going straight to the source. 

“‘Course not.” You muttered back, tossing an arm over your eyes. “I just wanted to get wasted—not fuck around.” 

“That’s what I thought,” he sniffed as he slid a chair toward your bedside, as though it was your final confessional. It was then you noticed the plastic bag in his other hand, a mouthwatering smell wafting from it. “Can’t get a taste ‘a someone else after you had me, huh?”

He eased back into the chair, propping his legs up on the part of the mattress where you weren’t convalescing. 

“Don’t you already know the answer to that?” You asked him quietly, still refusing to remove your arm from over your eyes—it felt better if the confession was made without looking at him. 

“Sure—”—he’s gleeful now, the motherfucker—“—But I like hearin’ you say it, baby.” 

You heard the crinkle of plastic and lifted your arm to look at the bag held out your way. 

“Broughtcha somethin’ from that takeout place down the street,” he informed you, in a tone that made it clear just how great a service he had done for you, “Thought you might need it while you die over here.”

Your favorite place, of course he would remember—you reached out for it, adjusting for the weight as it changed to your hands. 

“Thank you,” you mumbled. 

“Sure,” he replied, “I got a few ways you can thank me for it.” 

You couldn’t resist the weak laugh that came out of you. 

Of course, that’s not the only time you’ve interacted since—he still saunters in and out of your room whenever the whim suits him. Still maintains that proprietorial touch over you whenever you’re in arm’s reach. Watches you with his eyes when you’re across the room—much as he’s watching you now, as J’onn dictates the team division for the plan at hand. 

When you get paired up with Ted, you clock as his eyes narrow, a jealous look on his face as the two of you stride from the room. 

The instructions are simple enough—while the rest of the team watches from the sandy beach the Bug is shored up on, you and Ted will go in this experimental shuttle that he's been itching for someone to try out. Ted built the tech, but you have the best aim—so off you both trot. 

And it goes swimmingly, until it doesn’t. The blaster fire from the shuttle rocks the two of you around with every ricochet, suspended in the sky. It seems to you like the water is getting closer and closer with every shot you take. All the while, Ted flips switches and makes notes as you reload and point the crosshairs at something watery in the distance. 

“Okay,” Ted instructs you, looking about the circuitry warily, “Try it again.” 

“Aye aye,” you reply, and take another shot that makes the whole shuttle quiver in the air—and then there’s the sound of something bottoming out. You both share a significant look with each other. 

“What was that?” You ask calmly. 

“The noise of progress,” Ted cheerily informs you. “Uh, I would hold onto something tight.” 

That’s all you can think to obey as the two of you plummet the forty feet back to the ground, a stomach-clenching, nauseating plunge. When you both hit and break the surface of the water, lurching back up thanks to the emergency buoyancy contingency, something threatens to come back up as the two of you are thrown about. 

“Can I redeem my frequent flyer miles yet?” You moan, once the vehicle stabilizes. You rub the back of your neck as Ted fumbles for a latch at the top of the shuttle. 

“Sure,” he promises, “I’ll throw in a free lunch while I’m at it. Come on—”

There’s a hiss of air as the door to the top swings free and the two of you clamber out—the beach seems so far away, but the water’s fine. You slide in with a splash as Ted follows suit, treading water as he checks the integrity of the hull. 

“Anyone coming yet?” Ted asks, turning over his shoulder to the beach where the rest of the team surely must have borne witness to your crash. You look—there’s a bright flash of yellow light in the sky, drawing close enough you don’t notice the green one in hot pursuit after it. 

“Looks so,” you say, waving up to Booster, who is already descending to the water. 

“How’re you two kids holding up?” He shouts down as he holds out an outstretched hand to you. 

“Just a little rattled.” You yell back, reaching out to him. “Thanks for the—”

Whatever you plan to finish saying is abruptly interrupted by the fact that Booster is nearly bowled over by what seems to be a near-instantaneous apparition of Guy, a near-murderous look in his eye as he comes within inches of his teammate. 

“Watch it, buster—”—Guy roughly grouses, as though it’s Booster who’s committed the faux pas instead of him, nudging (though nudging is not quite the word to describe the near shove he gives)—“—I got it handled now.” 

Part of you wants to sink into the murky depths, whilst another wants to giggle uncontrollably, and the last wishes for instantaneous death. All the same, Guy joins you in the water, a jaunty look on his face. You are trying not to acknowledge the stymied confusion on Booster’s face or the courtesy Ted does you by looking away. 

Guy’s hands reach for you. 

“There you go, babe—”—he’s all smiles again—“—Your knight in shinin’ armor’s here to help.”

You don’t argue or complain as he sweeps you into his arms, out of the water and into the air. He sends a gloating, “See you back at the Bug” to them both before he careens away with you in tow. 

You wait a second before you bury your face in your hands. “Oh my god.”

“It’s all good, baby, you’re safe now.” He reassures you, apparently feigning ignorance, as if he finds some twisted joy in doing so on your behalf. 

“Not that—I’m fine.” You resurface from the prison of your hands. “You didn’t have to talk to Booster like that.”

“Why not?” Guy’s blithe, unaffected. “He knows I coulda taken care of you.”

“Yeah, but he’s our teammate.” Part of you wants to tack on, and he knows we’re not together anymore. Yet something stays your tongue, as though saying it rings false in some way. 

“Tell me you’re not enjoyin’ it, back in my arms again, honey.” He returns cavalierly, looking back down to you with a cocky grin. 

“I will do no such thing,” you reply staunchly—wrong answer, if the way his hands grip tight around your arms, your thighs are any indicator. You gasp reactively, squirming in his grasp. 

He takes advantage of the means you’re held to taunt a whisper into your ear. “Tell me you ain’t been thinkin’ about how it feels to have my hands all over you, keepin’ you nice and safe, huh?”

Saying something can be twisted to his benefit, so you deign this conversation with silence—no matter. He continues his attack, a smirk audible in his voice. 

“Makin’ sure that you don’t get a single hair—”—his hands squeeze again—“—On that pretty little head of yours mussed up, huh? 

Your voice betrays you as you quietly confess, “Maybe I have.”  

“Oh,” and his voice is rich with triumph, “That’s what I thought, baby. Unless I was imaginin’ all those cute little looks you’ve been shootin’ me, huh?”

“I’m not talking about this right now.” Is the final word you have to say, but it’s certainly too late. You’ve said quite enough. 

His laugh, rude and triumphant, sails down to the rest of the group as you touch down to the ground, Booster and Ted a marked distance behind. 

The only thing you can think to do is return your face back to the cover of your hands so that they don’t see the embarrassment—or the pleasure—written clearly across it. 

It’s been a month since the breakup when the dam breaks at the annual JL party. This means that anyone who’s ever served, however short their tenure, however obscure the offshoot of their group—is invited to attend. 

Nothing’s changed too greatly between you and Guy; in fact, you would warrant that it’s been eerily similar to how things were before the split. 

You both get paired up for missions regularly—after the last snafu with Booster, J’onn saw the writing on the wall and decided to roll with it. You both gravitate near each other during meetings, eat together in the mess hall when the stars align—and they seem to keep aligning in this favor. Whatever—you don’t question it.  

He still maintains that same familiar touch with you, keeping an arm around your shoulder. Or, when the desire strikes him, wrapping it about your waist in a way that makes eyebrows raise and eyes widen in questioning surprise. 

You have to start avoiding eye contact with a lot of people, because the fact of the matter is—you’re not going to stop him. Matter of fact, you’re not complaining about it at all. 

Which leads to the party. It’s packed—recognizable faces like Superman and Wonder Woman and Aquaman pepper the already crowded rooms, as you slink through the throng to reach the kitchen. 

You decided it was a wise decision to exit the library, when Ted started bringing out the beetlerangs for a demonstration—things were getting too claustrophobic. Or maybe it was the way that Guy’s hand was getting way too low down your back for polite society, as you tried to keep up conversation with Zatanna and sip from your cocktail at the same time. 

The infuriatingly intoxicating way his hand soothed into the soft flesh of your waist, combined with the way that you all had to press close together as Ted’s tech flew around the room, voices clashing and coalescing over each other—you needed a change of scenery.

So you made means to excuse yourself, thinking of the way Guy was reluctant to release you, sliding past his broad frame as you exited, with promises that you would be right back. 

When you finally break through the rabble and push open the door to the kitchen, you can’t help but huff a sigh of relief, taking in the relatively empty room. 

The only people there are Dick Grayson and Roy Harper, eagerly chattering and restocking their plates. When they see you, they smile and make a hasty retreat, the door on the other side of the room swinging freely behind them. 

You take a moment of the relative peace for what it is—a gift—and cycle a deep breath through yourself, the muted babble of the party muffled through the door. It feels light years away, as you cross to the fridge and kneel down to take a look at the alcohol selection. 

The door swings open again, letting the conversation spill over into the room—you turn to look, and find yourself standing up with a little more wobble in your step as you do so. 

“Evening, Lobo.” You say, crossing over to the kitchen island with two beers clutched tight in your hand. “Didn’t know you were going to show up.”  

“Ah, you know me, sweetheart,” He breezes as he saunters into the room, “I just show up for the free food and the view.” 

You don’t comment on what view he’s referring to, especially as you can all but feel the scorching slink of eyes up your legs, rising ever higher. 

“Beer’s in the fridge if you want a good place to start,” you advise, searching under the bags of half-eaten chips and ransacked veggie trays for a bottle opener. But Lobo doesn’t move; instead, he speaks.  

“Heard you and Guy split up, sweetheart.” He says, his voice lowering to a register that you assume for him, is inquiring and empathetic. 

“Who told you that?” You ask, feeling the familiar shape of metal next to some scattered cheese puffs, sliding it out to reveal the object of your search. Bingo. 

“Word gets around,” He replies easily, and he takes a few swaggering steps to the island, placing a massive hand upon it that makes it creak under the additional weight. You let your gaze linger on it for a cautious moment, before looking up to the incurious set of eyes that are surveying your reaction. “So I been thinking—”

“Uh-huh?” You ask, playing along, a smile of disbelief breaking over your face. There’s no way—  

“—You don’t have that killjoy hangin’ off of you anymore,” He says, holding out a hand as if to demonstrate the inherent logic of this…proposal, “Why don’t you go ahead and give the Main Man a try?”

“And why should I do that?” You ask, tilting your wrist to pop the cap off of one beer. Once opened, it goes straight to your mouth; you feel like you’re going to need it. 

“Because you only been on the kid’s rides, sweetcheeks.” Lobo explains, dismissive as he refers to the kid’s ride that would be mightily pissed if he knew he was being spoken like this. “Maybe it’s time you upgraded to the adult experience.” 

You laugh at the phrasing of this offer, and regard your suitor, who offers you what must be a winning smile to all the other doe-eyed pursuees. 

“So whaddya think?” He’s all teeth, staring you down like you’re next on his bounty list. You take a second to consider how to word your reply, angling the opener against the second bottle. 

“There’s just one thing you oughta hear, Lobo.” You reply as you flick away the second cap with your finger, letting it go flying into the unknown oblivion under the fridge. 

“Yeah, what’s that, baby?” He’s unabashed in his conviction as you snake around the island, walking towards him—his smile grows as you shift the recently-opened beer into your hand, taking care not to spill a drop. You pause when you’ve neared him close enough you can get a whiff of his overwhelming cologne, trying your best to not wrinkle up your nose out of etiquette. 

“Whoever told you that about me and Guy—”—you say, looking straight up at him—“—They told you wrong.”

You give him a final civil grimace and head for the door with nothing more than a “Be seein’ you, Lobo.”

It seems wise to beat a hasty retreat, so you nudge your hip into the door and find it opening with an accord that a normal door shouldn’t seem to possess. It’s this that leads you to look straight into the face of the man well-conversed of as late.

There’s only a brief instance of surprise on Guy’s face before it relaxes back into that incensed fury—not aimed at you, but at the figure over your shoulder who lounges a lazy arm on the island. How long has he been on the other side of the door listening? 

Lobo doesn’t seem worried, but more amused if anything, unashamed at his hit and miss. Of course he would, the bastard. 

Time for descalation. You give Guy a winning smile. “There you are. Grabbed you something.” 

At this, you hold out the beer that you intended to give him a few minutes from now, rather than immediately—he palms it, giving you a moment’s glance that indicates appreciation, before it hones back to that cold fury directed behind you. 

“My favorite,” Guy says, glaring daggers at Lobo. “Ain’t I a lucky fella?” 

“Sure you are,” you say, and lean up on tip-toe to press a kiss to his cheek. You can tell by the hitch of his shoulders up in pride that it has the intended effect you want. 

“Let’s get out of here,” you urge him gently, and it’s a slow, tense second that he continues to scowl over your shoulder, before you watch his hand go for your waist. You can’t totally relax, though, until he’s turned away and the door swings shut on a very interesting moment in your night. 

The two of you are trapped in the struggle upstream against the crowd, making your way upstairs to more relative privacy, when he stops you, insistent in the way that he squeezes your waist. 

“Hey,” his voice is rough as you turn to look up at him. “You meant that shit?”

You’ve seen cocky, strutting, boastful. This is probably the most earnest he’s looked since the two of you have walked your separate ways, and found each other in these most inopportune moments. 

“Of course I did.” You reply sincerely. “The way I see it—”—You turn back up the stairs, nodding to Scott and Barda as they descend the way you came—“—Seems like you and me are always going to have unfinished business one way or another.” 

“That so?” He asks, a veneer of disinterested curiosity layered thick. You both make it to the zenith of the staircase, so you can get another look at that familiar grin that you feel like you’ll always be chasing after. 

“Yeah,” you say, running a hand up his jawline. “Now I don’t know about you, but I think we should go and talk about it in our room.” 

Guy’s grin grows wider at your choice of words. “Yeah, honey—I think that sounds real good to me too.” 

His hand goes for yours, a perfect fit that you’re not certain you’ll ever shake off, and the two of you wander off down the darkness of the hall together. 

Dividers provided by the incredible @toxisyddy and @cafekitsune

[jellyfishsthings]

Diplomatic Immunity: (Or: The Consequences of Getting Coffee)

navigation , dc navigation, part 1

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

For the record, this is also not your fault.

The thing about kissing someone who could literally punch through dimensions is that you don't actually think about the physics of it until you're already doing it.

His mouth is on yours and his hands are on your waist and the sheer heat of him — not metaphorical heat, actual thermal radiation, because apparently that's a Kryptonian thing — is making your skin buzz in a way that has nothing to do with the satellite's climate control.

"You're vibrating," you say against his mouth, because you are incapable of not commenting on things.

"So are you," he says, and bites your lower lip, and your brain shorts out for approximately three seconds.

When you come back online, your hands are in his hair and he's backed you against the wall that definitely does not meet OSHA standards for this kind of activity and you can hear — faintly, through the haze — the sound of Hal Jordan making a strangled noise behind the two-way mirror.

"Ignore them," you say, mostly to yourself.

"I am," he says, and his mouth is on your neck now, hot and open and intent, and you realize with the part of your brain that still works that he's been thinking about this since the crosswalk, since the coffee, since you told him to go to therapy like it was obvious and easy and something he deserved.

"Bed," you manage, because the couch is right there and you're not doing this against a wall like teenagers, you have some dignity left, barely, a shred.

He pulls back enough to look at you, eyes blown wide and dark, and you can see the effort it's taking him to go slow, to be careful, to not just —

"Don't break the satellite," you say.

"I won't," he says, and then, with a specificity that makes your stomach flip: "I need you to tell me what you want."

"That's —" you start, but he's looking at you with that intensity dialed up to something almost frightening, something that says I have never done this the right way and I don't know how and I need you to guide me or I will ruin everything.

"Everything," you say. "I want everything. I want you to stop being careful and I want you to stop thinking and I want —" you grab the front of his suit, the ridiculous crest, and pull him closer — "I want you to show me what sixty-three days of waiting actually looks like."

Something in his expression shifts.

The careful, held-back version of him vanishes, and what's left is —

"Oh," you say, as he lifts you like you weigh nothing, as your legs wrap around his waist, as he carries you the three steps to the couch and lays you down with a gentleness that absolutely does not match the look in his eyes.

"Tell me to stop," he says, kneeling over you, hands braced on either side of your head, and he's shaking with restraint, actually shaking, the couch creaking under the force of it.

"Don't stop," you say, and reach up to pull him down.

The suit is a problem.

Specifically, the fact that you're both still fully clothed is a problem, and also the suit appears to have no obvious fasteners, which is typical Kryptonian design philosophy (aesthetics over practicality, you think, or maybe just alien biology).

"How do I —" you start, tugging at the edge of the blue fabric.

"It comes off," he says, and sits back on his heels to show you, and you watch — fascinated, annoyed, aroused — as he finds some hidden seam and pulls, and the whole thing just unravels in a way that defies material science.

Underneath, he's —

"That's unfair," you say, because he looks like he was carved from something harder than marble and warmer than sunlight, and it's offensive how attractive he is, genuinely offensive, you should file a complaint.

"Your turn," he says, and his voice has dropped an octave, rough and hungry and still somehow polite, like he's asking permission even when he's clearly about to take.

You sit up, pull your shirt over your head, and his eyes track the movement with the focus of someone memorizing coordinates for later use. Your bra follows — you got dressed for work this morning, you were going to do spreadsheets today, this was not the plan — and his hands are on you before the fabric hits the floor.

"Soft," he says, almost surprised, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you arch into the touch because you have no pride left, none, it evaporated somewhere around the third time he said your name.

"You're burning," you say, because he is, literally, skin hot to the touch, and he makes a noise — low, frustrated, needy — and ducks his head to mouth at your collarbone.

"I can —" he starts.

"Don't you dare cool down," you say, and grab his hand and put it where you want it, and the sound he makes is inhuman and gorgeous and lost.

Behind the mirror, the League has reached a collective decision to not be there anymore.

Clark left first, walking out with the speed of someone who has x-ray vision and absolutely does not want to use it right now. Diana followed, humming something that sounded suspiciously like a wedding march. Hal tried to stay for approximately thirty seconds before Bruce physically removed him by the ear.

Bruce did not look at the window again.

Bruce went to the gym and punched a heavy bag until Alfred intervened with tea and a pointed reminder that the satellite's structural integrity was not, in fact, designed for whatever was currently happening in Cell 4.

"She's an adult, Master Bruce," Alfred said, which was not helpful.

"Don't," Bruce said, to the heavy bag.

"She has always made her own choices."

"I know."

"And he has, by all accounts, stopped threatening to reset the timeline."

Bruce paused mid-punch.

"For now," he said.

"For now," Alfred agreed. "Perhaps focus on that."

Back in the cell, you're naked, he's naked, and the couch is somehow still intact despite the fact that his hands are doing things that should require more structural support than furniture can provide.

"Tell me," he says, again, because he keeps asking, because he needs to hear it, because he doesn't trust himself not to break things unless you're explicit about what you want.

"Inside," you say, and your voice is wrecked already, ruined, and you don't care. "I want you inside. Now. Stop being —" you gasp as his fingers slide lower, test, find you ready and wanting and there — "stop being careful."

He doesn't need to be told twice.

He lifts you again — you are going to have words about the carrying, you are small but not that small, it's unnecessary and theatrical and also weirdly hot — and positions you on his lap as he sits back, spreads you open with hands that could crush diamonds but are currently trembling against your thighs.

"Look at me," he says, and you do, you open your eyes and look at him, and he guides himself into you with a slowness that is absolutely torture, inch by inch, filling you until you can't breathe, can't think, can only feel the stretch and the heat and the rightness of it.

"Move," you tell him, nails digging into his shoulders, and he does.

He fucks like he argues — relentless, intense, completely focused on winning.

The couch breaks at some point — you hear the crack, feel the shift, and then you're on the floor with him over you and he doesn't even pause, just adjusts the angle and keeps going, deeper now, harder, and you're making noises you didn't know you could make, desperate and loud and completely unconcerned with the fact that the entire satellite probably knows exactly what's happening.

"More," you say, because it's not enough, because sixty-three days of waiting apparently requires more than one round to burn through, and he snarls — actually snarls — and flips you over, pulls you up onto your knees, and pushes back in from behind with a force that makes you see stars.

"Is this —" he starts, breathless, which is impressive for someone who doesn't need to breathe.

"Yes," you gasp, "yes, don't stop, don't —"

He doesn't.

His hand finds your clit, rough and desperate and perfect, and he's pounding into you now, no restraint left, no carefulness, just need, raw and endless and all for you, only you, always you since the crosswalk, since the coffee, since you looked at the end of the world and told it to get help.

You come with his name — his actual name, the one he doesn't let people use, the one you learned from Bruce's files and never called him until right now — and he breaks, loses the rhythm, buries himself deep and follows you over the edge with a shout that shakes the walls.

After, you're lying on the broken couch, using his cape as a blanket because the satellite is cold and you're both sweaty and it's ridiculous, everything is ridiculous, you just had sex in a containment cell while the Justice League probably listened.

"I'm going to kill Bruce," you say, to the ceiling.

"Noted," he says. He's tracing patterns on your shoulder, lazy and loose in a way you've never seen him, completely relaxed for possibly the first time since you've known him.

"And Clark."

"Mm."

"And Hal, just for being there."

"He left first," he says. "I heard him."

"You heard —" you turn your head to look at him. "How good is your hearing?"

He smiles, small and private and smug, the bastard.

"Good enough," he says.

"That's horrifying."

"Yes," he agrees, and pulls you closer, and you let him because you're tired and sore and surprisingly okay with the fact that this is happening, that you're here, that he's here, that the universe has not ended.

"I still think you're a lot," you say, into his neck.

"I know," he says.

"And I'm still annoyed."

"I know."

"And this doesn't mean I'm going to stop arguing with you."

"Good," he says. "I like you argumentative."

You pause.

"You like me," you repeat.

He looks at you, and the intensity is still there, but it's different now — focused, settled, claimed.

"I told you," he says. "You were the only tolerable person in this dimension."

"That was four days in," you say. "You've had sixty-three to change your mind."

"I haven't," he says. "I won't."

You look at him — at this impossible, exhausting, universe-threatening man who looks at you like you hung the stars he lost — and you feel something in your chest crack open, something you've been holding closed since Gotham, since the crosswalk, since you learned to be careful with your heart.

"Okay," you say.

"Okay?"

"Okay," you repeat. "But I'm still billing the League for overtime."

He laughs — actually laughs, a real sound, surprised and delighted and young, younger than he's seemed since you met him — and kisses you, soft and sweet and nothing like the desperate collision from before.

"Fine," he says.

"And you're still going to therapy," you add.

He groans.

"You're impossible."

"You're impossible," you say. "I was just getting coffee."

"And now you're here," he says.

"And now I'm here," you agree.

The universe, for now, remains intact.

That's enough.

That's everything.

The League, when they finally check the cell (Diana, with a carefully averted gaze and a tablet), finds you both asleep on the broken couch, tangled in red cape, and makes a note in the official report that reads simply: "Containment status: reclassified."

Bruce burns the report.

Alfred keeps a copy.

Clark makes the face for three days straight, but this time it's different — this time, it's the face of a man who knows something he isn't saying, something about hope and redemption and the stubbornness of Wayne family members who refuse to give up on people.

You keep coming back.

He keeps waiting.

The coffee was worth it.

[sacredsorceress]

this was SO good!! reading at 4am and screaming at my phone imagining the JL on the other side of the wall, but for Prime… i get it. thank you for sharing with us!!

[twentytomidnight]

which one us is the best kisser?

Hal Jordan/Kyle Rayner/John Stewart/Guy Gardner/Reader, 3.3K

a/n: I turned someone’s request into my own perverted fantasy I’m not sorry

cw: nsfw/18+ only, makeouts, grinding, thigh-riding, drinking/drunken shenanigans, gn!reader

masterlist ao3 requests

PREVIEW:

Hal asks a question that everyone is very interested in you testing out. Honor Guard/Reader (18+)

It’s Hal who’s the one who suggests it, and it should be understood that that’s where the trouble arises. The five of you occupy a space of physical malaise after a long shift, all having shucked out your uniforms for what qualifies as clean, casual civvies.

You’re all in John’s quarters—they’re the biggest, and they’re the cleanest—so the five of you sit around his couch and enjoy the ambience of the TV show that no one is really watching. Nurse drinks that the five of you are wont to take ambling sip from as you talk shit and make plans for when you all return back to Earth.

“You still seein’ that one what’s-his-face back in Coast City?” Guy asks as he permits himself a heady swallow from the neck of the bottle. His broad fingers hold the drink so casually as amber liquid sloshes chaotically within—the cant of his eyes pressed upon you for an answer.

To the side of you, John and Kyle work on a blueprint for something that they’re going to build when they get back home, Hal watches with the quiet interest of the layperson.

“Nah, I dumped him before I left,” You reply as you take a sip from the Old Fashioned that John made you—neat, just how you like it. You take a brooding sip over the rim and let the scald settle on the palate of your tongue.

Guy laughs, crude and layered with interest; you look at him with the good-natured patience that you’re used to having to deal with. Not that you mind—he looks good when he laughs, the way that those freckles perch on the bridge of that nose broken once-too-many-times, that flex of his impressive bicep loped over the side of the couch you both recline on.

“Whassa problem with ol’ Coastie?” Guy asks with a leer that he fixates upon you. “Not good in the sack?”

“We didn’t even get to that,” You grimace back at Guy. “He was a bad kisser.”

Guy snorts in amusement as the other three behind you go still, distracted from the peaceful tedium of their activity. Not that you notice—you’re too busy still engaged in conversation with your couch partner.

“Oh, yeah?” Guy asks, settling more into the couch as he watches you carefully. “What’d he do, slobber all over you?”

“Would’ve like a little bit,” You return with honesty borne of alcoholic consumption—Guy snorts again—“—He barely would give me a peck. Wouldn’t even try to use any tongue.”

“Not everyone’s a talent like yours truly,” Guy returns with the smug bearings of someone who know what he’s talking about—you slap the ridge of your knuckles on the muscle of his arm as he takes it on the chin.

“Like you’ve kissed someone in a while?” You ask dryly, taking a brief respite to water yourself with the acrid burn of your drink. “Unless you and Kilowog got back together?”

“Ol’ Kil wishes he could have me back,” Guy plays along with a smirk, “But besides—”

He leans into you with friendly, conspiratorial manner, so that you can get ample whiff of the cologne layered over masculine, heady musk—“—It’s like riding a bike. You never lose the skills you pick up along the way.”

At this, you can’t help but let your head loll back and make a boozy laugh—Guy’s no worse for wear at this, leaning back with satisfaction on the landscape of where he sits, taking another swallow.

“Yeah, sure.” You say, inspecting the liquid that takes dwindling occupation in your highball. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Why don’t you put it to the test?” Interrupts a voice from behind you and Guy. At this, two of you look to the interloper in your conversation to see that there’s a new presence that has since joined the territory of the couch.

Hal sits besides you as he lets his beer hang lazily from the languid grip he holds on it, lets it settle on the curve of his knee, beer growing ample sudsy foam within.

There’s something layered in the arc of his expression as he watches you, gauging you for something that he’s hungry to confirm. Interest, you realize—in whatever he’s about to propose.

This is when you realize that the two of you have had audience to your conversation as you see how John and Kyle stand at attention in nearer distance than they had before—and something profoundly electric begins to take center-stage in the room.

You remember that you have to speak, and turn back to Hal, who still watches you with patient intent. “How?”

“You say you haven’t been kissed in a while,” Hal asserts, holding out a hand, “Kissed well.”

“So it goes,” You reply back calmly as you take another sip. You feel like you’re going to need to drain the drink to hear him out.

“We know you pretty well—we’ve all worked together, know the ins and outs,” Hal continues along as though he’s casually proposing a business closer, “So we know what you like.”

“Mm-hmm,” Is all that you can think to supply in response as you pluck the orange rind from the watery grave its taken residence in. Hal takes this as permission for him to levy his challenge your way.

“So why don’t you see which one of us is the best kisser?” Hal asks. And it’s here that you feel that odd prickle of sensation, that dearth of heat that was so absent suddenly rekindle to life in the pit of your abdomen, in between your legs.

"You mean you actually want to kiss me?” You ask, letting your eyes drape over the very articulated interest in the ken of everyone’s faces, realizing that this is something that they’ve all come to silent agreement in.

“Why not?” Hal asks, and there’s something that’s so velvet yet rugged in the directive of his voice. “Haven’t you been curious?”

As he says this, you can’t help let your eyes drag involuntarily to the full-bodied lips that are already pulling into a knowing smirk. Let your eyes drag up in slow, meandering fashion to the way that his eyes are alight with a wicked kind of mischief that you’re interested to see how he articulates with his body.

“Okay,” You say, holding your drink out behind you to where you assume Guy will cover for it, “I’m game.”

“Not gonna be a drop when you get it back,” Guy warns as he accepts the cup in the swathe of one hand—the rough pad of his thumb draws against your finger. You know that if you turn back to regard him, to look at John and Kyle who are murmuring something in each other’s ears in your periphery, then you’ll lose your nerve for certain.

All you can do is find your way over to where you are inching closer yet to the spread of Hal’s legs. He lets them tick wider at your approach, lets that smile show a little more in dazzling display.

You know that that smile’s been enough to encourage people into bed—and here you are, drawn by invisible tether to approach it.

You let your thigh drag against the denim of his pants, let your arm settle against the press of his torso so that you can feel the delineation of muscle that his loose shirt does little to disguise. Feel the scalding heat of his body against yours, second to the cant of his eyes as he appraises you and the detail of your face.

“Hey, angel,” Hal chuckles in soft intonation—the press of his thumb as it draws your chin up to him leaves such tactile sensation that you have to physically resist the shiver. As it presses against the bottom of your lip an you have to intake silent, regulatory breath.

“Hurry up and kiss ‘em already, Jordan,” Guy comments from the back. “You got a lot of people in line.”

Hal chuckles as you try to bite back the anxious smile taking presence on your face. You want to feel his mouth, feel his tongue. Feel more than just his hand that is taking encouraging hold on the cliff of your jaw.

“Gotta make sure they remember it,” Hal says, “Don’t want to disappoint.”

The syllables are spoken on the full of your mouth as he draws in, as he makes chaste, introductory connection with the seam of his lips—and then he closes the distance fully. Lets it linger, the nuance of his mouth adjusting to the shape of yours before you feel the lap of a tongue that requests the taste of yours.

When you open your mouth to him, you’re surprised by the moan that you make as he rakes his hand up the nape of your neck, summoning a shiver that he swallows with a needy groan.

Another hand takes residence on the slope of your face, letting him deepen the kiss, adjust angle so that he can properly appraise the back of your teeth, let you savor the IPA that he drank.

Hal hums into your mouth, a noise of savoring, of pleasure—and you can’t help but make vocal chord in kind. He’s good at this—a slow, soporific sensation is taking root over your body, under the sinew of your skin.

When you pull away, it’s with the sluggish regret of someone who wishes that they could have more. And it’s clear in his eyes that his thirst is little slaked by this at all.

“Like that?” Hal asks with that charming grin that you’ve seen before—just never exercised on you. You can’t deny the way that it makes your heart flip in the caging of your ribs.

“Not bad,” You comment back—he chuckles at your deflection, knowing the effect that it’s had on you. “But I have three more people I need to try out.”

At this, you find your footing, realizing at this belated instance that you’ve had your hand drawn over the slope of Hal’s shoulder. When you slide it from the press of that coiled muscle, he watches it go with a melancholy longing that you want to revisit.

But first—you settle on your next target, who leans on the counter with a knowing smile, his beer sitting besides the crook of his elbow. Watching you with that handsome face and those brown eyes set in such incandescent illumination that he looks heavenly in your approach.

“Hi, John,” You grin as you pull up in front of him. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I could say the same for you,” He says as you lick your lips—and as his eyes commemorate the sight to memory, “How’d we end up with a bunch of fools on our team?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” You grin as you worry your fingers around the width of your wrist, “But sometimes they have some good ideas.”

“Yeah, I’ll give them that,” John says in quiet deliberation; and at this declaration, his hand draws up the side of your cheek, replacing the tactile afterimage that Hal’s left behind. You surprise yourself when you find yourself leaning into the comfort of his touch, your hands already draping up the firm plateau of his chest.

“Ready?” John asks with a crooked grin that suits him so well—you can’t help but feel at ease as his other hand wraps in secure fashion around your back, settling well in the sloping groove of your body.

“Hurry up and kiss me, Stewart,” You chuckle. When he obliges, you’re surprised by the soft quality of his lips, the way that he keeps the pressure slow-blooming and consistent as he works his mouth against yours.

He’s not like Hal, who proceeded with quick alacrity into your mouth—he keeps the flex of his jaw to keep pressing kiss after kiss against the terrain of your lips.

It’s a gradual crescendo of intensity, the way that you find your hands roaming the musculature of his body, as he pulls you flush against him. As your mouth works in tandem with his to allow him in, to finally press the flat of your soft palate against his—it’s a reward that you’ve worked to.

A taste of orange peel and whiskey that leave you starved for more as he makes reticent groan into the landscape of your tongue. And your hands clench tighter into his shirt, needing more of him under your hands, more of his drunken kisses, more of him—

You suck in a tight breath as you refuse to pull away from him, his leg sliding in between yours so that you can properly find some modicum of relief, grinding on the unyielding column of his thigh.

In your vague periphery, you’re aware of Kyle saying “Oh, fuck,” in abject want, while Guy makes dirty, throaty chuckle from the far distance.

You only pull away because you know that there’s two more to go. And it’s clear that John is reluctant to let you go, something drawn in the slant of his eyes as he evaluates you in new light.

No—that’s not quite correct. In light that you realize with delayed comprehension, that he always has. But now has finally had opportunity to act upon it.

“Wow,” You breathe with a chuffed laugh that he makes in parallel; his hands don’t move from where he’s secured you to him.

“I’ll say.” He returns, the rumble of his voice going to all the right avenues of your body.

“I got to see a few more people,” You say back with shy reticence, “But my verdict might be changing.”

“Yeah?” John asks as he lets his hands finally release you from the meter of his grasp. It’s clear that it’s an unwilling action. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Me, too,” You smile—and then you make advance to your third target for the night, who apparently has made conclusion of his drink in the moments of your previous departure. Who looks both nervous and flushed and bearing an excitement he can scarcely contain in the real estate of his body.

“Evening, Kyle,” You comment breezily as you find yourself face-to-face with him, “Is that a beer in your pocket or are you happy to see me?”

“Can’t it be both?” Kyle asks, but there’s a definitive creep of a blush that is taking spread over his cheeks, dousing the tips of his ears, blooming down the column of his throat.

“Sure it can,” You reply with ease. “Are you gonna kiss me, or not?”

“Gladly,” Kyle says, and you go into arms that are already ticking out to accept you. It goes without saying that you can feel the hum of nervous energy that he articulates with his body as he looks down at you, makes thick, regulatory swallow.

His hands are so warm and sport a tremble that you won’t make mention of, something boyish and shy in the way that he looks to your eyes—before glancing down to your mouth curved in salacious smile.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” Kyle groans in half-uttered confession. When he leans in to kiss you, it’s with such quick, consumptive motion that he’s eager to close—and he’s quick to get to work.

He kisses you with a potent need that is articulated through the spread of his arms as he pulls you tight to him. Your fingers rake through his hair as you open your mouth to him, letting you savor the moan that is made as you pull him closer.

This spurs on a bout of courage that he was perhaps too nervous to make, his hands finally drawing down the slope of your waist and squeezing.

You make a noise caught between pleasure and surprise, which allows your mouth to draw further open—Kyle, seeing his advantage, takes the chance to draw it into the wet heat of his own. And when he sucks on it, you can’t help but groan into it, letting your grip grow tighter upon him, prompting his own to draw greedier, hungrier.

“Givin’ you a run for yer money,” You hear Guy direct in the background to someone—but you don’t care. You and Kyle are in an oasis of your own making, as you catch his bottom lip between your teeth and lave your tongue upon it. The sound that Kyle makes is punched-out and obscene.

You know that you have one left—so you pull away to regard your latest dance partner. See something glassy-eyed and wanting in the arc of his gaze as he devours what is left to him visually.

“Not bad, Rayner,” You smile cheekily at him, admiring the flustered mien that this inspires in him. As his face draws deeper pink and his eyes run askance of you in such uncharacteristic shyness.

“Same to you,” He grins, and you can’t help but resist the urge to press one final lingering kiss to his mouth that he returns with mirrored eagerness. And then you’re off to your final foe for the night.

“Had to save the best for last, huh, honey?” Guy asks with such self-satisfied glee as you return back to the couch. You can’t help but feel your grin exhibit teeth in response to the challenge that he levies with the proud spread of his body, the wide meander of his arms lounging about the back of the couch.

“Had to come back for my drink,” You reply casually, “And take a seat.”

“Yeah?” Guy taunts. “I gotcher seat right here.”

With this, he claps a hand to the musculature of that thigh housed in his starched jeans. And you, never being one to sacrifice a game offer, find yourself climbing on, your legs spread over the terrain of his. He jumps his thigh unexpectedly, so that you’re made to hold on to his shoulders for balance that is more unmoored the longer this night goes on.

“Dick,” You groan back without any heat—he laughs as he works his hand around the curve of your hip, keeping you steady. It’s a slick, sordid laugh, but you can’t help but accept it.

“Saved some’a that drink for you, too,” He grins as you adjust yourself on his legs, feeling the interest that has already awakened to life in this passion play, “Just lemme know when you want it.”

At this, he lets you take visual assessment of his tongue, luridly pink, for the taking. And you know an opportunity when you see one—so you close in.

When you lick the rasp of your muscle against his own, you can feel the rumble of amusement more than you can hear it. But you’re not done—you take care to make sure that you get your money’s worth of whiskey consumed, sucking it from the marrow of his soft palate.

Letting his hands ease down in roaming navigation to the cleft of your ass so that he can squeeze.

When you whimper at the touch, the odds are back in his favor—and so he takes advance into your mouth, his teeth clacking against yours. His lips chapped and rough but only making you want more of that terrible scrape against you, want more of that smart mouth.

He chuckles at the way that you melt against him, letting your body conform in perfect unity to his, your arms easing around the toned expanse of his shoulders. But he doesn’t stop; only taking more opportunity to explore your teeth, your tongue, your lips.

You only break the kiss because you’re dizzy, overwhelmed with maelstrom of fractaled stimulation—of bodies that have searched for yours with a starvation you didn’t expect, of hands that still hold you. Of eyes that are all keen to watch the display of you exchanged between them.

“Well, sweetheart?” Guy asks with a salacious grin, admiring his handiwork at reducing you to such disheveled state. “Who’s your choice?”

At this, he grinds his hips into you in torturous rut. And you know that the five of you are going to break John’s bed-frame tonight. Oddly enough—you get the feeling he won’t mind at all.

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request:

sorry……..hope this kinda answers it lol

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[sacredsorceress]

POOL PARTY ✮ ⋆ ˚｡ DC MULTI

FEATURING: guy gardner, clark kent, bruce wayne x JL!f!reader

SUMMARY: tales from justice league pool party where you cross the line of friendship with your favorite coworker

WORD COUNT: 2.9k

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI, alcohol consumption, reader is drunk in guy's part, bruce drinks but barely, reader uses she/her pronouns, insecurity in clark's, not proofread (if you see any mistakes or missing warnings pls lmk!)

──── .✮ ⋆ ˚｡

GUY GARDNER

Would a bartending android cut off a member of the Justice League after three too many drinks? It's a question that you hadn't thought to ask yourself before the night, but one that you would learn the answer to all the same.

No, even an android didn't have the guts to do so.

This unfortunate fact was how you found yourself seven hours into a league Fourth of July party on one of the many billionaire members' private islands, cozied up to none other than Guy fucking Gardner.

Your inhibitions had dissipated hours ago. By now, all that remained was a floating feeling that carried you in conversation. The desire for body heat brought on by being adorned in nothing but a swimsuit as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. While the other guests, miraculously avoided drunkness; either by the metahuman blood pumping through their veins or sheer heavy weight willpower alone. They had evaded the descent into drunkeness, where you were at the very bottom of the hole—currently in the sweet spot between sharing every thought on your mind and overwhelming nausea.

You had been chatting to Ted about some doomed-to-fail endeavour with Booster until he excused himself to talk logistics with the same blonde. Really, what you should have done was find Dinah or Diana, or even a long lounge chair to pass out on, but in your inebriated state, you followed the first thing, or rather person, that your eyes landed on.

You treaded over rather ungracefully to where John and Guy were lost in conversation. Guy had been splayed out on one of the many couches— arms stretched across the back and legs manspreading wide like an open invitation to be touched— and you flopped down right beside him, your hair tickling his open arms as you did.

"Had enough t'drink yet, honey?" Guy asked, swapping his beer to the other hand so he could rest his open arm comfortably around you. "Don’t worry. Ol’ Guy will take care of you. Can't believe that rust bucket didn't cut you off."

"Mmmm no," you hummed, smushing your face against Guy's shoulder. "M'not even drunk."

Your lips pursed from where your cheeks laid squished against his skin.

Guy would never admit it— far too adamant about his nonexistent romantic prowess— but he felt his freckled cheeks inflame from your touch. As much as he 'flirted' with every member of the team, he had always had his eye on you. You were kind, funny and relatively untouched by a godlike ego that could easily take any full-time League member into its clutches. For all that you made fun of Guy or became just as exasperated as anyone else, you had always recognised his loyalty and goodness that laid beneath his brash mannerisms.

He admired you. Truly. And watching you cozy up to him so comfortably, your cold fingers splaying out against the expanse of his chest absentmindedly, he couldn't help but feel like both of you were exactly where you belonged. It made his stomach sink.

"You sure?" John asked you with a smile.

"Mhm," you assured him, nodding as you unconsciously curled into Guy's side. "I could have, like, seven more drinks."

Guy laughed, taking another swig from his beer.

"Sure about that, babe?"

Normally you would have grimaced and told him off for that. But the jovial tone of conversation and the way Guy had so easily accepted responsibility for you in your admittedly drunk state, left you feeling too warmed and cared for to mind.

"Positive."

With the buzz of alcohol quickly taking control, you nuzzled your face into the crook of Guy's neck and closed your eyes.

As your breathing slowed, Guy's quickened— shocked still for a moment from the feeling of your lips brushing his neck. You were in his arms, touching him as if you had a right to and Guy knew then that he wouldn't be able to go back to the way things were. Whether you remembered it or not when the alcohol finally left your system, drunk actions were sober thoughts, and you had now been officially solidified as Guy Gardner's girl.

As this fact registered in Guy's brain, he relaxed into your touch. In the morning he would have to worry about the logistics of it all— proving to you that he deserved to call you his, for instance— but right now, he allowed himself to focus on your warmth and affection as you breathing evened and your eyes fluttered shut.

"Go ahead and sleep, honey." Guy said wrapping his arm around your frame. "I'll take you t'bed. Don't gotta worry your pretty little head about it."

Unbeknownst to you, two of your teammates watched on from afar in a healthy mixture of amusement and disgust.

“Do you think she’s going to regret this in the morning?” Ted asked.

Dinah snorted.

“Oh one hundred percent.” Dinah assured him. “If she remembers it, anyway.”

And maybe you did wake up to a photo of you passed out, wrapped around Guy Gardner like a koala. But when you zoomed in and saw his proud, cooked smile? You couldn't find it in yourself to care.

──── .✮ ⋆ ˚｡

BRUCE WAYNE

“So,” you said, making your way down to where a familiar brunette sat on the beach. “Does Matches Malone drink?”

The party continued to thrum on behind you. The farther you got, the more the sound of splashing and your teammates' chanted dares faded, replaced instead with the soothing waves of the ocean as the sun hung low in the sky. Framed by the sunset, Bruce squinted as he looked up at you.

He smiled softly.

“He can be convinced."

You took your place by Bruce's side in the sand, offering him your second mojito.

"I think I like Matches," you said with a smile. "He's a lot more fun than this other guy I know."

As Bruce accepted the spare glass from your hands, his fingers brushed yours.

With anyone else, it would have been an accident. But you knew him both on and off the field and recognised that 'accident' and 'Bruce Wayne' rarely belonged in the same sentence. With him, everything was purposeful… calculated. The fact that the two of you had even been sitting on this beach was likely a result of his own, careful planning to get you alone.

Rather than say anything, though— a part of you always too intimidated by Batman even when the cowl was off— you watched as he took a sip from the glass. His adam's apple, coated in a sheen of sweat from the day's events, bobbed as he swallowed and against all reason, you found yourself lost in the sight. That was, until, the uncomfortable heat of Bruce's gaze caught you staring.

"Sorry," you coughed out, turning back to stare at the ocean.

Bruce's eyes, however, didn't leave your form.

"Don't apologize," he said. "You're allowed to look."

Whatever air of casualty that you had attempted to display, dissipated as you went still as stone.

Bruce Wayne always knew how to surprise you. Sure, the relationship that the two of you had always bordered on flirtatious and other members had gone as far to comment on Batman's suspiciously indulgent nature when it came to you, but Bruce had yet to ever cross the boundary so boldly. To some extent, you assumed you had imagined the longing stares and rare laughs shared because he had never given you more.

But now, there was no doubt. Bruce made decisions, not accidental inferences. He decided that you were allowed to look; and you knew him well enough to understand what that really meant: he was allowing himself to be yours.

A part of you felt ridiculous at the way you unconsciously batted your eyelashes as you smiled up at him, but who could blame you? The big, bad Batman, called 'spooky' by some of the same men who made intergalactic threats shake in their boots, was flirting with you.

Taking a page from his own playfulness, you feigned nonchalance.

"Thanks, Matches," you said. "But my heart belongs to someone else."

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards.

"Yeah?" He asked.

The last glimmers of sunlight were reflected in his eyes as he stared down at you.

"Yeah."

Bruce nodded, a smirk grazing his lips as he stared back at the ocean.

"He's a lucky man, then."

You took only a moment to consider your response.

"Bruce?" You asked.

"Yes?"

You realised then that during the time you had spoken, your bodies had gravitated towards each other. As he turned his attention back towards you, away from the sea, his nose brushed against your own.

You cleared your throat, feeling his warm breath against your lips.

"Just kiss me."

A part of you had expected him to reach over like a man starved, but you should have known Bruce better than that. The hand that had been supporting his weight, trailed up your arm— leaving goosebumps in its wake— until he reached your cheek. His thumb laid against your chin, teasing the edges of your lip before he tilted your face upwards and met your mouth with his.

Bruce Wayne smelt like cologne more expensive than your car and kissed like a man who didn't worship at an altar, but at the feet of the woman he loved. For all his tenderness, Bruce was quick to deepen the kiss, slipping his free hand around you until his palm rested against your back, pulling you towards him. The movement made you gasp and he swallowed the breath eagerly.

It was moments until your hands had found the way to his hair, tugging at its ends as Bruce's tongue massaged yours in a way that was heinous for a man who looked, and frankly was, so good. It was only mere seconds later, that his hands had gravitated from your waist to your thighs, pulling you into his lap.

At the same time, across the beach and desperate for a moment to catch his breath, Clark stumbled onto the sand. Unfortunately for Clark, that breath was not caught when instead of a rejuvenating conversation with his friend, he was met with the sight of Bruce palming your breast beneath your shirt as you left sucked on the tender skin of his neck.

Red in the face and covering his eyes like a repentant child, Clark turned back towards the pool party, but not without shooting his friend a hesitant thumbs up.

──── .✮ ⋆ ˚｡

CLARK KENT

"Really, Clark," you assured him. "I can carry my own stuff. It's no big deal."

Despite the fact that you were both guests on the island, Clark had been nothing but a thoughtful host.

The moment that your jet landed, Clark had been waiting on the tarmac to greet you. He held the keys to a borrowed SUV in his hands and had pulled your luggage from the cargo hold before you even had a chance to ask for help. Even the drive to the house had honestly been too short for your liking. The windows had been rolled down— only after Clark had asked, of course— and what had seemed to be a playlist of your favourite songs were ringing out over the radio.

Not to mention that there were moments you turned to look at Clark, only to be met with his soft, blue eyes already on yours. You couldn't help but smile, then, at the blush that coated his cheeks as he bashfully turned his attention back to the road.

Now at the house you'd both be staying at the next few days, Clark had yet again took it upon himself to carry your luggage: an ever dutiful knight in a linen button-down.

"Don't be silly!" Clark argued, "I'm happy to help."

And with the bright smile he flashed you, you had a difficult time denying him.

Later that afternoon as the backyard— if you could even call four acres of land that— came alive with the arrival of more guests, the party was officially in full swing. The chlorinated water of the pool thrashed with the playfulness of its inhabitants and the thrum of the speakers reverberated through the tiled floors surrounding it. In the corner just beyond the patio of the house, Clark stood at the grill, using his laser vision to cook burgers to perfection.

"And to think we were wasting your powers on saving cities," you joked.

Clark smiled at the sound of your voice; although when he turned to meet your eyes, he froze.

Between now and the last time he saw you, you had changed into your swimsuit— a one piece that managed to accentuate all your best features while leaving just enough to the imagination. You had been friends, you had always been friends, but he rarely saw you out of uniform. To lay his eyes on you dressed so casually felt like a gift. Like you had crossed the borders of formality into familiarity in a way that made his cheeks burn.

"Are you going into the pool?" He asked.

With a spare glance at the pool, you shrugged.

"I don't know," you said. "I was thinking some place quieter."

Clark let out a strangled cough.

"Quieter. I like quieter." He agreed before waving down a nearby member to take control of the grill. "Lead the way."

The hot tub had been tucked away from the noise party. Ever the gentleman, Clark was the first to step inside, but was quick to hold out his hand for yours to steady your own descent into the water.

He stripped himself of his shirt, folding it neatly against the railing like a boy-raised-right, but it grew more and more difficult to focus on his manners as he turned around. People often commented that Superman was the most muscular man in the world, and although that may have been true to a certain extent, they had failed to realize how soft their man of steel really was. You couldn't help but admire the view— the small bit of tummy over his swimshorts, a stretch of curly hair over his chest, the way his arms flexed to make them look even larger than when he had held up an entire building.

You were oggling. And as much as Clark would never admit it, ever the polite man his mother raised him to be, he knew. He could hear the way your heart rate accelerated as your eyes raked over him, and honestly? He loved it.

"I like the quiet," Clark said, sliding onto the tub's bench beside you. "It reminds me of home."

"Only you could be on a billionaire's private island and be thinking of Smallville," you joked. "I'd love to see it someday."

"Ma would love that."

He hadn't considered the implication of what he said until the words had already tumbled from his lips.

"Why's that?" You asked.

Clark weighed his options. He could fib. He could tell you that his mother was just happy to host or a fan of his team members. However, as he looked back at you— at the way that you stared up at him with nothing but fondness and a warmth that seeped into the limited space between you— he decided that he didn't have to. You would accept Clark as he is.

"Well, she asks about you a lot," he replied. "She uh… she thinks you're my girlfriend."

If he thought your heart rate was fast before, it now rivaled a speedster's.

"Why?"

Clark considered the pep talk he had received from a particular playboy earlier in the day, and despite all alarms warning him that it was too forward… unwanted… he stretched his arm along the length of the hot tub's rim to brush your hand.

"Because I talk about you a lot," he said. You felt your heart skip a beat, knowing the strongest man on earth spent his phone calls with his mother talking about you of all things. "About how smart you are… and funny. How you're brave and kind… and beautiful."

Clark shyly stared off to where his hand met yours.

"You think I'm beautiful?"

Clark nodded. "You are beautiful."

You weren't sure if it was because of Clark's own bashful demeanor or because he had just confessed in his own way how he felt about you, but a surge of confidence ran through you. You slipped your hand out from underneath his and squeezed it fully. Your free hand that had until this moment been gripping your thigh to ground you, reached out to hold his stubbled cheek.

His blue eyes, pupils blown, met yours and you smiled.

"Why don't we get out of here and have our first date?" You asked.

You watched as Clark's brain slowly registered what you had just said. A slew of mismatched syllables flew out of his mouth as he stumbled over his words. Once he composed himself with a cough, the cheesiest smile you had ever seen spread across his cheeks.

"I thought you'd never ask."

──── .✮ ⋆ ˚｡

AUTHOR'S NOTE: i'm so nervous to post this. no AI was involved in the creation of this fic and everything was written using ellipsus! because this is my first DC fic, i'll also add that my inbox is always open to chat about dc characters!! especially headcanons xx dinah's part will be included in the next fic!

[sacredsorceress]

POOL PARTY ✮ ⋆ ˚｡ DC MULTI

FEATURING: guy gardner, clark kent, bruce wayne x JL!f!reader

SUMMARY: tales from justice league pool party where you cross the line of friendship with your favorite coworker

WORD COUNT: 2.9k

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI, alcohol consumption, reader is drunk in guy's part, bruce drinks but barely, reader uses she/her pronouns, insecurity in clark's, not proofread (if you see any mistakes or missing warnings pls lmk!)

──── .✮ ⋆ ˚｡

GUY GARDNER

Would a bartending android cut off a member of the Justice League after three too many drinks? It's a question that you hadn't thought to ask yourself before the night, but one that you would learn the answer to all the same.

No, even an android didn't have the guts to do so.

This unfortunate fact was how you found yourself seven hours into a league Fourth of July party on one of the many billionaire members' private islands, cozied up to none other than Guy fucking Gardner.

Your inhibitions had dissipated hours ago. By now, all that remained was a floating feeling that carried you in conversation. The desire for body heat brought on by being adorned in nothing but a swimsuit as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. While the other guests, miraculously avoided drunkness; either by the metahuman blood pumping through their veins or sheer heavy weight willpower alone. They had evaded the descent into drunkeness, where you were at the very bottom of the hole—currently in the sweet spot between sharing every thought on your mind and overwhelming nausea.

You had been chatting to Ted about some doomed-to-fail endeavour with Booster until he excused himself to talk logistics with the same blonde. Really, what you should have done was find Dinah or Diana, or even a long lounge chair to pass out on, but in your inebriated state, you followed the first thing, or rather person, that your eyes landed on.

You treaded over rather ungracefully to where John and Guy were lost in conversation. Guy had been splayed out on one of the many couches— arms stretched across the back and legs manspreading wide like an open invitation to be touched— and you flopped down right beside him, your hair tickling his open arms as you did.

"Had enough t'drink yet, honey?" Guy asked, swapping his beer to the other hand so he could rest his open arm comfortably around you. "Don’t worry. Ol’ Guy will take care of you. Can't believe that rust bucket didn't cut you off."

"Mmmm no," you hummed, smushing your face against Guy's shoulder. "M'not even drunk."

Your lips pursed from where your cheeks laid squished against his skin.

Guy would never admit it— far too adamant about his nonexistent romantic prowess— but he felt his freckled cheeks inflame from your touch. As much as he 'flirted' with every member of the team, he had always had his eye on you. You were kind, funny and relatively untouched by a godlike ego that could easily take any full-time League member into its clutches. For all that you made fun of Guy or became just as exasperated as anyone else, you had always recognised his loyalty and goodness that laid beneath his brash mannerisms.

He admired you. Truly. And watching you cozy up to him so comfortably, your cold fingers splaying out against the expanse of his chest absentmindedly, he couldn't help but feel like both of you were exactly where you belonged. It made his stomach sink.

"You sure?" John asked you with a smile.

"Mhm," you assured him, nodding as you unconsciously curled into Guy's side. "I could have, like, seven more drinks."

Guy laughed, taking another swig from his beer.

"Sure about that, babe?"

Normally you would have grimaced and told him off for that. But the jovial tone of conversation and the way Guy had so easily accepted responsibility for you in your admittedly drunk state, left you feeling too warmed and cared for to mind.

"Positive."

With the buzz of alcohol quickly taking control, you nuzzled your face into the crook of Guy's neck and closed your eyes.

As your breathing slowed, Guy's quickened— shocked still for a moment from the feeling of your lips brushing his neck. You were in his arms, touching him as if you had a right to and Guy knew then that he wouldn't be able to go back to the way things were. Whether you remembered it or not when the alcohol finally left your system, drunk actions were sober thoughts, and you had now been officially solidified as Guy Gardner's girl.

As this fact registered in Guy's brain, he relaxed into your touch. In the morning he would have to worry about the logistics of it all— proving to you that he deserved to call you his, for instance— but right now, he allowed himself to focus on your warmth and affection as you breathing evened and your eyes fluttered shut.

"Go ahead and sleep, honey." Guy said wrapping his arm around your frame. "I'll take you t'bed. Don't gotta worry your pretty little head about it."

Unbeknownst to you, two of your teammates watched on from afar in a healthy mixture of amusement and disgust.

“Do you think she’s going to regret this in the morning?” Ted asked.

Dinah snorted.

“Oh one hundred percent.” Dinah assured him. “If she remembers it, anyway.”

And maybe you did wake up to a photo of you passed out, wrapped around Guy Gardner like a koala. But when you zoomed in and saw his proud, cooked smile? You couldn't find it in yourself to care.

──── .✮ ⋆ ˚｡

BRUCE WAYNE

“So,” you said, making your way down to where a familiar brunette sat on the beach. “Does Matches Malone drink?”

The party continued to thrum on behind you. The farther you got, the more the sound of splashing and your teammates' chanted dares faded, replaced instead with the soothing waves of the ocean as the sun hung low in the sky. Framed by the sunset, Bruce squinted as he looked up at you.

He smiled softly.

“He can be convinced."

You took your place by Bruce's side in the sand, offering him your second mojito.

"I think I like Matches," you said with a smile. "He's a lot more fun than this other guy I know."

As Bruce accepted the spare glass from your hands, his fingers brushed yours.

With anyone else, it would have been an accident. But you knew him both on and off the field and recognised that 'accident' and 'Bruce Wayne' rarely belonged in the same sentence. With him, everything was purposeful… calculated. The fact that the two of you had even been sitting on this beach was likely a result of his own, careful planning to get you alone.

Rather than say anything, though— a part of you always too intimidated by Batman even when the cowl was off— you watched as he took a sip from the glass. His adam's apple, coated in a sheen of sweat from the day's events, bobbed as he swallowed and against all reason, you found yourself lost in the sight. That was, until, the uncomfortable heat of Bruce's gaze caught you staring.

"Sorry," you coughed out, turning back to stare at the ocean.

Bruce's eyes, however, didn't leave your form.

"Don't apologize," he said. "You're allowed to look."

Whatever air of casualty that you had attempted to display, dissipated as you went still as stone.

Bruce Wayne always knew how to surprise you. Sure, the relationship that the two of you had always bordered on flirtatious and other members had gone as far to comment on Batman's suspiciously indulgent nature when it came to you, but Bruce had yet to ever cross the boundary so boldly. To some extent, you assumed you had imagined the longing stares and rare laughs shared because he had never given you more.

But now, there was no doubt. Bruce made decisions, not accidental inferences. He decided that you were allowed to look; and you knew him well enough to understand what that really meant: he was allowing himself to be yours.

A part of you felt ridiculous at the way you unconsciously batted your eyelashes as you smiled up at him, but who could blame you? The big, bad Batman, called 'spooky' by some of the same men who made intergalactic threats shake in their boots, was flirting with you.

Taking a page from his own playfulness, you feigned nonchalance.

"Thanks, Matches," you said. "But my heart belongs to someone else."

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards.

"Yeah?" He asked.

The last glimmers of sunlight were reflected in his eyes as he stared down at you.

"Yeah."

Bruce nodded, a smirk grazing his lips as he stared back at the ocean.

"He's a lucky man, then."

You took only a moment to consider your response.

"Bruce?" You asked.

"Yes?"

You realised then that during the time you had spoken, your bodies had gravitated towards each other. As he turned his attention back towards you, away from the sea, his nose brushed against your own.

You cleared your throat, feeling his warm breath against your lips.

"Just kiss me."

A part of you had expected him to reach over like a man starved, but you should have known Bruce better than that. The hand that had been supporting his weight, trailed up your arm— leaving goosebumps in its wake— until he reached your cheek. His thumb laid against your chin, teasing the edges of your lip before he tilted your face upwards and met your mouth with his.

Bruce Wayne smelt like cologne more expensive than your car and kissed like a man who didn't worship at an altar, but at the feet of the woman he loved. For all his tenderness, Bruce was quick to deepen the kiss, slipping his free hand around you until his palm rested against your back, pulling you towards him. The movement made you gasp and he swallowed the breath eagerly.

It was moments until your hands had found the way to his hair, tugging at its ends as Bruce's tongue massaged yours in a way that was heinous for a man who looked, and frankly was, so good. It was only mere seconds later, that his hands had gravitated from your waist to your thighs, pulling you into his lap.

At the same time, across the beach and desperate for a moment to catch his breath, Clark stumbled onto the sand. Unfortunately for Clark, that breath was not caught when instead of a rejuvenating conversation with his friend, he was met with the sight of Bruce palming your breast beneath your shirt as you left sucked on the tender skin of his neck.

Red in the face and covering his eyes like a repentant child, Clark turned back towards the pool party, but not without shooting his friend a hesitant thumbs up.

──── .✮ ⋆ ˚｡

CLARK KENT

"Really, Clark," you assured him. "I can carry my own stuff. It's no big deal."

Despite the fact that you were both guests on the island, Clark had been nothing but a thoughtful host.

The moment that your jet landed, Clark had been waiting on the tarmac to greet you. He held the keys to a borrowed SUV in his hands and had pulled your luggage from the cargo hold before you even had a chance to ask for help. Even the drive to the house had honestly been too short for your liking. The windows had been rolled down— only after Clark had asked, of course— and what had seemed to be a playlist of your favourite songs were ringing out over the radio.

Not to mention that there were moments you turned to look at Clark, only to be met with his soft, blue eyes already on yours. You couldn't help but smile, then, at the blush that coated his cheeks as he bashfully turned his attention back to the road.

Now at the house you'd both be staying at the next few days, Clark had yet again took it upon himself to carry your luggage: an ever dutiful knight in a linen button-down.

"Don't be silly!" Clark argued, "I'm happy to help."

And with the bright smile he flashed you, you had a difficult time denying him.

Later that afternoon as the backyard— if you could even call four acres of land that— came alive with the arrival of more guests, the party was officially in full swing. The chlorinated water of the pool thrashed with the playfulness of its inhabitants and the thrum of the speakers reverberated through the tiled floors surrounding it. In the corner just beyond the patio of the house, Clark stood at the grill, using his laser vision to cook burgers to perfection.

"And to think we were wasting your powers on saving cities," you joked.

Clark smiled at the sound of your voice; although when he turned to meet your eyes, he froze.

Between now and the last time he saw you, you had changed into your swimsuit— a one piece that managed to accentuate all your best features while leaving just enough to the imagination. You had been friends, you had always been friends, but he rarely saw you out of uniform. To lay his eyes on you dressed so casually felt like a gift. Like you had crossed the borders of formality into familiarity in a way that made his cheeks burn.

"Are you going into the pool?" He asked.

With a spare glance at the pool, you shrugged.

"I don't know," you said. "I was thinking some place quieter."

Clark let out a strangled cough.

"Quieter. I like quieter." He agreed before waving down a nearby member to take control of the grill. "Lead the way."

The hot tub had been tucked away from the noise party. Ever the gentleman, Clark was the first to step inside, but was quick to hold out his hand for yours to steady your own descent into the water.

He stripped himself of his shirt, folding it neatly against the railing like a boy-raised-right, but it grew more and more difficult to focus on his manners as he turned around. People often commented that Superman was the most muscular man in the world, and although that may have been true to a certain extent, they had failed to realize how soft their man of steel really was. You couldn't help but admire the view— the small bit of tummy over his swimshorts, a stretch of curly hair over his chest, the way his arms flexed to make them look even larger than when he had held up an entire building.

You were oggling. And as much as Clark would never admit it, ever the polite man his mother raised him to be, he knew. He could hear the way your heart rate accelerated as your eyes raked over him, and honestly? He loved it.

"I like the quiet," Clark said, sliding onto the tub's bench beside you. "It reminds me of home."

"Only you could be on a billionaire's private island and be thinking of Smallville," you joked. "I'd love to see it someday."

"Ma would love that."

He hadn't considered the implication of what he said until the words had already tumbled from his lips.

"Why's that?" You asked.

Clark weighed his options. He could fib. He could tell you that his mother was just happy to host or a fan of his team members. However, as he looked back at you— at the way that you stared up at him with nothing but fondness and a warmth that seeped into the limited space between you— he decided that he didn't have to. You would accept Clark as he is.

"Well, she asks about you a lot," he replied. "She uh… she thinks you're my girlfriend."

If he thought your heart rate was fast before, it now rivaled a speedster's.

"Why?"

Clark considered the pep talk he had received from a particular playboy earlier in the day, and despite all alarms warning him that it was too forward… unwanted… he stretched his arm along the length of the hot tub's rim to brush your hand.

"Because I talk about you a lot," he said. You felt your heart skip a beat, knowing the strongest man on earth spent his phone calls with his mother talking about you of all things. "About how smart you are… and funny. How you're brave and kind… and beautiful."

Clark shyly stared off to where his hand met yours.

"You think I'm beautiful?"

Clark nodded. "You are beautiful."

You weren't sure if it was because of Clark's own bashful demeanor or because he had just confessed in his own way how he felt about you, but a surge of confidence ran through you. You slipped your hand out from underneath his and squeezed it fully. Your free hand that had until this moment been gripping your thigh to ground you, reached out to hold his stubbled cheek.

His blue eyes, pupils blown, met yours and you smiled.

"Why don't we get out of here and have our first date?" You asked.

You watched as Clark's brain slowly registered what you had just said. A slew of mismatched syllables flew out of his mouth as he stumbled over his words. Once he composed himself with a cough, the cheesiest smile you had ever seen spread across his cheeks.

"I thought you'd never ask."

──── .✮ ⋆ ˚｡

AUTHOR'S NOTE: i'm so nervous to post this. no AI was involved in the creation of this fic and everything was written using ellipsus! because this is my first DC fic, i'll also add that my inbox is always open to chat about dc characters!! especially headcanons xx dinah's part will be included in the next fic!

[sacredsorceress]

first DC fic coming tomorrow!!

comment to be tagged

[sacredsorceress]

╭──────────.★..─╮ Baby Daddy!Roy Harper... ╰─..★.──────────╯

baby daddy!roy harper who has done this dance before and is much more pleased with the situation he finds himself in this time that he can’t find it in himself to be shocked. you’re a good person: wholly and totally. you get along with lian. you understand his life as a vigilante. and he knows that your child will be a priority in your life.

baby daddy!roy harper who asks you to move in with him. he knows it’s forward and that the two of you weren’t even dating, but he wants his child to have the experience of both parents under one roof. he doesn’t want lian to miss out on time with her sibling just because her dad wasn’t smart enough to lock a girl down before getting her pregnant.

baby daddy!roy harper who wants to get it right this time. it upsets him a lot that he wasn’t able to be in lian’s life from birth and he wants to experience all of the milestones. he makes sure there’s a room for both of you— even if he has to ask ollie for help to do so. he’s with you at every appointment, cracking jokes and asking questions.

baby daddy!roy harper who flirts with you constantly. there’s a reason he slept with you in the first place and as the pregnancy goes on, he can’t help but be wildly attracted to you to an unprecedented degree. he can’t keep his hands off of you: touching your back as he brushes past you, holding your hand to help you out of the car, laying your feet in his lap as you watch a movie with lian. he wants more but won’t say anything unless he’s 100% sure you feel the same.

baby daddy!roy harper who won’t let another soul say anything bad about you. You may not be his in any official sense of the word, but the bond you share is deep. someone wants to shame you? his roommate, partner, co-parent, mother of his child? they better think again because roy harper is a lot of things, but someone who will take shit from people? not one of them.

baby daddy!roy harper who you had intended to set boundaries with and establish a healthy, platonic coparent relationship with, but the more you get to know him— see the real him outside the archer’s bravado— you begin to realise how much of a family man is… how deeply he cares for the people in his life and how seamlessly you’ve become one of those people. then, you start to wonder if a health co-parent is really all you want?

──── .✦

[foreverbegins]

love me like you do

jli guys dating headcanons featuring... booster gold, ted kord, guy gardner

cw: lots of fluff, guy takes a hands-on approach to things

song: love me like you do - ellie goulding

booster gold

boyfriend!booster who... likes to say he isn't the jealous type. swears on it. he's sending looks your way when you laugh too hard at another man's joke? what?? he’d never!! just.. shift that attention back to him, would you?

boyfriend!booster who... turns bright red when physical contact is involved in anything. you're sparring together? he’s sweating bullets, and not from the exercise. your hands brush whilst passing in the hallway? he thinks about it for the rest of the day. god forbid you intentionally do something, because he’ll need an ice pack and a moment to sit down

boyfriend!booster who... is like a puppy. yeah, yeah, golden retriever boyfriend or whatever the girls on tiktok say about their boyfriends, but it’s more than that. he’s loyal, he’s sociable, he loves to go on walks, and he’ll bark for you if you ask nicely. wait, what? who said that?

guy gardner

boyfriend!guy who... gets reeaall cocky when people see you in public together. not just the usual “look how beautiful my partner is”, but going out of his way to get in stranger’s lines of vision with you in his arms, pointing at you and giving them a big, fat ‘L’ with his pointer finger and thumb

boyfriend!guy who... cannot keep his hands off of you for the life of him. do NOT think about bending down around him to pick up something from the floor, or leaning over the dinner table to grab the salt, because the shape of his palm will be indented in the curve of your ass for the next month. might wanna get some ice on that one.

boyfriend!guy who... doesn’t know what an inside thought is. will blurt out the most outrageous comments about you (and others, though those usually aren’t so positive) without a care in the world. hope you don’t get embarrassed easily.

ted kord

boyfriend!ted who... always finds a way to make eye contact with you when stupid things happen. he has a way of doing it in the worst moments, too, and he knows how it’ll end -- both of you being scolded for bursting into laughter.

boyfriend!ted who... feels much more confident around you. he’s got his insecurities, sure, who doesn’t? but they all melt away as soon as he’s by your side, and you’re there to remind him of how amazing he actually is. don’t doubt that he’ll do the same for you. this guy doesn’t know how not to give you compliments

boyfriend!ted who... accidentally keeps you up later than you’d like at night with his talking, or the blue light from his laptop on his side of the bed, but makes it up to you by buying you as much caffeine as you need the next morning. OR he takes extra time to tuck you into bed at night, kiss on the forehead and all.

divider by @/mieluno

*taps mic* is this thing on?

maybe will do more of these... will this become a dc blog? who knows

severe lack of booster gold in my system </3

[gothamorphosis]

𝐀 𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

Or: how you met Selina Kyle

Warnings: No real warnings, the end could be read as suggestive i guess // Part of the 𝐖𝐨𝐰, 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 (…𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝?) series, which means it's fem!reader (use of terms such as lady to refer to reader). Not necessarily afab!

Morph's thoughts: Whoop whoop, we're finally kicking the pride event off!! For some reason Selina was the clearest vision in my mind when i started planning these, so we're starting with her lol - It's my first time writing full pieces for these lovely girls so let me know if there's anything to imporve!!

To be fair, you probably should have known this would happen when you'd promised to return a favour Bruce had done for you. Especially one that had meant he'd been stuck in a meeting room for over three hours just so he could fix your issue.

It was of no real surprise then, when the invite had pinged in your email, a fancy lettering greeting you and announcing the next big Wayne gala. Sitting at the end of the page —just by the RSVP button— a little asterisk that reminded you of your need to balance the scales, the same one that made it obvious Bruce had personally sent it. As revenge, and just to make sure that he knew you'd be going but not willingly do so, you'd used the company card to buy the outfit you explicitly needed to match the theme.

And here you were now; bored out of your mind, nodding along to whatever self-glorifying story one of the selected few rich people in Gotham was telling to an equally pretentious group, while downing what probably was your third —or maybe forth… fifth?— champagne flute. They could be fuller in your humble opinion, the golden liquid barely taking more than three fingers width of the long glass, not quite enough to give you the reprieve you were hoping for.

It wasn't your first time at a gala, you knew how empty the conversations were, how they often droned over empty commitment to social issues that never reflected onto real policies. If it were any other night, you would've found any of the robins by now, much more entertained by the problems of a group of young adults than the empty promises of the city's most influential people.

But of course, it wasn't a regular night, you wouldn't be here if it was. Instead it was a night that called for you to play hostess while Bruce and his little family of vigilantes did their thing, entertain the wealthy group while real justice was served in the city just for long enough for Bruce to steal the show right at the end.

But Bruce wasn't here, not yet, and you felt like you'd lose your mind if you had to hear one more person use the term "summer" as a verb instead of a noun. So as subtly as you could, you looked around, hoping to find anything or anyone that could give you the smallest break.

And damn, find someone you did. Bruce hadn't told you, and you'd definitely scold him for that later, but the Selina Kyle was standing at the other side of the room, looking as utterly bored as you did. Much more stunningly beautiful, too.

Even with her clear interest she led the group she was in with an undeniable grace, her small nods and short interventions somehow enough to guide the conversation to one topic and then another. Her presence was felt all throughout the room, people seeming to stand at attention, to fix their clothes or their posture whenever she got close, a friendly hand on an arm or shoulder and all smiles.

It was a mere second, and yet the instant her eyes met yours your stomach dropped and then tangled up. Maybe it was butterflies, although judging by the feeling it probably was angry wasps. Either way, you needed something to sooth your suddenly dry throat.

Quickly darting your eyes to the other side of the room, completely opposite of her, you'd excused yourself from the group. Heading straight for the bar, you'd forgone the silly flutes, asking the bartender for a double martini, using the wait time to steady your breath —when had you started to hold it?— and quickly check your appearance in a little compact mirror you carried with you.

With the first sip of the martini, your heart seemed to settle down, muscles relaxing at the idea of getting a few minutes of peace and quiet at the bar. Of course, life had other plans.

"What did you owe him?" It was her, leaning on the bar just beside you, a knowing little grin on her lips when she gestured to the bartender to get a drink just like yours.

"oh, uhm—" you have to pause for a second, almost choking when part of the garnishing olive seems to go through the wrong side of your windpipe. There goes being calm and collected. "Long meeting, pompous guy that wanted to buy the building i live in. Kick out all the families and retired folk to make luxury apartments."

Selina nods along to your words, a glint in her eyes making you think perhaps she already knows why you're here, that maybe she's just asked you to get you to talk. Then again, why would she choose you out of everyone in the massive ballroom?

"It does sound like something Bruce would fix in exchange of skipping a gala," she concedes with a light chuckle, drinking from her glass with much more class than you could ever muster. "Although he'd exchange pretty much anything to skip one of these."

That makes you laugh too, head nodding in agreement as you look around the room. "Who wouldn't?" it was mostly meant for yourself, but the smile she gives you feels much more real than the one she's been sporting this whole time. "So i take it he's cashing in a favour with you too?"

"Oh, I basically have life sentence to these things," the combination of your laughs shouldn't sound as close to reaching Heaven as it does. "Definitely owe Bruce enough for it."

A surprisingly comfortable silence settles in, both of you seeming weirdly in sync as you take the time to drink a couple sips and look around the room. It clicks then.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Absolutely rude of me, I'm—"

The smile that pulls at her perfectly lined lips makes your brain short-circuit long before she could interrupt you. Although even if that hadn't done it, the velvety tone with which she says your full name surely does.

"I know. I've loved all your recent work. The Martha Wayne Foundation has done nothing but exceptional work since you joined."

You blink once, then twice. Barely able to mutter an expression of gratitude before you're looking away, first to your now-empty glass and then to the crowd, while you try to fight back the warmth that is quickly pooling at your cheeks.

As soon as her hand lands on your arms your back is straightened, eyes snapping back to meet hers, breath giving a light hitch at how much closer she is.

Selina's lips part, but before she can say whatever she was planning to, another familiar voice reaches your ears.

"Ladies, i take it you already know each other." Bruce looks too self-satisfied with the situation, the quick look he sends Selina carrying some sort of knowing spark that you don't seem to be privy to. "Enjoying the night?"

"Oh, it's absolutely lovely," The fake niceness in her voice is so obvious you can't help the soft laugh that leaves you. Can't help noticing the way her smile seems to grow at getting that reaction from you, either. "You'll have so much fun now that it's your turn."

You're sure some sort of complaint leaves Bruce, but it's not like you care much about it. Because Selina is leaning close, close enough that her lips almost brush your ear when she enticingly offers to "get out of here, so i can get you a proper drink."

You're nodding before she's done speaking, happily lacing your arm with hers and letting her guide you through the crowd. When you look back at Bruce you only get that small yet sincere smile you've grown accustomed to seeing from him, followed by a knowing wink.

⋆. 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𐙚˚ || 𓄹 ⊹ . 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 . 𐐒𐐚₊⋆｡˚

Comments and reblogs are welcome and encouraged <3 Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai // © gothamorphosis 2026 all rights reserved

[froggibus]

— Kissing Wounds

Pairing: Garth x gn! reader

Summary: after a rough mission, Garth helps clean you up

Word Count: ~900

Content/CW -> gn! reader, established relationship, canon typical injury, mentions of blood + pain, guilt, reader is a titan

— requested as part of my neglect week event

froggi yaps -> sooo sorry for the delay on these, like i said the other day im packing up and moving 12hrs away and its just been a Lot to process mentally ++ lots of packing and organization to do. also yes this was the culprit with the 45 word sentence lol

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” Garth stresses, chasing after you down the hallway.

“Okay, so I’m fine and I’m bleeding.”

He catches your wrist in his, fingertips a pleading touch on your skin, begging you to slow down. Your name rolls off his tongue.

You slow, shoulders slumping, and turn to face him, “what?”

Your chest is heavy with the weight of your mission failure today, a thousand pounds added to the thousand you already carry around. You blink, Dick’s voice ringing in your ears. It’s not your fault, he said. Bullshit, you’d spat back.

You blink and suddenly you can see the glowing screen in front of him and the shadow it cast over his face, the number that popped up on the screen. Civilian casualties, countless injuries, extensive property damage. 

“Talk to me,” Garth frowns, his voice soft when he says, “please.”

“I fucked up. What else is there to talk about?”

His brows crease the way they always do when he’s confused. He’d been there for the mission evaluation, had watched with tensed shoulders and tight knuckles from the sidelines while you, Donna and Kory fought your asses off to save the city. 

He should’ve been there. They all should’ve. But a last minute threat on the coast had drawn their attention away, dividing the team and cutting him off from you.

There’s a million things Garth wants to say right now. It’s not your fault, you didn’t fuck up, it’s okay. But he knows none of that will soothe your hackles, and will coax you out of this guilt-ridden corner you’ve backed yourself into.

“At least let me clean you up,” he finally says.

You consider it, consider him. From the defiant set of his jaw to the unyielding look in his eyes. Finally, you sigh and nod, letting him drag you to the bathroom.

Garth ushers you into the tiny bathroom of your shared apartment, the width of his shoulders perfectly blocking your view of the door. He kicks the door closed behind him, hand dropping from your wrist to your hip.

You hop up onto the counter, the cold counter beneath you as familiar as Garth’s touch. You lost count of how many nights you’ve spent here with him, one of you patching the other up between soft kisses and professions of worry.

His hand tugs at the seam of your shirt, fingers slipping just below the blood-stained fabric. He lifts it up slowly, careful not to catch it on any of your wounds.

The corners of his lips tug further downward when he sees the wounds on your abdomen, three big long scratches that you hardly remember getting. Garth’s fingers hover just above it and you wonder if he’s trying to conjure up some sort of magic to stitch them back together.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” you say quietly.

He hums lowly. “You’re lying.”

Despite the burning coming from your freshly exposed cuts, you force a guilty smile. Nothing gets past Garth.

He ducks under the counter, dark head of hair disappearing as he rifles for the fully stocked first aid kit you keep under there. He pulls it out, holding it up triumphantly before zipping it open and digging through it to pull out supplies.

You watch as he washes his hands, scrubbing them for a good minute before patting them dry on one of the plush towels he keeps in the bathroom. Wetting a cloth with warm water, Garth resumes his place between your legs.

“You already know, but this is gonna hurt.”

You only nod, teeth clenched as you brace yourself. He gently pats at the wound with a cloth, removing as much of the blood—both fresh and crusted over—as he can.

It’s when he pulls out the alcohol wipes, small but mighty, that the pain really kicks in. You brace yourself for what’s to come, fingers tightening around your knee cap and digging in to distract yourself from the pain.

Garth notices, resting the pad on its packaging. He reaches for your hand, “here, squeeze mine.”

You lace your fingers through his, squeezing until you can feel the bones of his fingers digging into the sides of yours. Garth doesn’t react, doesn’t even wince from how tightly you’re holding him. Instead, he grabs the pad and resumes cleaning at your wound with one hand.

“Almost there,” he hums after a long period of silence. “Doing so well for me.”

You’re not sure that’s entirely true from the way you’re squeezing your eyes closed, gritting your teeth and damn near breaking his fingers with how tight you’re holding him. Still, Garth doesn’t seem to mind, only smiling carefully and nodding along.

“There.” He pulls away, discarding the pad in your garbage can. “All done.”

The rest of the process is quick. He wraps up the wound in gauze, tapes it up and places a soft kiss against the thick, cottony coating over your wound. Heat rests in your cheeks.

You drop his hand from yours, unfurling your fingers despite the pain that sparks when you do. “Thank you.”

He rests a hand on either thigh. “Anytime. I mean it.”

And he does. Garth knows better than anyone that he might not be able to ease all your pain—might not be able to stop you from blaming yourself for how the mission went today—but at the very least, he can take care of you.

dc masterlist | navigation

thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡

[bat1nsignia]

drabble #15! 18+ mdni, bruce wayne

—————————————————————————

post- patrol bruce was something else.

this man would be so tired and drained after stopping another one of riddler’s riddles and preventing city hall from blowing up. —again— that the first thing he needs to do when he comes back home is to immediately wrap you in his arms and not let you go

even when he was in the bathtub, his hands couldn’t learn to let you go. 

“god, i needed this” he groaned on your lips, cock buried deep in your pussy and hands on your waist to hold you in place while you straddled him. the air smelt of lavender from the bath salts and jasmine from the candle you lit, along with the faint aroma of soap enveloping it altogether. this was different than the sex you two would often have. this time, it was slow. you were taking your time with him, not with lust, but with love. the thrusts were slow— deep, but slow

you let out a soft moan, feeling his lips swallow your sound and trail his lips down to bury his face in your neck. your arms around his neck buried his face more to your body, something that bruce would gladly take up on

the water would slightly swish from each movement of your hips. bruce would feel his body absorb the warmth from the water and the warmth of your walls around his cock, his pants on your neck now turning into love bites. 

“i love you” he whispered on your skin, his mouth now pressing a kiss down your throat. “so much”  on your collarbone. “so so fucking much” and on your chest, right where your heart was

you felt one of the veins slowly brush on your walls just right, right enough for you to softly gasp and clench on him for just a second, making both of you moan at the same time. god, if bruce wasn’t tired, he would have you bent over the damn tub to fuck you properly

he lifted his head from your body to whisper on your lips without touching them, a smile on his face as his eyes met with yours. “takin’ me so well, sweetheart” bruce cooed. “feelin’ so much better already”

your hands went to push his wet hair back and to get a good look at him. the tiredness and fatigue in his face were a contrast to the slightly bleary look in his eyes—even then, he still looked gorgeous and still the man you fell in love with. 

from there, you pull him into a kiss and move your hips deeper to swallow a groan from his lips, meeting them with a soft, deep and slow kiss. the type of kiss that bruce definitely needed tonight, the type of kiss only you could give him

god, did this man love you

—————————————————————————

masterlist!

(a/n: guys it literally swings.... im not even joking it LITERALLY swings good fucking lord i am not okay for this man i want him so bad)

main taglist: @sweetpeasosweet @lcvgty-4929 @fratbrochrisgf @wrldbloom @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @vianawaits @edawgz @hottubnda @onlyfeng @lucky-clover13 @tragicfiend @nyx-of-night @missmontiopath @bloomfaery @booksrcool @jaydennicole @gglouise23 @sicklyhana @klauvy @pocket-fish0 @romancedawn333 @sashadonat @uxavity @batslilwhore @oh-sheetcake @boo-123456 @ydivine @the-star-rover @slutfordpr @advline @arfemiz @freakkay09 @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @hernersworld @starrydustedwinter @inejskywalker @seeker2028 @ksiazkowaxx-blog @kh4dij7 @vanillakirstein @lillie1320 @scissorhvnds @branchesofmagic @devilslittlehelper @starr-jazz @nightwingblvd @yukimaniac @freddiweasly @devorator666 @dadump @ftkats @st4rl1ghtgrays0n @st4rstuddedreblogs @em12021 @heleneae @darkxwolfsstuff @imintoomanyfandoms14 @littlelightbearer @th3d1nOr3ad3r @psychopompsblog @wwolfsca @kaiiii1009 @century-eggg @tvhore (tags are open)

©bat1nsignia— please do not steal, repost or reuse my work.

[sacredsorceress]

WIP Update!

if anyone has other character/friend pairings they would like to see, now is the time to request <3

[writingdose]

insane to me how, to some people, this is not a common sense

[sacredsorceress]

REQUESTS OPEN .ᐟ

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ I’ll be finished with my master’s degree in three weeks (AHH) so I can finally start writing again⊹ ࣪ ˖𓂃

My MCU requests are on hold, but I’m open for requests for the following DC Comics characters:

0.1 BRUCE WAYNE / Batman

0.2 CLARK KENT / Superman

0.3 HAL JORDAN / Green Lantern

0.4 DIANA OF THEMYSCIRA / Wonder Woman

0.5 BARRY ALLEN / Flash

0.6 OLIVER QUEEN / Green Arrow

0.7 TED KORD / Blue Beetle

0.8 MICHAEL CARTER / Booster Gold

0.9 DINAH LANCE / Black Canary

0.10 JOHN CONSTANTINE

*I haven’t included Dick Grayson, Jason Todd or Wally West because I want to focus on less-written characters in the fandom— BUT if you have a multi-character fic idea (like, DC characters x jealous!reader) and want them included, then you can still request for them!

REQUEST HERE .ᐟ

[crookshanks-07]

Mi Casa es Su Casa

Bruce Wayne x Reader 

Summary: The first time you sleep over at the manor, and the first time Bruce steps foot in your tiny one bed room apartment. 

Asks/requests are open!! Masterlist

The first night you stayed at Wayne Manor felt strangely intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. Not because of the mansion itself. If anything, the manor should’ve felt impersonal. Too large. Too polished. The kind of place where you were afraid to touch things because they probably cost more than your rent. Instead, it felt… lived in.

Warm.

There were books left open on side tables. Half-finished mugs of tea abandoned in sitting rooms. A sweater tossed over the back of a chair that was very obviously Dick’s because no human being besides Dick owned that many neon hoodies. And Bruce—

Bruce somehow made the entire massive place feel smaller just by existing in it. You were standing in the kitchen nursing a cup of tea when he walked in wearing the robe. You physically had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.

Bruce paused immediately. “What?”

“Oh my god,” you breathed. His brow furrowed slightly. “That robe is pink.”

“It is not pink.”

“It’s satin.”

“It’s silk.”

“That somehow makes it worse.”

Bruce looked down at himself with a tiny frown like he was reconsidering the robe for the first time in his life. The robe was absolutely pink. Not bright pink. But definitely some rich wine-colored silk situation that looked unbelievably soft and expensive and absurdly domestic on a man built like Bruce Wayne.

Your laughter finally slipped out. Bruce sighed the long-suffering sigh of a man who’d apparently dealt with this before. “Damian bought it.”

You gasped dramatically. “Damian picked this out?”

“He said it looked distinguished.”

“That child thinks you’re a divorced millionaire in a Nancy Meyers movie.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched. And there it was. That tiny almost-smile he tried so hard to suppress sometimes. You pointed at him immediately. “Don’t you do that.”

“Do what?”

“That little smile thing where you pretend you’re not smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You literally are right now.”

Bruce took another sip of tea to hide it. Coward. You wandered closer, unable to help yourself, fingers brushing lightly against the silk sleeve of his robe.

Your eyes widened instantly. “Wait, this is actually insane.”

Bruce looked down at you quietly. “What?”

“It’s so soft.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I thought rich people fabric was all for aesthetics. This feels illegal.”

A quiet laugh escaped him then. Actual laughter. Low and warm and rough with sleep. It startled you enough that you looked up immediately. Bruce rarely laughed fully. Not like that. Usually it was restrained amusement. A quiet exhale through his nose. Tiny smiles hidden behind coffee mugs. But this?

This was softer. Sleepier. Real. And maybe because it was late, maybe because the kitchen lights were dim, maybe because Bruce looked so comfortable standing there in his ridiculous robe with messy hair and reading glasses halfway down his nose, you suddenly felt unbearably fond of him.

Your hand stayed resting lightly on his sleeve. Bruce glanced down at it before looking back at you. Neither of you moved for a second. Then Bruce quietly asked, “You tired?”

“A little.”

“You’ve been trying not to yawn for twenty minutes.”

“I was being polite.”

“You fell asleep during the documentary earlier.”

“In my defense, it was about architecture.”

“It was about sustainable city planning.”

You stared at him flatly. “Bruce, that’s worse.”

Another tiny smile. God, you loved making him smile. Bruce set his mug down before reaching out gently, fingers catching your wrist. Not forceful. Just guiding. He pulled you closer until your hip bumped lightly against his. And then, because apparently this terrifying man was secretly affectionate beyond belief in private, he simply wrapped both arms around you and tucked you against his chest.

Your brain short-circuited immediately. “…Oh.”

Bruce hummed softly above your head. “What?”

“You’re clingy.”

“I am not clingy.”

“You literally just bear-trapped me in a kitchen.”

“You walked into range.”

You laughed against his chest, and Bruce’s arms tightened slightly in response like the sound itself relaxed something in him. That was another thing you were learning. Bruce touched constantly when he loved someone. Not publicly. Never publicly.

But in private? A hand at your waist while passing behind you. Fingers brushing your knee during conversations. Pulling you absentmindedly against his side while reading. Small things. Quiet things. Like he was always reassuring himself you were still there.

You tilted your head back slightly to look at him. “You’re really different at home.”

Bruce’s expression softened almost immediately. “Is that bad?”

“No,” you said quietly. “I think it’s my favorite version of you.”

Something vulnerable flickered across his face so quickly most people probably would’ve missed it. But you didn’t. Bruce leaned down slightly, pressing a slow kiss against your forehead. Not rushed. Not heated. Just tender. The kind of kiss that felt like being cared for. “You should sleep,” he murmured softly.

“Mmm. Don’t wanna.”

“You said you were tired.”

“I am.”

“Then come to bed.”

The words were simple. Casual, even. But warmth still flooded your chest embarrassingly fast. Bruce must’ve noticed because the corner of his mouth lifted slightly before he brushed his thumb along your cheek. “C’mon.”

He took your hand then. And despite the size of Wayne Manor, despite the endless halls and towering ceilings and all the wealth surrounding you, walking through the quiet manor half-asleep with Bruce’s hand wrapped around yours somehow felt more like home than anything else.

The first time Bruce came to your apartment, you nearly canceled three separate times. Not because you didn’t want him there. That was the problem. You wanted him there too much. Which meant suddenly you were painfully aware of everything. The old radiator that hissed like it was possessed. The tiny kitchen with exactly three feet of counter space. The fact that your couch cushions sank weirdly in the middle.

You spent an embarrassing amount of time cleaning despite the apartment already being clean. Fluffing pillows. Lighting candles. Hiding the one chair that had become The Laundry Chair. And still, by the time Bruce knocked on the door, your stomach was in knots. Because Bruce lived in Wayne Manor.

Wayne fucking Manor.

Meanwhile your apartment building had a flickering hallway light and a neighbor who blasted music every Thursday night. You opened the door still wearing one sock because you’d lost the other one halfway through panic-cleaning. Bruce immediately noticed. “…You’re missing a sock.”

You stared at him. “Hello to you too.”

His mouth twitched slightly. And just like that, some of the tension eased. Bruce stood there dressed down in dark jeans and a black henley, one hand holding takeout bags from your favorite little noodle place across town. Not chauffeured-driver Bruce Wayne. Not billionaire gala Bruce Wayne. Just Bruce.

Your Bruce.

“You brought food?”

“You forgot dinner yesterday.”

“You remember my meals now?”

“You forget them often enough for it to qualify as a pattern.”

“Wow. Judgmental.”

Bruce leaned down slightly as he stepped inside, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead as he passed. “You’re nervous,” he murmured quietly.

Your eye twitched. “No I’m not.”

“You reorganized your bookshelf alphabetically.”

You froze. “…How did you know it wasn’t already like that?”

Bruce slowly looked at the stack of books beside the couch. “…Because those are still piled by color.”

You stared at him in horror. Bruce kissed the side of your head to hide his amusement. “You missed one,” he informed you gently.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Unfortunately, he sounded very sure about that. Bruce moved deeper into the apartment while you shut the door behind him, and you couldn’t stop watching him. Not because he looked out of place. But because he didn’t. That was somehow worse. Bruce Wayne should’ve looked ridiculous standing in your tiny kitchen setting takeout containers on the counter. Instead, he looked… comfortable. Like he’d already decided this place mattered because it mattered to you.

His gaze wandered quietly around the apartment, not critical, not assessing financially, just observing. The string lights around the windows. The tiny framed movie posters. The books overflowing from shelves because you’d run out of room months ago. The blanket draped over the couch. He noticed everything. Of course he did. “You have more mugs than dishes,” Bruce observed after a moment.

“That’s because mugs are important.”

“Hm.”

“That was judgment in rich person.”

“That was observation.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Same thing.”

Bruce’s smile deepened slightly. God. That smile was unfair in normal lighting, but in your apartment with the warm lamps on and rain tapping softly against the windows? Lethal. You turned away before he noticed the effect he was having on you. Too late. Bruce’s hand slid lightly against your waist as you passed him. Effortless. Automatic. Like touching you had already become instinct for him.

“What?” you muttered suspiciously.

“You’re pacing.”

“I am not.”

“You’ve walked in a circle around the kitchen three times.”

“…This kitchen is like four feet wide.”

Bruce hummed thoughtfully. “Still counts.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I’m being perceived.”

“You invited me over.”

“I regret allowing you to have observational skills.”

Bruce laughed quietly then. Actually laughed. Low and warm and fond. And suddenly your tiny apartment felt warmer for it. Bruce leaned back against your counter afterward, watching you plate noodles while soft jazz played faintly from your speaker. There was something deeply surreal about the image.

Bruce Wayne.

In your apartment.

In rolled-up sleeves.

Looking absurdly handsome while holding chopsticks.

You pointed at him suddenly. “You’re too relaxed.”

One brow lifted slightly. “Meaning?”

“You’re acting like you do this all the time.”

“I spend time at your apartment often.”

“You have been here for six minutes.”

“And yet.” You narrowed your eyes harder. Bruce only looked amused. Then, because apparently the universe enjoyed humiliating you, the shitty apartment radiator suddenly let out a loud metallic BANG. You flinched. Bruce didn’t even blink. “…Did it just do that naturally?” he asked calmly.

“Yes.”

“And you live like this willingly?”

“It builds character.”

“I think it builds tetanus.”

You laughed so suddenly you almost dropped your bowl. Bruce looked disproportionately pleased with himself for causing it. A little later, after dinner, you found Bruce sprawled across your couch like he belonged there. Which was insane. Truly insane. Because this was Bruce Wayne.

Billionaire CEO.

And he was currently wearing one of your fuzzy gray blankets over his lap with a green face mask spread across his face. You stood frozen in the hallway staring at him. Bruce glanced up from his phone. “…What?”

“You look ridiculous.”

“You put this on me.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually wear it!”

“You said it helps with dry skin.”

“You’re Bruce Wayne.”

“And?”

“And you look like a sleepy TikTok boyfriend.” Bruce looked entirely unashamed. Worse, he looked comfortable. Feet propped on your coffee table. One arm stretched along the back of the couch. The face mask somehow failing to make him look any less intimidating. You collapsed beside him laughing into your hands. “This is the weirdest moment of my life.”

Bruce looked over at you quietly then. Really looked at you. His expression softened in that private way he reserved only for the people he loved most. “I like it here,” he said softly.

Your laughter faded a little. “You do?”

Bruce nodded once. “It’s yours.”

The simplicity of it hit embarrassingly hard. Because he meant it. The apartment wasn’t impressive. It wasn’t glamorous. But Bruce looked around at your tiny living room like it was something precious because it belonged to you.

You shifted closer without thinking. Bruce immediately opened one arm for you on instinct alone. You curled against his side while rain tapped softly outside and the face mask on his stupidly handsome face cracked slightly when he smiled down at you. “You know,” you murmured, “if Gotham could see you right now, your reputation would be destroyed.”

Bruce kissed the top of your head lazily. “They’d survive.

[edawgz]

# BAD PRESS

⤿ BRUCE WAYNE wasn't the type of man to get caught up on the headlines about himself. Then your article came out and sent waves through his socialite lifestyle.

!! tension. fem!reader. journalist!reader. i geeked out a bit w the journalist concept. for those who don't know im a journalist. ignore the run on sentences pls. not fully proofed. i also ran out of bruce pictures that i haven't used yet so enjoy lego bruce. taglist open. comments encouraged as always. ENJOY.

Bruce Wayne hated bad press.

Not because it damaged Wayne Enterprises, because Lucius usually fixed that before it became a real problem. And definitely not because Gotham’s elite whispered about him over expensive champagne either, because Bruce had learned years ago that rich people would gossip about anything if they got bored enough.

He hated bad press because you wrote it well.

Not tabloid garbage, not shallow billionaire hit pieces filled with lazy commentary and recycled headlines, but articles sharp enough to make people uncomfortable, pieces that dug beneath the polished charity galas and photo ops and exposed the ugly disconnect between Gotham’s suffering and the city’s wealthiest man pretending another fundraiser counted as activism.

Your latest article had been particularly brutal.

The article had gone live at 6:12 AM.

By 7:00, every major Gotham outlet had reposted excerpts.

By 8:30, Wayne Enterprises stock had dipped two percent.

And by noon, Bruce Wayne himself had apparently read it three separate times.

----

Bruce Wayne does not save Gotham. He curates it.

There is a difference.

One requires sacrifice. The other requires branding.

For years Gotham has treated Bruce Wayne like a symbol of civic generosity, the charming billionaire heir photographed beside hospital wings and scholarship funds while reporters eagerly document another smiling donation beneath carefully arranged lighting.

The city calls him compassionate because compassion is easier to market when it wears tailored suits and buys buildings with its last name engraved above the entrance.

But Gotham’s wealthiest son has perfected a version of philanthropy that prioritizes visibility over permanence.

Last Thursday, while residents in the Narrows were still clearing floodwater from apartment buildings the city deemed “structurally inconvenient,” Wayne Enterprises hosted its annual preservation gala downtown beneath imported chandeliers and a floral installation rumored to cost more than the average Gotham household earns in two years.

Inside the gala, donors drank champagne beside ice sculptures.

Six miles away, children slept in water-damaged shelters.

Wayne Foundation representatives later confirmed that emergency aid was distributed to affected neighborhoods by Friday afternoon, complete with media coverage and coordinated press releases.

Convenient timing.

Bruce Wayne has built an empire on being seen caring about Gotham, but visibility has never been the same thing as accountability. Charity offered after cameras arrive is still charity, but it is also performance, and Gotham has mistaken performance for heroism for far too long.

Because the uncomfortable truth beneath Wayne’s carefully maintained image is this:

Gotham does not need another wealthy man funding damage control after tragedy strikes.

It needs someone willing to prevent the tragedy before it becomes profitable to mourn publicly.

And perhaps the cruelest part of Bruce Wayne’s legacy is not that he fails Gotham entirely.

It is that he convinces people that incremental kindness from billionaires should feel revolutionary in the first place.

-----

It spread fast.

By the next morning every media outlet in Gotham had picked it up, and suddenly Bruce Wayne was trending for something other than being photographed falling out of clubs with models draped over his shoulders.

Which was why you nearly dropped your drink when your editor leaned against your desk and casually informed you that Bruce Wayne himself had requested a private interview.

Specifically with you.

“No assistants?” you asked slowly.

Your editor grinned. “No PR team either.”

“That’s suspicious.”

“That’s journalism, good journalism. Means you got to him.”

“No,” you muttered, staring at the forwarded email on your screen, “that’s a setup.”

Still, two days later, you found yourself walking through the front doors of Wayne Tower wearing your nicest blazer and the expression of somebody entering enemy territory.

The receptionist practically melted the second she saw your name on the appointment list.

“Mr. Wayne is expecting you.”

That somehow made it worse.

You expected a boardroom. Or a conference area. Something sterile and corporate where he could smile politely while a legal team watched from the corner.

Instead, they brought you to the penthouse office at the very top floor.

And Bruce Wayne opened the door himself.

It was irritating how attractive he was in person.

You already knew that, obviously, Gotham practically documented the man like he was a national monument, but photographs didn’t capture the size of him properly, or the way his voice settled low and smooth when he spoke directly to you.

“You came.”

You blinked once. “Well.. you did invite me.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face, subtle enough that you almost missed it.

“Right,” he motioned for you to properly enter. “Come in.”

The office was massive, all dark wood and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Gotham, but somehow it still felt strangely personal. His jacket was tossed over the couch instead of hung up properly, files scattered across the desk like he’d actually been working before you arrived.

Bruce gestured toward the sitting area. “Drink?”

“I don’t take beverages from men, especially those who are trying to sue me.” You smiled, despite the slight bite behind your words.

That got an actual laugh out of him, low and rough.

“I’m not suing you.” He shook his head while pouring himself a glass.

“You should,” you replied. “The article was mean.”

“You think it was unfair?”

“I didn't say that. I think it upset you.”

Bruce sat across from you then, elbows resting against his knees slightly as he studied you in silence for a second too long.

It was unnerving.

Most powerful men interrupted constantly, especially men with reputations like his, but Bruce just watched people, quiet enough that it forced them to keep talking.

“You don’t like me,” he said eventually.

You crossed your legs. “Professionally?”

“Personally.” He corrected without a breath. Your eyes narrowed at that as you took him in. Though you had never spoken to him directly, he was so far looking like everything you had heard.

“I don’t know you personally.”

“You write like you do.”

The air shifted a little after that. Not hostile exactly, but heavier somehow.

You had expected defensiveness. Anger maybe. Instead he seemed calm in a way that felt more dangerous, because every question he asked sounded casual while somehow managing to feel intensely direct at the same time.

“You think I’m shallow.” His eyebrows quirked slightly, allowing himself to lean back instead of sitting in such a defensive manner as he had moments earlier.

“You cultivate shallow.”

“You think the playboy act is fake.”

You held his gaze. “Isn’t it?”

Bruce smiled faintly then, and something about it made your stomach tighten. “That depends who’s asking.”

God.

That was annoying.

Because suddenly this did not feel like an interview anymore.

You glanced down at your notebook mostly to regain control of your own brain.

“So why exactly did you ask for this meeting?” you asked. “Because if it’s just to stare at me while I insult you, I should probably start charging consultation fees.”

Bruce leaned back into the couch slowly, one arm stretched along the back cushion behind you, not touching, but close enough that you became painfully aware of the space anyway.

“I wanted to know if you actually believed what you wrote.”

“I did.”

“Even the part where you called me Gotham’s most emotionally detached philanthropist?”

You smiled despite yourself, a small, amused breath escaping you. “Especially that part.”

Another pause.

And then, infuriatingly, Bruce looked pleased. “You’re different in person,” he noted quietly.

“You sound disappointed.”

“No,” he murmured. “More so... distracted.”

The tension hit so suddenly it almost felt embarrassing.

Because you should not have been reacting to him like this.

Not when you’d spent months publicly criticizing him. Not when half your career currently revolved around dismantling the mythology surrounding Bruce Wayne.

And definitely not when he was looking at you like he already knew exactly what effect he was having.

You cleared your throat. “Do you flirt with every woman who says mean things about you?”

His tongue poked out to run across his bottom lip, while his eyes found something in the room that wasn't you for just a moment before meeting yours once more. “Only the interesting ones.”

“That line probably works often.” You shook your head. This was absolutely feeling like a trap, and you'd make sure your editor knew you were right. You were not going to let Bruce fucking Wayne flirt himself out of your opinions.

“It hasn’t worked on you yet.” The yet lingered after the words died in the air between you two.

You hated that your face felt warm.

Bruce noticed too. You could tell by the way his eyes dropped briefly toward your mouth before returning to your eyes again, slower this time.

The silence stretched.

Outside the windows Gotham glittered in the dark below you, but inside the office everything suddenly felt close and overheated and strangely private.

“You know,” you said carefully, “this is a very manipulative PR strategy.” You shifted, your legs uncrossing briefly as you adjusted your blazer, before your right leg tightly rested atop your left.

Bruce tilted his head slightly. “Is it working?”

Your laugh came out softer than intended. “That depends,” you replied. “Are you this arrogant all the time?”

“No. I'd like to call myself generally humble. I only act like this when someone keeps looking at my lips.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

And the worst part was that he didn’t even look smug about catching you. If anything he looked more interested now, gaze heavier, sharper, like the tension between you had finally become something undeniable instead of hypothetical.

You shut your notebook sharply and decisively. “Right.. that’s enough interviewing for today.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked down to the motion before lifting again.

“Leaving already?”

“You are a workplace hazard, and I'm not letting that jeopardize the career I've built for myself.” You shook your head with an annoyed huff. This was not how you wanted this to go. You wanted to get him to say something that would prove everything you've ever written to not just be convenient coincidences but rather cold hard truth.

As much as you hated to admit it, you were underprepared. You chose not to believe the idea that he was actually charming (when he wanted to be).

This time, when you turned to look at him after slinging your bag onto your shoulder, his smile was slower.

“Come back tomorrow,” he said.

You stood carefully, trying very hard not to think about how close he was now. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re curious.”

He stepped forward then, not enough to crowd you fully, but enough that the space between you narrowed into something charged and dangerous.

“And because,” Bruce added quietly, “I think you want to find out whether you hate me as much as you thought you did.”

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