nat

21 - fanfics - requests open

[supermanthisho]

Hi!

ABOUT ME:

I'm Nat. I'm currently a university student and I'm studying architecture. I like reading, baking, drawing, swimming, and sewing. I'm a huge dessert person, I love happy endings, and I cry a lot during emotional movies.

I’m currently going through exams so I’m not very active other than for reading.

WHAT I WRITE:

I write mostly one-shots and am glad to take requests. I don't write anything too violent or disturbing, it's just not my thing. I like to write as a form of escapism and fantasy. I'm more than glad to discuss writing, characters, or take any feedback on my work. I'm bilingual so sometimes the order of my words (especially nouns and adjectives together) may sound off in English.

ON THE MENU:

CLARK KENT MASTERLIST

JASON TODD MASTERLIST

DAVID CORENSWET MASTERLIST

AARON BLACKFORD MASTERLIST

BRUCE WAYNE MASTERLIST

BAKE OFF ! (prompts) (not mandatory for requests)

☆〜（ゝ。∂）

[supermanthisho]

giving a blowjob to Clark 😳😳😳😳

warnings: a blowjob (obviously)

more from my blog

“Oh, god,” Clark groans, the words drawn out and coming straight from his chest.

He’s in a limbo. Between wanting to just thrust up into your warm, wet mouth; or just stopping this right so there’s not risk of him losing it and hurting you. No matter how good it feels. You feel. With your lips wrapped around the thick head of his cock.

You’re bent over the console beside him, creasing the leather seat under your weight. What was supposed to be a nice date night out to a drive in movie quickly turned south, literally, when the two of you realised just now boring the film was. Sharing snacks to handholding to cuddling to kissing to sucking your boyfriend’s heavy cock.

From the corner of your eye, you can see his hand hesitate. The one in your peripheral is gripping the console with white knuckles and leaving indents. You’re sure the other is probably doing similarly to his jeans. Deciding to help him along a little, you place his hand on the back of your head.

Gently, he uncurls it, like you’re soothing him despite being the reason he’s even like this. His fingers brush over your scalp softly before settling onto your nape.

“Fuck-“ he shifts his hips, pushing them into you before forcing himself back. “Gosh, honey.”

Clark’s pants and heavy breathing fill the quiet air of his car. With the rapid puffs, his chest rises and falls like he’s just orbited the Earth. You add to the sounds with the wet contact of your lips on him, taking as much as you can before you switch to licking the tip.

“So pretty.” His large hand travels to your ass, giving it a squeeze before patting it gently. “Didn’t-oh-didn’t wanna watch the movie?”

“Nope.” You grin up at him and if he wasn’t hard before, he definitely would be now. Your head is tilted to the side, pressing soft kisses against his hard dick while smiling up at him. All while you’re bent over the console with your ass in the air and your back arching just right. He almost decides to bend you over the passenger seat and thrust into you from behind under the open door. But it’s too risky. You’re already parked in the middle of a bunch of cars and his windows aren’t tinted. He’ll just have to save that for a road trip to Smallville.

“You’re so yummy, Clark.” You kiss him near the base, your forehead pressing against the unbuckled denim of his jeans. “Love this cock.”

“Yeah?” He says with an embarrassing hitch when your hand finds his balls.

“Yeahhh,” you draw out, moving back up his length again to hover just above the tip. Removing your hand from even lower, your nail teases his tip, barely touching him. “You don’t let me suck you off enough.”

Jeez.

He groans, his head hitting the headrest that rattles the seat. This is why he doesn’t. Because you get all cock-drunk and evil all while he worries about you feeling safe, okay, and loved. The one time he wishes he didn’t have human bone-crushing super strength.

“Why don’t you let me suck your cock more often, Clark?”

He nearly arches into you, your hand stroking him with a feather-light touch. And your voice. The vixen-like pouty tone that you use when you know he’s barely listening. He lets out a moan with furrowed brows.

“Because-“ he hisses through his teeth, trying to be coherent enough to answer you properly. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“I just want to make you feel good.” You don’t stop, doubling down with the kitten licks to his tip.

“Oh.”

“Doesn’t that feel good?”

“Yeah, gosh. So good, baby.” He fights off the tingling sensation traveling up his spine and loosens his grip on your head. He can’t hurt you.

“And you feel sooo good in my mouth. You’re so big.” Your warm breath fans over his length before taking as much of him as you can. As much as he can take before he feels his balls tighten. Until you pull away. “You always want to eat me out.”

Stop talking.

Keep talking, the rational part of him whispers.

“Always want to make me feel good. But I love this,” you emphasise your point by resting the side of your head against his thigh again and slap his leaking pink cock against your cheek. He stares, mesmerised by the precum and saliva sticking to your face. “Love it when your hand is in my hair. When you fuck my face.”

Never mind. Stop talking. Keep talking. Doesn’t matter.

“Love it when I get all messy after getting a taste of you.” Your tongue licks a stripe up the underside of his penis, following the curve. “But…if you don’t enjoy it…”

You start to pull away, sitting up with spit and precum on your face, looking like the hottest thing he’s ever seen. Your lips are shiny and wet. Your eyes are blown out and there’s that look of wild and lost in your eyes that he never gets to see enough of. You’re sitting on your knees and he thanks whatever God on this or any other planet that you went braless in a low-cut tank top.

It takes a second too long for his brain to catch up.

“What? No!” His hand links with yours, even now. “I love it. I love you.”

“I know you love me. But do you love it when I give you head?”

“Yes!”

“Then how come you’re always pulling me off before you come?” You don’t ask with frustration or anger, somehow you’ve even manage to make this question sound sexy. Maybe it’s because your hand is still rubbing his thigh.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“And I’d rather have you satisfied and fully enjoying sex with me.”

“I do.” Clark sighs, giving you a look that says ‘it’s a Kryptonian thing’. You give him one that says ‘don’t try me’. He gives in. “Okay, so maybe I always have to think about not hurting you. But I’d rather do that, gosh, even think about hurting you. Even accidentally.”

“Clark.”

“And it’s not to say that I’m not focused on you. It’s hard not to when you-“

“Clark.” You insist again, your voice softening again to that tone you use when you want something from him. “Just fuck my face.”

“I mean it.” You say again at his lack of reaction. Then, before he can even change the subject by suggesting the two of you drive back to his to do this properly, you’re bent over yet again and back to where you were. Sucking his cock with a suction grip.

Here goes nothing.

His hands settle again. This time, with one on your hair, gripping the roots, the other grabbing the flesh of your ass with a lot less apology than earlier. Clark lets himself relax, shifting his hips forward in the cramped seat and spreading his thighs even wider.

You bob up and down.

“That’s it,” he groans, even smiling a little through the feeling. “Always so good at this, baby. Taking this cock so well.”

You moan, the vibrations helping him get back to where he was before. Panting and building him up. He shuts his eyes and drops his head back, focusing on the feeling. The tightness and heat wrapping around whatever length you manage to take. Your free hand fondling his balls that shoots a tingle up his spine. The firm softness beneath his hand as he squeezes and plays with your ass.

“That’s-oh, jeez,” he adds more pressure, the hand on your head sinking you down even further. “Fuck. That’s it, take it honey.”

Your moan is muffled by his length, saliva dripping down to his balls as you deep throat him.

“Ha-“ Clark’s hips meet your mouth in deep thrusts, his body finally letting go. His instincts needing to just get himself deeper into you. To give into to the feeling of you. He moans, his breath hitching and his hips grinding as he gets close.

Closer and closer to the edge as you do your best to take him deep. Your muffled moans. The wet dribble down his length and onto the denim. His frantic breathing and desperate moans. Your warm skin beneath his hand. The pure need in every movement as he finally fucks your face properly. Every shove that has you focusing on your gag reflex and his thickness stretching your lips.

With a heavy groan and a loud broken moan, Clark spills into your mouth while you push yourself up to his tip. He keeps on whining, his hips rocking up as his cock twitches some more. Come spills from your lips and dribbles down your chin, his orgasm slowly ending.

Slowly, his eyes open.

There you are, resting on your elbows with a dazed look on your face. There’s a small smile as you swallow him up and he reaches a hand out to rub your cheek.

“Gosh, that was-“

“Hmm.” You hum and nod, leaning over to nuzzle his still-hard cock.

“More?” He huffs lightly, an incredulous laugh shining up his face. With a loving shake of his head, Clark just rubs his thumb over your lower lip, helping you clean yourself and him up.

“We should probably head home, though.” He sighs, gently pushing your head back with a grip on your chin. Between his index and thumb, you don’t even argue with him. He chuckles when he makes your head dip down into a nod. “Before another person reports us to the staff for inappropriate behaviour.”

Right. Super hearing. You forgot about that.

—

A/N: writing this at 2 am with 12% battery 😛 also kinda horny tmi

[edawgz]

// TALK TO ME

♯┆ [bruce wayne x talkative gf!reader].ᐟ

⤿ BRUCE WAYNE doesn't talk much, he doesn't see the need to. Yet, he would listen to you talk until the end of time.

!! fluff. fem reader. established relationship. i am a talkative girl. this was self indulgent. i need to write more yapper readers tbh. bruce is a softie dhmu. he would love a talkative partner i fear. ENJOY. COMMENTS ENCOURAGED.

You were talking... again.

Bruce noticed it the moment you walked into the Batcave, your voice echoing off the stone walls as you descended the stairs, already talking about something that happened at work. He didn't look up from the computer screen, his fingers still moving across the keyboard, but his shoulders relaxed in a way they hadn't all night.

"Then, then, Carol had the audacity to say that I was the one who mixed up the files, but Bruce, I swear, I triple checked everything before I submitted them. Triple checked! You know how I am about these things. Anyway, I told her-... are you listening?"

"Mm-hmm." His eyes remained fixed on the screen, scanning through surveillance footage.

You moved closer, peering over his shoulder at the monitors. "What are you working on?"

"Case."

"Right, obviously." You laughed, that bright sound that somehow made the cave feel less cold. "Silly question. Is it the warehouse thing from yesterday? Or something new? Actually, don't tell me if it's too dangerous. Or do tell me. I don't know which makes me worry less, knowing or not knowing. What do you think?"

"Knowing," he said simply.

"Really? You're not just saying that?"

"No."

You beamed, even though he still wasn't looking at you, and launched into another story about your day. Bruce's lips twitched into something that was not quite a smile, but close. He'd never tell you this, but the constant stream of your voice had become something he craved. In a life filled with silence and shadows, you were sunlight and sound, and he was helplessly drawn to both.

Your voice got him through the rest of his work. You had been pacing, then you moved to sit on the desk besides his keyboard, and eventually you ended up sitting on the floor with your cheek pressed against his leg as you spoke. He was grateful for you, and he was especially grateful once he got the soul crushing reminder about the gala he had to attend tomorrow... Granted, it was his gala, but he still didn't want to go.

And it turned out to be exactly as terrible as he predicted.

Bruce stood near the bar, champagne glass in hand, face carefully arranged in his playboy billionaire expression... aka charming but vacant. You were beside him, stunning in your evening gown, and you hadn't stopped talking for the past twenty minutes.

"—absolutely gorgeous, don't you think? I mean, I know it's supposed to be a Monet, but something about the brushwork seems off. Not that I'm an expert, but I did take that art history class in college, remember I told you about Professor Hendricks? The one with the bow ties? He would have had opinions about this piece. Oh, there's Margaret Chen! I should say hello. Do you mind? Actually, you probably want me to go so you can brood in peace for a minute-..."

Bruce's hand found the small of your back, gentle but firm. "Stay."

You blinked up at him, surprised, but the smile on your face only grew and your body leaned into his. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." His words were short, but the way his hand slid from your back to your hip to tug you against him told you more than you needed to know.

"Okay." Your smile could have powered all of Gotham. "But I'm going to keep talking, I didn't even get to tell you about the sweetest little kids I saw today at the store."

"I know, you are." His eyes flicked down to you as he lifted his glass to his lips. The poor attempt to cover his smile did not go unseen by you, considering you nearly tackled him in a kiss when you saw it.

Though, the insecurity gnawed at you. You had been told enough that you were loud or needed to learn when to be quiet, so if anyone felt the same way... you figured it'd be the man who spends most of his days in silence. "Doesn't it drive you crazy?"

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and something soft flickered in his eyes. "Not at all."

Before you could respond, a business associate approached, and Bruce shifted seamlessly into his public persona. You fell into easy conversation with the man's wife, and Bruce listened to you charm her with the same endless enthusiasm you brought to everything. His hand never left your back.

Later, as the associate walked away, the wife whispered something to you that made you laugh. Bruce leaned down slightly.

"What did she say?"

"She said you look at me like I'm the only person in the room." You glanced up at him, cheeks slightly flushed. "I told her that's just your face."

He raised his brows in mild amusement and nodded with a hum. "Hm."

"Is it just your face?"

"No."

Your breath caught, and for once, you were speechless. Bruce allowed himself that corner smile again. It lasted approximately fifteen seconds before you launched into a story about the hors d'oeuvres.

Later that week, Alfred found you both in the library on a quiet afternoon. You were curled up in one of the oversized chairs, book in lap but ignored, telling Bruce about a documentary you'd watched about deep sea creatures that you hadn't even thought would be interesting, but your friend insisted so you obliged. Bruce sat across from you, seemingly reading a report, but Alfred noticed his eyes hadn't moved down the page in several minutes.

"—and the anglerfish, Bruce, the anglerfish. Do you know about their mating habits? It's absolutely wild. The male literally fuses to the female's body and becomes a parasitic appendage. Can you imagine? Just... permanently attached. I mean, I like you a lot, but I don't think I'd want you fused to my body. No offense."

"None taken." He breathed out a chuckle and thumbed at the corner of the file.

"Although, we do spend most of our time together anyway. Maybe we're not so different from anglerfish. Except, you know, less parasitic. More symbiotic? Is that the right word? I think that's the right word."

Alfred cleared his throat softly. "Pardon the interruption. Miss, that tea you requested.. the lavender chamomile blend from the shop on Fifth Street."

You looked up, absolutely delighted which was apparent by the way your arms flew out as if you could hug him just by will alone. "Alfred! You remembered!"

"Of course, Miss. I've taken the liberty of preparing a pot."

As Alfred left, you turned to Bruce, eyes wide. "I only mentioned that tea once, like two weeks ago."

Bruce finally looked up from his report. "You said it reminded you of your grandmother's garden. The one in Portland with the wind chimes."

You stared at him. "I... yes. That's exactly what I said. I didn't think you were listening. You were working on that thing for Lucius."

"I'm always listening."

Something warm bloomed in your chest. "Bruce Wayne, are you secretly a softie?"

"No."

"Liar." You got up and crossed to him, settling yourself on the arm of his chair. His arm automatically wrapped around your waist. "You're a big softie who pretends to be all stoic and mysterious."

"Hm."

"See, that right there. That 'hm.'" Your voice dropped a few octaves in an attempt to poorly mimc his tone. "That's your tell. You do that when you're trying not to smile."

This made his eyes meet yours again, amusement was present on his face, and his brows were shot up playfully."I don't smile, I also don't try not to."

"You absolutely do. It's tiny, and most people miss it, but it's there." You touched the corner of his mouth gently. "Right here."

Bruce caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. It was such an uncharacteristically open gesture that you fell silent again, just for a moment.

"Don't stop," he muttered against your skin quietly.

"Stop what? Poking you? Well if you insist-..." You trailed off and poked his nose then his chest, but then he caught your hands again. Enveloping them in his warmer ones, he shook his head with an amused breath

"I'd appreciate if you didn't poke, but I was referring to talking. Don't ever stop talking."

You laughed, the sound filling the library's quiet spaces. "Oh, don't worry. I couldn't stop if I tried. I was actually about to tell you about this podcast I started about unsolved mysteries. There's this one episode about a disappearance in the 1950s that I think might interest you, actually, because the circumstances are really strange and--..."

Bruce leaned back in his chair, his arm secure around you, and listened. He'd chase criminals through Gotham's streets tonight, face down nightmares and violence, but for now, there was this... your voice, your warmth, your endless stories.

In a life defined by silence, you were his favorite sound.

And if Alfred noticed the actual smile on Bruce's face as you talked — small but unmistakable — well, he was far too proper to mention it.

Though he did make a note to stock more of that lavender chamomile tea.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

taglist form!! @lailqll @matildavol6 @tamyyyy2005 @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @velvetxthunder @fmejenson @sleepilysworld @angelpvps @secretpaperflower @vanillakirstein @foquest @depressed-eternal @ainandra @cassiecasluciluce @love4lando @grapejuicedays @uselessnewt @snoopylover1304 @unclearblur @k1ttyfried @audreyownsdiamonds @oh-buttercup @jaehyunloml143 @piatosniathenie @thecutestholly

[supermanthisho]

THINGS CLARK LIKES ABOUT HUMAN!READER

warnings: fem!Reader who menstruates

Clark doesn’t mind the smell of your SWEAT actually. It’s the pheromones. Whatever scent you usually have from the small amount of sweating that happens during the day like during your commute to work or carrying some groceries, he’s noticed it. Super smelling and whatnot. But it even though his body is attuned to yours, your scent usually gets drowned out by just the mass of other smells and bodies that live in Metropolis. It’s on nights like tonight, when you’re in bed, trying not to move too much as a gentle breeze helps cool down your body heat, when Clark decides to be the worst. He just piles himself on top of you, head on your chest and able to get a good whiff of you.

“Ugh, Clark,” you try to shove him off with a groan. “You’re like a hundred kilos and super warm. Get off.”

“Nope.” He just closes his eyes, humming happily. “Smell too good.”

“I’m sweaty and gross.”

He just shrugs, enjoying the smell of you like your his own personal vape while you boil under him.

He also likes your PERIOD. Sure, it can sometimes get in the way of sex and put you out of the mood, but he’s not with you just for that. He likes knowing that your body is functioning like it should. He tracks your cycles. Checks that you’re not too stressed or eating enough so there’s no risk of it stopping. For him, it’s just another sure indicator that you’re fine and healthy. He also keeps track of your PMS symptoms so he can make the most of it with chocolate and cuddles.

Clark has a soft spot for your GOOSEBUMPS. He doesn’t get cold. Well, very rarely. So when his fingers run over your arm at the end of a date night, his arm slung over your shoulder as you walk across one of the city’s bridges, he smiles. Little bumps on your skin that he thinks are adorable. You’re cold before you even know it, your body reacting on instinct. So does his because he’s taking off his jacket and helping you in it.

Another thing he likes are your STRETCH MARKS. With pristine, solid, Kryptonian skin made of steel, he doesn’t even have a single scratch on him. It’s very annoying. But on you, he thinks that the lines decorating your chest, legs, ass, and any other parts of you are extremely cool. He thinks you look like a tiger. A description which isn’t far off from when the two of you end up in the bedroom. There’s just something he likes about how powerful they make you look, like a strong animal.

Clark Kent can’t help but laugh and coo when you get the HICCUPS. Another point on the endless list of things he finds cute about you. He likes the way you get embarrassed and try to hold your breath to make it stop. He likes seeing your entire frame shake from the hiccup. How annoyed you get when your body jerks you out of whatever you were doing.

more from my blog

A/N: got this idea when I was sweating in bed from the summer heat. If I had a boyfriend in bed with me, I’d kick him out. There can’t be two sweaty gross people in bed. This is very short bc I couldn’t think of anything else lol

[godmadeaterribleerror]

seeing red

✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦

✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦

✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦

✦wc: 10.5k✦

✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦

Clark has been acting strange all week.

He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.

“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.

“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.

He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.

Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.

You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.

“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.

“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“

“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“

“Then go ask Lois!”

“Lois is in Gotham, I can’t ask Lois-“

“Then ask Clark, he’ll be happy to smell me-“

“I can’t ask Clark.” You’d whined. “Come on, please smell me-“

Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘

“It’s not a mating dance!”

“It seems like a mating dance-“

“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”

Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.

You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.

“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“

You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.

He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.

His eyes are black, and gleaming.

You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.

Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.

You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.

“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”

Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.

Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.

But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.

He looks dangerous.

And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.

But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.

“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”

Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“

Clark looks at you.

And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.

“You smell good.” He mutters.

He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.

“What the fuck is up with him?”

Nobody seems to be sure.

On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.

“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.

“There are no other words I could use, though-“

“Corrupt?”

“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”

You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.

“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.

“Dogshit.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“

“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“

“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.

“Yeah. Because I had a source.”

“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.

You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.

“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“

“Shut up, I’m excited-“

“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.

He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.

Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.

You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.

And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.

Today you keep it under control.

It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.

“It’s- Uh- Superman.”

You blink. “What?”

“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”

“I- You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“I can find someone else-“

“No, I- I’ve got it.”

He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.

You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.

But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.

You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”

He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.

“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.

Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.

He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.

He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.

And you have no idea what to do.

Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.

He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.

You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.

And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.

“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”

His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.

“Clark-“

“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”

You blink. “Back up?”

He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.

He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.

But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.

You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.

He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.

“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“

“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.

“You’re sick-“

“No. I’m not.”

“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”

He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.

“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”

That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.

His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.

And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.

It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.

The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.

But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.

“Clark- Please-“

He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.

“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”

You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.

And you look back. You can’t help it.

But all he does is stare at you.

So you walk away.

Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.

“Is he-“

“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”

You frown. “But-“

“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“

Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.

“Don’t go visit him.”

You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“

“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”

“But-“

“Don’t.”

“What if he needs something-“

“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”

“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”

Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Lois-“

“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”

She walks away without another word.

On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.

You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.

Don’t.

His door is right there.

Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.

Don’t.

You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.

But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.

You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.

Don’t.

But you want to.

Don’t.

He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-

Don’t.

Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.

And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.

He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.

You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.

Before Clark can open it, you walk away.

On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.

It’s a  distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-

You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.

This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.

It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.

He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.

He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.

Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.

You miss him.

Goddamnit.

Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.

You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.

He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this  sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.

You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.

You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.

Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.

But why is he home visiting you.

Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.

You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.

“Hello?”

Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.

He doesn’t look well.

Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-

Like Clark.

Just like Clark.

And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s  worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.

Or something else.

Without the glasses, there’s something else.

He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.

He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.

“Clark?”

“I’m here for your interview-“

You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.

He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.

Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.

His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.

“Clark- Wait-“

Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.

At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.

You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.

He’s burning at 150 degrees.

He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.

The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.

You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.

Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.

That time it was definitely your name.

Superman moaned your name.

You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.

Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.

It does nothing for hearing him.

And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.

It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.

Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-

Oh.

That’s… Big.

You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.

The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.

You still haven’t really dealt with that.

Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.  

And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.

To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.

When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.

You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.

Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.

Dear lord.

Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.

You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.

Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.

He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.

You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.

Clark is Superman,

And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.

His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.

“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.

This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-

You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.

He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-

No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.

But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.

The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.

If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.

And you’re not that strong at all.

Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.

You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.

When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.

He’s naked.

Fully naked.

And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.

He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.

But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.

And his cock. 

You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.

Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.

“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“

“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”

He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of  release on his thigh. He’d been humping  the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-

“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”

“Clark-“

“Stop saying it like that.”

You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.

His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.

“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”

Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.

“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”

You laugh softly, despite everything.

Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.

“Don’t laugh either.”

“I- I’m sorry-“

“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“

He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.

“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”

“No- That- That’s weird-“

“Kal-El?”

“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.

“I need to be able to call you something.”

“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”

That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.

“No, not- Not like that-“

“Not like what-“

“It’s just, when you talk-“

“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.

It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.

“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.

“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”

“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“

“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”

He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”

“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”

“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“

“You said I shouldn’t talk.”

“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.

“You better fix the wall, Kent.”

“I will. ‘M sorry-“

“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”

You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.

“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”

 That’s not  promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.  

“You know kryptonite?”

You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”

“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“

“Clark.”

“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.

“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.

His cock twitches. You try not think about it.

“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“

“It what-“

“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”

He trails off, words hanging in the air.

Saw you.

You activated the red kryptonite in him.

There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.

“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.

Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.

“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.

“Please don’t make me say it.”

You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.

“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“

“Can’t you?”

Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.

And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.

“You- You can’t mean that-“

“Why not?”

You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.

“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.

“You don’t have to pity me-“

“It’s not pity.”

He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“

“Who says it’s not how I feel?”

You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.

“Uhh… Steve?”

You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”

Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.

You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.

“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.

You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”

His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.

“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”

“No, you-“

“Don’t tell me what I feel.”

He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.

“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”

He nods, tight and controlled.

You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.

Not with fear.

With excitement.

“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”

And Clark snaps.

He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.

Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.

If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.

But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.

He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.

There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as  he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.

You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.

You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.

He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.

“Clark-“

“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“

He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.

“Smell so good.” He almost  whines. “So good.”

You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.

Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.

It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.

“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“

“You- You can’t-“

“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“

“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.

You don’t mind at all.

“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“We talked about this-“

“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.

You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.

And you feel it.

The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.

Oh.

Right.

Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.

“I need to get you ready.”

You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“

Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”

“How do you know-“

“Nose.”

“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“

“Not enough.”

He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.

“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.

That’s his agreement hum.

Your jaw drops.

“Are you serious-“

“I can’t help it.”

“You- You could wear nose plugs-“

“No. Like it too much.”

Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.

“You- Can’t move-“

“You should move-“

“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”

You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.

“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”

Clark grunts. You smile at the air.

“You came in bed last night.”

He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”

“About who?”

You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”

And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.

“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”

“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.

“Yeah? Like what?”

Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.

“A brat.”

A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.

And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.

“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.

Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.

“You- You can’t just say that-“

“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”

Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.

“Can you please look at me-“

“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.

“Clark-“

“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.

You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.

“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”

“I- I need to get you-“

“I’m going to touch you, okay?”

His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.

Enough.

You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.

“Sorry-“

“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”

He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.

You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.

The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.

He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.

You add a second, and squeeze at the base.

Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.

“Be- Be careful.”

You pause. “Does it not feel-“

“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“

Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.

You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.

And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.

You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.

Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.

“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“

He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.

You want to taste him.

When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.

“What- What are you-“

You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.

The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.

There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.

You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.

“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“

You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.

It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.

“Are you-“

You moan, and Clark gives in.

He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.

“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“

Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.

“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“

You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.

And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-

Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.

He’s cumming.

And he’s not stopping.

Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.

Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.

“If you-“

“Do that inside me.”

You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.

“I- I mean- Clark-“

He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.

“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”

His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.

“Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”

Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.

“Oh- Oh god-“

“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”

You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.

“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”

He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.

“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.

You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.

He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.

“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“

You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.

Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.

Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.

You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.

You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.

There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.

It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.

“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”

His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.

“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.

Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.

“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”

Well. If he needs it.

It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.

“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“

“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”

It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.

You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.

“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.

He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.

“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”

And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.

“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“

“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.

Clark hears it.

“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”

You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.

Maybe Clark could let you live with him.

Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.

Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.

That’s a good plan. The best plan.

There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.

“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.

You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.

“Don’t do that.”

Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.

He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.

“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.

You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.

He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.

Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.

He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.

His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.

You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.

Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.

“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.

“I liked it.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”

Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.

And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.

He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.

“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”

You nod. It’s all you can manage.

He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.

“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“

He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.

Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.

“Big.”

He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.

“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“

You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.

“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.

“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”

You blink, and his eyes widen.

“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“

Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.

“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.

Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.

“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”

Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.

“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.

Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.

You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.

He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.

Safe and attended to.

You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.

It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.

“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“

He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.

Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.

He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.

Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.

It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.

Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.

Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.

And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.

Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.

Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.

You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.

There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.

Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.

You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.

He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.

It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.

If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.

On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.

There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.

Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.

It’s an oddly romantic thought.

There are lots of those to go around.

Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.

“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.

“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”

“See it-“

“X-ray vision.”

“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.

Clark bows his head, almost in shame.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.

You shake your head. “It fine-“

“I wanted to-“

“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”

He blinks at you, then relaxes.

“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.

“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”

Clark laughs at that, and you beam.

It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.

“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.

“I-“

“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“

“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”

He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”

You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.

“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“

“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“

Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”

You laugh. “Bring it on.”

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[supermanthisho]

MI MANOR ES TU MANOR

pairing: Bruce Wayne x f!reader, Bruce and the reader are similar in age (Bruce is 43 in the present, the reader is 40, so like a 3 year age gap. The fic jumps between different ages, starting in their early twenties)

synopsis: exploring the Wayne Manor through your relationship with Bruce.

warnings: long, descriptions of sex (and other sexual intercourse), death, maybe (definitely) inaccurate Tim, parental neglect (not Bruce or reader), learning disabilities, Puerto Rican Jason, Bruce and the reader take in strays, swearing, reader doesn't know how to play chess because I don't know how to play chess, reader is sober, IB (warning for those who took it in high school RIP), abortions, misogyny

word count: 7k

more from my blog

The first time you visit the Wayne Manor is on your fifth date.

For Bruce, it’s a sigh of relief. Four whole dates where he had to clear out restaurants, enter the both of you through the back door, have the staff sign NDAs, and deal with the press speculating why he’s done all of this. He understood your wariness towards him and his lifestyle. He doesn’t ever need to think about money, and power goes hand in hand with the Wayne name. You–just like any average person or even millionaire–are vulnerable to people in his position. So, he respected your boundaries.

But now you’re here.

And your jaw has dropped.

He can tell. You’re trying not to stare but as his Bentley winds down the driveway, revealing more and more of the three storey manor, you can’t look away. It is impressive, he will admit. An end of the 19th century Manor. From here, you can see the three wings. A central one where two others flank it on a diagonal, facing the back garden. You drive past the surrounding forest and ancient trees, finally entering the driveway the size of a football field.

“Wow.” Is all you say, blinking and trying not to look too shocked. It doesn't work. The corner of his lips turns up.

“It’s a lot,” he agrees, easing the car into the stone arch of the carport.

“It’s the size of a small country.”

“You’re joking but the property is about the same width as Monaco.” He chuckles and unbuckles his seatbelt. Swiftly, he shoots out of his seat and rounds the car to your side. His shoes crunch rapidly onto the stone pebbles. A trait of yours that Bruce had quickly learnt, you’re independent. You didn’t need him to open the door or pull out a chair for you when you were perfectly capable. You'd gently move his hand away or thank him before reminding him that you could do it. He'd just smile and repeat what he always says: he wants to, it makes him happy to treat you. Proven by the slight satisfaction in his chest when he manages to swing the car door open. With a couple seconds to spare, he even holds a hand out for you.

“I should surprise you more often.” Bruce murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple as you straighten up. With a solid hand on your back, he leads you up the stone stairs in front of the grand door. They swing open without a sound.

You don't have a chance to take in the view of the foyer and grand hall because a man with greying hair steps to the side. His left hand is on the door handle, the other opened like a practised general.

"Hello, Master Bruce." The man nods politely, a polished English accent filling the quiet. "Shall I take you and your guest's coats?"

With nothing out of the normal for the billionaire, Bruce hands him his coat. You don't even notice that you haven't moved, still stuck on the fact that Wayne Manor is well...a manor, and that Bruce Wayne has a butler that greets him at the door and takes his coat. Somehow, Bruce has moved behind you, his hand still on your back but climbing up in a grounding rub. With a gentleness that's slowly starting to coax you out of your reverie, Bruce's fingers brush across your shoulders and slide the soft wool of yours off of you. He hands your coat the butler with a 'thank you'.

"Thank you," you add in, almost forgetting your manners.

"You're welcome." His butler just nods again before disappearing behind one of the antique wooden doors.

With just you and Bruce, you finally look up. Past the waxed herringbone. Past the intricate iron and wood balustrade. Past the neat stair runner. Past the vase of hollyhocks set on a table in the centre of the foyer. Because as your eye travels up and up, and you through the space, you finally take in the scale of the place. This is just the foyer and yet it's bigger than your entire kitchen, dining, and living room combined. Stretching up and beyond it, you can make out the upper hallway whose walls are covered in oil portraits and priceless sculptures. Back on the ground floor, behind an arcade (an arcade is a series of archways usually used to delimit a space), chandeliers drop from the ceiling and light up the massive ballroom. There's a hallway that stretches out to your left. Another to your right. More rooms that are probably even bigger than this one. And, if you squint, you can see a vast stretch of green that seems to blend into the shore and trees.

Finally, your eyes land on Bruce again, and you can only wonder how anyone could call a place this vast and empty his home.

—

The best way to experience Bruce's bedroom is in his bed.

The only downside is that you're pretty sure he's asleep and you need to pee. With a resigned sigh, you slowly peel yourself away from him. His hand, which had been resting on your stomach while you both slept on your backs, is gently placed back down onto the mattress. So far, so good. You carry on your delicate quiet by climbing off of the bed. Not a single creak.

Until your foot catches the ottoman.

"Shi-ow!" You keep your voice down, your whispered yell dulling down into a harsh hiss.

Hobbling on one and a half feet now, you make it another metre before your hip bumps into a side table. A grunt of pain squeezes through your lips. You carry on, your arms out in front of you as you find a wall. In the pitch black, you're mentally cursing Bruce's blackout curtains. Your palms brush up against the fabric wallpaper before finding the doorframe then the knob. With a twist, you push it open and shut it quietly behind you. Turning the light on, the walk in closet blinks to life.

Well, you're the one blinking, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness.

In more rushed steps, you cross the room and shut the bathroom door behind you with a soft 'click'. Cool marble and carved wood greet you but you don't really care because you're beelining for the toilet.

Sweet, sweet porcelain.

Once your business is concluded, you wash your hands and splash your face with some water. You also secretly thank Bruce for being responsible and carrying you to the bathroom after your late-night activities to pee and brush your teeth, because now you have a toothbrush and can get rid of any morning breath. The soft shhh-shhh-shhh of the bristles against your teeth are the only sound this early. Or late. You haven't checked the time. Bruce must really be knocked out then.

All clean and bladder empty, you turn off all of the lights you cross paths with as you make your way back into the bedroom.

Just a silhouette in the shadows, Bruce is still flat on his back. With a little more grace than before, you find your way back onto the bed. And in Bruce's arms. He's rolled over, his biceps curled around you in a sturdy cuddle. Warmth emits off of him instantly, his body having heated up fast under the thousand thread count duvet.

"Good morning," he mutters and the sound travels south.

Good morning to you too, Mr. Wayne.

His voice is rich and gravelly, like a dark coffee or the rumble of a motor. Bruce's morning voice is sexy. Of course it is. He's Bruce Wayne. That combined with the lingering scent of sex, sweat, and expensive cologne, means that the memories of last night come crashing down on you. The deliberately slow peeling away of your clothes. His mouth on your pussy, eating you out just until your back arches before pulling away. His hands rubbing your thighs with a smug smile. His deep, stern voice asking telling you to go stand in front of the mirror. The heat that lingers on your skin as his touch maps out every part of you in front of the reflective glass. His weight then settling on top of you, caging you in-between the hard lines of his chest and the delicate pillow tucked under your hips. The stronger wafts of his cologne bringing you closer to the peak as he slings your legs over his shoulders and bends down to mark your collarbones.

With a small rustle, you turn your head towards him.

Fuck, he's back to sleep.

You decide that you don't want to end up staring at the ceiling for the next hour or however many more. Maybe you could get your phone? The one that's in your purse all the way downstairs in the library where he tried to teach you the basics of chess before deciding that sex was a much sexier way to end date night. So, your phone is a no-go. Maybe your imagination could distract you? Possible but considering your two options are replaying last night's events or worrying about the proper etiquette for the current situation, it doesn't sound promising. Should you wake him up? Should you just hide in the bathroom and put on your clothes from yesterday? Leave with a note? A text? A message from Alfred? Head downstairs? In his own house? Without him? Would it be rude to ask for breakfast?

"You're not breathing like you're asleep." You jump out of your skin at Bruce's voice rumbling against you.

"'Cause I'm not."

"Why?"

"Because I'm awake."

"I guessed that," he lightly pats your hip before rubbing the spot there. "Why aren't you going back to sleep?"

"Can't. Too awake."

"I didn't tire you out enough last night?" He chuckles, his voice getting closer as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"Shut up."

"I heard you bump into the wall."

Great. The morning after with billionaire bachelor Bruce Wayne is less romantic and steamy than you would have hoped for. Good job at setting the mood.

"Did you brush your teeth?" The mattress sighs as Bruce leans up on an elbow, slowly blinking down at you. You nod, caught.

"Hm." He just nods in return. "I'll message Alfred to get started on breakfast."

Then, like last night had no effect on him whatsoever, he stands up on steady feet and opens up the curtains. Gotham's early morning sun bathes him in a soft light, bringing out the mussed up black mess of hair on his head and the contours of his abs. With a deep breath and a roll of his shoulders, Bruce sits by you again, brushing the sleep out of your face. His thumb traces your cheekbone carefully and he hums. Leaning into his touch, the two of you start a morning routine full of gentle caresses and mundane habits.

—

Arguments are few and between with you and Bruce.

It helps that you're both so similar. Fiercely independent. Blunt and honest. Reflective and pensive. The two of you don't argue. You debate. Points are made, pauses are taken to fully absorb the other's perspective, and a conclusion is reached. It's organised and then moved past. You've each said what you've had to say. You agree and disagree on certain points. There's a mutual respect and understanding that allows for the both of you to come out as equals at the end.

But not last night.

Maybe it's because you were both at a wit's end. You had a long week juggling work, paparazzi, your personal life, and a wedding planner who can't stop sending you emails. Maybe because you're a woman marrying Bruce Wayne so they assumed that you'd be more eager to pay ridiculous sums for flowers and napkins on your fiancé's dime. Less level-headed. More willing to splurge after noticing the massive rock on your left hand. The paparazzi seem to think so too because you swear this one man had been following you since Tuesday when you stopped by a bakery after work. It made headlines in some trashy magazine 'Future Mrs. Wayne stopping by Sugar & Sprinkles for cake tasting. What flavour will the couple's cake be?'. Every little move you made was now an assumption ready for any looking eye to twist now that you're engaged to a Wayne.

Bruce is tired too. The CEO of Wayne Enterprises has been doing the mental math on expanding his conglomerate to other parts of the world, balancing the wants of global politics and the average consumer, and reading report after report on company performance. Add Batman on top of that and he's nearly dead on his feet. The Penguin has something planned but with a lack of proper rest, he can't fit the last pieces of the puzzle together. This other superhero, Superman, has just found out of his existence and won't leave him alone. It's the third time this month the meta-human from Metropolis has approached him with a friendly smile and his cape billowing in the wind like a bright red target. While the paparazzi have stopped bothering him years ago thanks to his lack of response as well as his legal team, his PR team keep on reminding him of the expectations of Bruce Wayne now that he's engaged. Happily engaged, but the extra people in what's supposed to be your private relationship is starting to get a bit grating.

Which is what the two of you ended up arguing about.

Now, the day after the fight. The Manor's hallways seem to stretch even further. Quiet, lined with artwork that makes the air stale. The remnants of the prior tension echo on the wood panelling. You had just glared at him, exaggerating that the silence that stretched down the East Wing of the Manor. He stared back at you, unmoving. You knew it's wasn't going to end well. He knew it too. But both proud and stubborn, the two of you didn't have it in you last night to compromise. You both wanted to win. You both needed a win. Something to pick you up at the end of the long, frustrating week you've had.

And neither of you are fully in the wrong. You know that you and Bruce need to slow down on the wedding planning. The both of you need it. You need a breather between the media and the stupid wedding planner, before you start resenting this wedding planning or even Bruce. Bruce needs the break too, as much as he doesn't want to admit it. His mental load is at its extreme and he can't take any more on. But he has a point with leaving the wedding planner sort through a few things and come back to you two later. They're being hired by Bruce Wayne for crying out loud. That doesn't mean bothering his future wife. It means making the whole wedding thing as seamless as possible.

But instead it ended in you taking one of the cars to drive back to yours in downtown Gotham while he retreated to the cave.

Dick doesn't like the quiet of the Manor. It's why he's been giving Bruce the cold shoulder all morning. He hates the stillness in the air. How life seems to stop and freeze in the presence of the Wayne ancestral halls. It's nothing like the circus. Nothing ever stayed immobile for too long. Tents were put up and brought down at sunrise and sunset. Animals and acrobats never stopped moving. Crowds roared and vendors had their own cacophonies of sounds. All the Manor had were its inhabitants. Alfred, although the butler seems to be incapable of making any involuntary sounds. No matter how hard Dick tries to scare him. Bruce, but grunts and hums don't count. Especially when Dick thinks that he drove you away with his arguing. And you, you added life. Your shoes would click down the hallway. You didn't make it your life's mission to be stealthy like the other two. You laughed, stumbled, bumped into things, and made the house creak. He missed it. He missed knowing that at the sound of the usually well-oiled doors opening, you'd pop your head in and make his days a little brighter, noisier.

"Hey, chum," he doesn't even glance up from his book when Bruce walks into the library. "You want to go into town and get some ice cream at that place near the cinema?"

Dick aggressively flips the page. He pointedly ignores Bruce's approaching footsteps.

"We can get a scoop of sorbet while we're there. Maybe bring it to someone."

Another page flip.

Then, he remembers. You like sorbet. Slowly, Dick lifts his eyes to meet his adoptive dad's. With a dramatic sigh and a sharp snap shut, the book gets put down and he's already beating him to the door.

Hours later, when the three of you walk back into the Manor after an afternoon of ice cream and the park, Dick finally feels like things are going back to normal. He can hear you muttering with Bruce from the open door of the library's second floor. You're debating which book to read with him before bed. There's your laughter, somehow finding something Bruce said funny. Somehow. Then, when his eyes drift shut, sleepy from the boring 'History of the Modern Wheel' the sounds of your footsteps on the creaking wood floors lull him to sleep.

—

The first thing you hang up in your side of the closet is your wedding dress. Zipped up and safely tucked away. Before your foot catches on something, sending you stumbling around the walk-in. You look down and around you at the dozen or so boxes surrounding your feet. Twelve more to go.

Sneakily, a familiar hand finds its way around your waist, settling on your hipbone. You tilt your head up and find Bruce. A habit of his entering and leaving rooms without a single sound. There's a little gleam in his blue eyes meaning he's got something on his mind.

"I meant it when I said I could move my stuff over. I don't wear half of these things anyway." His chin points to his side of the walk in closet. The smaller side. Not that it's lacking in any way though. It's still big enough for his watches, belts, socks, shoes, pants, suits, tuxedos, seasonal wear, and everything in between with room to grow.

"And I told you that I have plenty of room." You remind him, doubting that you'll be needing any more space. It falls on deaf ears though. Bruce sees an opportunity to give you something and he will take it. You speak before he can charm his way into getting what he wants: giving you whatever you want. "So, no. Just help me unpack."

With a nod that comes almost too quick, you regret not being more suspicious when he crouches down and opens up the first box.

Not too long later, your side is full and you haven't even made much of a dent in the wardrobe. Never mind that because your husband is already herding you to the study like you're a prized sheep. The heavy wooden door pushes in and you notice the new layout. What used to be his large and heavy desk in the centre of the room is now gone. Instead, the aforementioned desk is on the right while a matching one is on the left. Both standing over the same rug with their mirroring pairs of armchairs and desk lamps.

"Bruce?" You raise an eyebrow at him. He has the gall to look proud. "Why on Earth did you put a second desk in here?"

"It's pretty self-explanatory." His hand rubs your waist before leading you along to your desk. Complete with your own row of bookshelves behind it.

"I don't need a desk. At least not here. If I ever want to work from home, I can do it in the dining room or the library." You feel the guilt ebb up to the surface as you take in the meaning of the action. You're Mrs. Wayne now. One half of the Manor's owners. You get your own desk. Your own closet. This place is yours even if you only married into it.

"You shouldn't have to work at the dining table." He tuts, gentle leading you to sir down on the chair. A very nice and very comfortable leather chair.

"I don't need to take up half of your study."

"Our study," Bruce corrects, leading against the desk while he rubs your hand. "Plus, it suits you Mrs. Wayne."

"Oh, does it?"

"Perfectly."

When you glance up from your laptop's screen two months later and see Bruce as equally tired of his own work, you can't help but chuckle under your breath. Working across from him, having a space where the two of you can focus, and be professionals in your own right at home is nice. But the quick glances and giddy half-smiles are what convinces you that your place is here. At at a desk across from your husband, a routine of comfort and passing around printer paper so boring and mundane that it just makes sense.

—

There aren't many things in the Manor that are normal. But the plastic plates you bought are one of those things.

It all started a few months ago when you and Bruce brought a skinny little Jason to the Manor. He was wide-eyed and jumpy. Every time Bruce cleared his throat. Every time a piece of silverware clattered onto the floor. Every time you sighed just a little too loud. For Jason, the Manor was a ticking bomb. One wrong move and he was convinced that whatever dream he was in, he'd be ripped right out of. It took time to get him where he is today, even if it still rips your heart out to see him so shy and so scared in what should be his new home. But the plastic plates helped. It got dropped on the floor? Wouldn't even chip. The design faded away in the dishwasher? No one really likes Batman anyway. Jason didn't have to worry about his knife making a horrible scratching sound. It was cheap, it was durable, and it made him feel less like a kid in a museum.

You watch how comfortable he seems to be with the new tableware. as he sets the plates out for breakfast. Dick gets the Superman plate. Bruce gets the Robin plate. You get the Batman plate. Jason gets the Wonder Woman plate.

Turning back to the stove, you flip another pancake and pile it onto the stack. Dick is still in his room, probably asleep like any other normal seventeen year old. Bruce is juicing some oranges and carrots. And Alfred is enjoying his day off. It's all a quiet hum as the fog and dew wake up the Manor's grounds.

Until your eldest crashes in and slumps across the breakfast table.

"I just put those plates down." Jason frowns, his personality always coming out around Dick.

"Thanks." Dick mumbles, curling his Superman plate around his arm.

"Dickhead." Jason mutters and joins your side at the stove. Bruce just glances up, shaking his head with a soft smile.

"Rough night, chum?" Your husband sets the pitcher of juice onto the table and rubs Dick's back.

"Teen Titans." He mumbles against the wooden surface.

"Hm." Bruce nods and pours him a glass.

On your side of the kitchen, you and Jason ignore them. Ever since his arrival and him noticing your lack of consuming of any substance, Jason has stuck by your side. Your little sidekick for anything, really. Primarily in the kitchen whenever Alfred was busy with something else. You hand him the ladle as he pours out another pancake. A nice little circle that sizzles on the butter. Neatly, he sets it back into the bowl and you then hand him the spatula. He likes it. Cooking something. Making something yummy and warm and fresh. He times it perfectly, waiting until the biggest bubble pops before he flips it onto the over side. He doesn't sneak in a bite or steal an entire pancake. He just waits and lets them cook.

With a full plate, you let Jason carry it over to the other two. He settles it in the centre before taking a seat next to yours. You slide in with a jam that Dick likes, reminding him of when the circus toured in Eastern Europe, and some maple syrup. Everyone digs in. Dick piles his plate high. Your husband gives you a small thank you as you serve him a few pancakes while he pours everyone some juice. And Jason hunches over his plate protectively. The four of you move in an easy quiet, the sound of chewing and the early morning birds waking up the kitchen.

"How was Maths with Mr. Bouyer this week?" Bruce asks Dick while wiping some stickiness off of Jason's face.

"Ugh," your teenager rolls his eyes and slumps into his seat. "I have no idea how he's even still allowed to teach. All he does is lecture us on maths for two hours. He doesn't even give us exercises or homework to practise any maths."

"How-"

"I don't know!" Dick cuts your husband off with an exasperated gesture. "I'm gonna fail the IB all because of some stuck up teacher who thinks that he's lecturing in some prestigious college when it's actually a bunch of teenagers at Gotham Prep. Like dude, no one cares so just do your job."

"Wow," you blink.

"Hm." Bruce agrees. "I'll have a word with the school next week."

"And you, Jay?" You turn towards Jason while Dick shoves another pancake into his gob. "How was your book report?"

"Good," he smiles. "I got an A+. And then Lory thought that it was cool that I got an A and she shared her animal crackers with me."

You share a proud smile with Bruce.

—

The Manor is dead. Ever since Jason has passed and Dick needed his own space, the Wayne Manor has died. You and Bruce still live there, but it's just a space to take shelter. Not a home.

It's hard, staying indoors. Walking past the hallway that led to Dick or Jason's bedrooms. But you have to do it daily now.

Cassandra showed up into your lives not looking for parents but for a way out. You still didn't understand out of what, but neither of you were going to deny her a safe space to live in. So she took the third bedroom down that corridor. You let Cassandra settle into life at the Manor. That often meant the fourteen year old disappearing on the grounds during the day and coming back inside for a quiet lunch or snacks. She didn't linger in the library like Jason used to or run down the halls like Dick. She'd just give you and Bruce your space until it was time for bed. Then, like a routine you hadn't even noticed you were doing, you and your husband would read to her before going to sleep. It started when the two of you learnt that Dick had no formal education. Not that you could blame him when the circus was always moving and much more interesting than a classroom. But you needed to fill the gap. You and Bruce didn't want your kids to fall victim to the million word gap.

She didn't speak much, if at all. Just a series of nods and head shakes. But you could tell she was trying, even if it was hard. She'd mouth the words you and Bruce would read to her. She'd take an extra second to scan the kitchen's pantry, tilting her head curiously at the spice labelled 'adobo' that had remained untouched in a thin layer of dust. And, she'd linger in the greenhouse reading the rusted iron plaques.

You had caught her one Saturday morning, crouched down between the leaves.

In a pair of gardening gloves and jeans that had seen better days, you came into the abandoned greenhouse with two goals in mind: clear out the weeds, and to find something to do instead of work and grieve. The Laura Wayne greenhouse and botanical gardens seemed like the perfect place to do so. Untouched when the former Mr. and Mrs. Wayne passed then neglected again when Jason joined them. The intricate glass and ironwork was stained with rain and mud. Inside, the designed planter boxes for exotic plants were hidden by dead branches and dried leaves.

"Cass?" You approach her slowly, moving to crouch with her. "What're you doing, honey?"

She lifts her head up, her big brown eyes scrunched up as she focuses.

"Reading." she finally says, voice soft.

"Yeah? Is it interesting?" You take a glove off and brush a strand of black hair behind her ear. The braid you tied for her at the breakfast table is already drooping.

She just nods, a small finger coming out to trace the letters. JASMINUM POLYANTHUM, Many-Flowered Jasmine. You look at the mess of dirt and branches. Not a single chance you would've guessed it was that by looking at it.

"I'm going to do some gardening," you put your glove back on and straighten up, "do you want to join? I have an extra pair of gloves."

Cass gives you a small nod accompanied by an even smaller smile. You hand her the gloves and the two of you get to work. By sunset, there's a wheelbarrow and trash bags full of dead soil and plants on the outside of the greenhouse. You had managed to scrub down most of the windows while Cass polished the plaques. By her side, she had taken the notebook and pen you brought down, taking her time to neatly write out every plant that used to be there.

She jots down another one, squinting between the letters carved out on the iron and the pen in her hand. You keep on scrubbing at the glass and cobwebs.

"Mrs. Wayne, Miss Cassandra," Alfred's voice pulls the two of you out of your focus. "I believe the two of you are done for the day."

You share a look with Cass, gaging her reaction. Her, like your husband, doesn't give anything away. Of course.

"There is lemonade and sandwiches on the south balcony. I will take care of disposing of all of this." The butler holds the greenhouse's door open even wider while his steady gaze and tone leave no room for argument. With a sweaty sigh, you toss your gloves into your basket and Cass does the same. Your knees pop as you stand, your 30s definitely not loving being crouched over all day. With your hunger finally catching up to you, you and Cass don't have the second thought to glance back at Alfred, and miss his fond smile and shake of his head.

—

"I'm Tim Drake. I've been watching your family for a few months now. Not in a creepy way. Technically I'm your neighbour, just a forest and property over."

You blink, stunned by the eleven year old who just climbed into library through the window. He, like somehow all of the children that have found their way into your lives, has a head of black hair. His blue eyes remind you of Bruce, Dick, and Jason but there's a frantic exhaustion that only your husband seems to permanently carry. He's holding a few things. A backpack, a rope, and a bicycle helmet. He's got knee and elbow pads on and a scuff on his shin.

"Bruce is Batman, right? Well, I know he is but I just wanted to let you know that I know. You've also taken in a girl. I don't know her name, haven't figured that out yet."

You don't move. He looks harmless. A cute little kid. But his cadence is eerily similar to the once Bruce has when he's verbally sorting through a case. Fast, focused, and mostly for himself.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," you get out of your chair, wincing when it hits the bookcase behind you. "Just give me a second?"

At his small nod, you nearly race down the hallway for Bruce. Opening the sitting room's door with too much energy, you find your husband watching a movie with Cass.

"Is everything okay-"

"There is a random child in our study who's been stalking us and knows that you're Batman."

Bruce pauses then nods, just once. Then he stands up, tall and stable versus your panicking heart. He makes it to the door and settles a hand on your waist.

"Give me a few minutes, okay?" His voice drops to that soft timbre he usually speaks to you in when he wants to help you calm down.

"Okay."

Thirty minutes later and sick of waiting in the unknown, you head back to the library. Sat by the fire in on a leather sofa, Tim is curled up in a blanket with his gear by Bruce's feet. He doesn't seem to care that you've walked in, or that Cassandra has silently followed in behind you to settle by Bruce's side. He just keeps on talking.

"So yeah. They didn't want to get an abortion and had me. They're at a dinner party right now. In Switzerland. They won't be back until next week." Tim tugs on a loose thread. "Anyways, I tracked your patrol routes with Killer Croc's and the water levels of the sewers keep on rising. I'm guessing there's something there."

And Bruce just responds as if this is normal. And for him, maybe it is.

"He's been unwell," your husband nods, his Batman voice gravelly. "It's not easy being him."

"Yeah, I've been looking at different kinds of therapy-" and you stop paying attention because all you can see is a neglected little kid that fits in just like the three others, mirroring and interacting with Bruce in a way that feels natural. He doesn't look out of place surrounded by heavy books and tall shelves. He doesn't even bat an eye at the ridiculous wealth of the Wayne Manor. Not at the marble fireplace or at the 16th century bust on a pedestal in the corner. He just carries on talking with the same eccentricities as Bruce, finally finding someone who can understand him.

—

Jason's back.

He's now eighteen, scarred, a couple inches taller than Bruce, and still the scared little boy you took in all those years ago.

But he's back for vengeance on Bruce.

All day he's been tormenting your poor husband. With already a few strands of grey making a rare appearance in his dark hair, you suspect that he'll have a few more by the end of today. Jason's been scaring Bruce all day. At breakfast, he got Tim to help him with a hologram of him, making Jason's ghost haunt the halls. Bruce choked on his coffee. After lunch, when Bruce was just in his study looking over some papers, he got Cass to grab his ankles. Batman let out an embarrassing yelp. Mid-afternoon, Jason kept it simple by hiding behind a wall in the grand hall and jumping out at Bruce. Your husband had to redirect his punch last minute.

Even during a halloween party, he hasn't stopped.

Excited screaming and giggling bounce off of the tall ceilings of the ballroom. The two of the city's orphanages are celebrating their halloween at the Manor. Kids of all ages dressed in whatever costume they could afford or make fill up the room. There's a few older kids sticking by the buffet table, enjoying some warm food. The younger ones haven't stopped moving since they arrived. As if they were transported to another world, they hide behind pillars and inspect every inch of the Manor's ballroom like it's a giant dollhouse. Two kids are waving their fingers through the fog being emitted by the cauldron in the corner. Some are playing hide and seek behind fake cobwebs. There's a Dracula chasing a unicorn with a giant fake spider.

You watch on, in a black dress and witch hat while Bruce and Alfred make sure everything is going smoothly. Cass and Tim are busy distributing candy, dressed as two bats. Dick will pass by later, before he's headed to a Teen Titans halloween party. He sent a text about Discowing that all your kids groaned at.

And Jason is nowhere to be seen.

It's only an hour later when Bruce makes a speech that gets interrupted by giggles and excited raucous does he appear again. The room has gone dark, a single light shining on Bruce. Jason's by your side again sporting a satisfied grin.

"Jay, what did you do?" You don't have to glance at your son to know that he's planned something.

"Shh. B's giving a speech." You can hear the humour in his voice.

"Thank you for coming tonight. We hope you had a great time and stocked up on lots of candy," Bruce pauses, having expected the excited screaming at the mention of candy. "It was a pleasure celebrating with you all tonight. Happy halloween-"

A loud boom of thunder cuts through the air and makes the room jump. Lightning strikes the sky outside and a bat swoops from the ceiling. Bats that are supposed to be fake. Your husband startles at the winged creature, flinching just little before he composes himself and walks off of the makeshift stage. More bats descend, and the orphanages' caretakers hurry with getting the kids out of there before one gets scratched or bitten.

"Jason." You turn to look at him.

"Okay," he sighs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "I wasn't expecting them to all come alive."

Your family spend the next hour trying to shoo the bats outside without getting infected.

—

Ding dong. Ding dong.

The Manor's formal living room smells like pine, cinnamon, and snow. Christmas music plays from a record player on a console table, one of Bruce's old records spinning. There's a pile of neatly and not-so-neatly wrapped presents under the tree. A solid pine tree from the forest just outside decorated in silver tinsel and crystal ornaments. Wreaths, pine needles, and mistletoe line every door and window while a fresh layer of snow piles onto the foot of white outside. On the central sofa facing the hearth, Dick, Jason, Duke, and Stephanie are all piled on. Each in their own versions of festive pyjamas. For your eldest, it means a hideous and tacky Christmas sweater along with the silliest slippers he could find, Rudolph with bells. Jason opted for a green hoodie and some plaid pyjama pants. Duke doesn't mind joining Dick in his chaotic fashion choices because his sweater is as equally appalling and his slippers just as eye-catching. Steph just settled for her usual pyjamas and slapped on a Santa hat.

On the other couch adjacent to them are Cass and Tim. Cassandra's in the nutcracker knit you and Bruce got her last Christmas, curled up with a mug of tea and a pillow on her lap. Tim's in a mishmash of clothing, none of which actually belong to him. Bruce's pyjama pants, Cass's t-shirt, Dick's clogs, and Jason's sweater.

On an loveseat where Bruce insists that you remained glued to his side, your husband is in his usual silk pyjamas and fluffy cotton robe. There's a slight scruff on his jaw and a content look in his eyes seeing everyone here. His arm is around your shoulders, watching your kids and wards exchange gifts and throw crumpled up wrapping paper at each other.

"For you," he murmurs softly, handing you a velvet box. He presses a sweet kiss to your temple as you open it. You gently unfold the delicate wrapping paper and set the lid of the box down, revealing...a wonky tray. Just a simple ceramic tray with a glaze that created spots on the surface.

"Thank you," you smile, pressing a kiss to Bruce's stubbly cheek despite being extremely confused.

"It's for your jewellery." He explains, his hand rubbing yours. "I know you have too much to fit in the tray but you always leave your wedding ring and necklace out. Thought I could make you something for it."

"Oh, I can definitely tell that you made it." You chuckle.

—

New year, new...kid?

You and Bruce weren't expecting a ten year old on your driveway as the new year starts. The two of you have just returned from watching the fireworks from the Wayne Enterprises rooftop, giddy and tired. You kissed at midnight, Bruce said something cheesy about spending another year by your side with his arms around you. You kissed again, smiling against each other's lips.

And now there's a ten year old boy sat on the stone steps with a scowl surrounded by heavy leather suitcases.

"Your home is simple, father." He says before either you or Bruce can get out a hello.

Father? Already? You mean, you and Bruce have eventually heard a 'mom' or 'dad' come from each of your kids. But father? Within the first few seconds of meeting?

The new addition doesn't notice or care about your surprised faces because he's standing up and dusting himself off with impeccable posture. Olive skin, green eyes, and eyebrows just like Bruce's. If you didn't know any better you would've assumed he was some long lost biological child. Yet again, all of your kids somehow ended up all looking uncannily too much like Bruce despite not a single one sharing his DNA.

"I'm Damian Wayne Al Ghul. Your son." He announces, tilting his chin up with conviction. You stare down at the ten year old looking far too regal for the Manor's stone steps and manicured front garden. His bags surround him, leather that looks like it dates from decades ago, sitting on the ground like a makeshift throne. The only light comes from the iron lamps shining behind him, casting his shadow down the pebbled driveway.

"My mother has sent for me to live with you. Talia al Ghul."

—

A/N: I’m in a Bruce Wayne mood idk why.

Also, I wanted to change the design of my Wayne manor build in the sims but there’s no infinite lots which sucks. I even bought Paralives to see if there was one but it’s too small (probably should’ve googled it instead of just buying the game but hey at least it’s not EA taking my money). Considering I want to add a private beach, a forest with horse or walking trails, a small secondary home for Alfred, a large driveway with a car port, stables, a botanical garden, a pool, the manor and its three wings, a lookout point on a trail, and a greenhouse. I think I might have to lock in with AutoCAD and rhino or get into revit…😭 (Or just hope that TwistedMexi finishes their Create A World mod soon enough. I'm so excited for it)

I haven’t read any Tim Drake comics or anything about his origins but I checked Reddit and apparently his parents are alive so…that’s confusing. Anyways, I made his parents rich assholes who never wanted a kid but didn’t abort because it’s against their values so Tim has sort of emotionally latched onto Bruce. I feel like it's an explanation that makes sense but doesn't force them into witness protection, yk? Also Cass is older than she probably would've been when taken in by bruce because I needed her to stay closer in age to Jason than Tim. Comics say she would've been 8 when going to bruce but it confused my timeline too much.

Not entirely proofread so if you spot any mistakes or anything that reads awkwardly let me know! I really don't mind and even encourage it (given that I'm allowed to disagree or not). I got kind of impatient and wanted to post it halfway through. Nearly considered splitting it up into two parts but if I did that I'd probably never post the second part. Hopefully you can't tell that I'm losing steam towards the end. Also, can you guess which part corresponds to which area of the Manor?

[reidbucky]

heyy, i just saw this and thought it would be a cute fic idea for dick and bruce, i love ur writing btww!! 🩷

https://share.google/n5fEOvsFHVFAcihtC

thank you so much for this lovely request. It absolutely made my day💕 it's my first time to get one so I really hope you'll like it🥰 (the kid in the video is sooo cute)

—𝐃𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞—

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bruce wayne x batmom!reader feat. (kid) dick grayson

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: it's almost bedtime for dick which means it's time for his favourite game before he goes to sleep.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: just fluff, established relationship, 1.1k words, not really proofread, let me know if I forgot something :p

. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦇་༘࿐. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦇་༘࿐. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦇་༘࿐. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ

Bruce sits on his desk, working on some papers he needs for a meeting tomorrow before his ears catch the sound of little feet running towards his office. He looks to the watch on his wrist, and a smile appears on his face. It's quarter to eight which means is almost Dick's sleeping time which meant it was time for Dick's favourite game before bedtime.

"Mom said—," Dick interrupts himself, remembering he didn't knock when he entered his dad's office. He gives him a sheppish smile and a whispered '𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺' before he closed the door again, and knocks this time on the door, waiting (definitely not so) patiently to be allowed in.

Bruce's smile widens at that, and lays his pen down before he leans back in his chair, already turning it slightly to the right, to talk better to his boy. "Come in!"

He didn't even really finished his sentence before Dick storms through the door, running directly up to the right side of Bruce's chair.

"I love you so much that if one of your butt cheeks fell off, I would share one of mine with you," Dick laughs, trying to catch his breath.

"She said that?" Bruce asks, chuckling softly when Dick nods eagerly.

It's a silly little game you three played before it was bedtime for Dick. You came up with it one day when your little boy had a bad day, and wouldn't go to bed, so you asked him to deliver Bruce a little massage, and then Dick came back with a massage from Bruce, and now it was his favourite game to play before bed, and it was also a good way to tire him out.

"You know, I was just thinking about getting an extra butt cheek, and your mom's is very awesome."

Dick nods, already ready to start running back to you before his dad grabs his wrist softly. "No, don't tell her that."

Bruce shakes his head, knowing you'll probably kill him when you knew he said something like that to your sweet son. "Tell her that I love her so much that if she would be a stain on my favourite shirt I would never wash it."

Dick giggles, finally able to run out of the office to deliver the massage to you, but he stops halfway on the way to your bedroom, and turns around to run back to Bruce.

He frowns when he stands in the doorway, having left the door open, so he didn't have to knock again. "Don't you mean Alfred wouldn't wash the shirt?"

"You're right, chum," Bruce's now fully laughing, children are more attentive than you think. "I wouldn't let Alfred wash the shirt."

Dick seems satisfied with that, and starts to finally make his way to you to deliver the massage before he runs back to Bruce again.

"I love you so much that even if your feet would stink so much that everyone in Gotham would move to Metropolis to get away from them I would still snuggle you."

"That's very romantic," Bruce smiles, "I think we should test this one day."

Dick grimaces at him, "please test this without me, because I wouldn't snuggle you when you stink."

Bruce gasps at him, "you wouldn't?"

"I wouldn't," Dick answers, laughing when Bruce grabs him to lift him up, hugging Dick tightly against his chest, and swinging both of them from side to side.

"That's very rude of you," Bruce whines, "I snuggle you, and you always stink."

"I do not!"

"Yes, you do!"

Dick pouts at his father and tries to wriggle himself free from the hug. He doesn't always stink. Only after practice, which to be fair is almost every day, but that's not the point right now.

Bruce gives his son's head a kiss before he lets him down, seeing the pout on his face. "Okay, stinky pants, tell mom that I love her so much that even if her fart took out the whole world I would still kiss her."

Dick tries to hide the smile that grows on his face, but a few giggle leave his mouth before he's out the door, running towards your bathroom where you were currently brushing your teeth.

"I love you so much that even if your f-fart took out the whoooole world, I would still kiss you."

You almost choke on your toothpaste when you laugh at the proud smile you see on the boy's face, and at how 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤 your husband is.

"Oh wow," you mutter, rinsing your mouth out, "that's the most romantic thing I've ever heard."

"Now you have to tell me something even more romantic than that."

"I don't even know if that's possible," you shake your head, giving Dick the signal to open his mouth to check if he brushed his teeth.

"Tell dad that I love him so much that I scrap off some of his armpits stink and rub it into my clothes so that I can smell him every day."

Dick grimace, starting to walk out of the bathroom, "you guys are so weird."

But you could still hear his laugh, and the '𝘦𝘸𝘸𝘸' from your husband before you hear Dick running back to you.

"Dad said—" Dick stops himself to let another laugh out."

"Is it that bad?"

Dick shakes his head, "it's very romantic." But he still couldn't properly breathe from all the laughing. "He said that he loves you sooo much that he would lick peanut butter," another laugh, and a horrified look on your face, "peanut butter and jelly off your toes."

"Ewww," you grimace, making your son laugh even more.

"Don't worry," you turn around at the sound of your husband's voice, seeing him leaning against the doorframe, "we never have these at home because stinky pants over there always eats them up."

"You have stinky feet," Dick defense himself, rubbing his eyes while he leans against you.

. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦇་༘࿐

After you and Bruce put Dick to bed, you now found yourself on your bed, the TV playing some movie that you were not really interested in, it was more for some background noises.

You giggle to yourself, "I love you so much even when you're mean to our sweet little boy."

"I'm not mean to him," Bruce chuckles, walking out of the bathroom towards the bed, standing at your side with crossed arms. "I love you so much even when you and our son team up to be mean to 𝘮𝘦."

"Awww my poor baby," you say standing up on your knees to cup his face in your hands and giving him a peck on his mouth, "and I love you sooo much that in a room full of Superheroes I'll still wave to you when I fly away with Clark."

Bruce clicks his tongue before a wolfish smirk crosses his face and he lets himself fall on top of you before he starts to tickle you. "Look, you're already mean to me again."

[supermanthisho]

Just watched episode 1 & 2 of Off Campus and now I wanna write something abt college! DC men (mostly Jason) but idk what !!

Loved the first two episodes so far but Garrett’s actor’s line delivery could’ve been better in some moments especially with Hannah’s actress being so good and natural. I read the books four years ago so I don’t remember much but the more modern additions like Instagram are great. Plus the dialogue doesn’t feel like 45 year old men in the writing room wrote it. Also wished that Jules’ character was more subtle and that they’d appear in the background of scenes a lot like a ‘omg is Jules seeing this??’ reaction from the audience so it’s less on the nose.

[lemoncandiedlesbian]

Dilf!Bruce HCs!

Warnings: Only slightly suggestive but nothing too crazy.

A/N; Boi I’m so off my game uhhh I GRADUATED AHAHAHAHAHAHHA, i also lost a friend yesterday and have so much to process mentally but I’m still fighting and trying my hardest to post stuff so yea! love you guys!

Dilf!Bruce who sends messages doing the classic dad pose; screen away eyes squinting and tongue pushing between his lips.

Dilf!Bruce who’s splotched grays you can’t resist running your hands through because even though he’s gotten older he hasn’t lost his fantastic ability to keep his hygiene up AND has the most perfect and carefully constructed hair care routine. (Talk about rich amirite)

Dilf!Bruce whose libido you never have to worry about because he will get caught up in his feelings with self-consciousness if he did anything other than care for his body in this stage of life. (Or in other words, he does everything he can to make sure he’s still got it for your pleasure)

Dilf!Bruce who even though he’s still sprightly in bed, will tap out after the fourth round because he’s still got it but his bones creaking say otherwise. Along with that, Dilf!Bruce who ups his calcium intake after being embarrassed by his hip locking up on him during your escapades one night.

Dilf!Bruce who is too old to care what you do with his possessions. Want his card? Fine. His cars? Go for it. You and Damian bought land for animals (close to Talia because it was strictly required by Damian)? Perfect.

Dilf!Bruce. Thanks for coming to my TED talk.

@lemoncandiedlesbian 2026

TAGLIST: @edawgz

[supermanthisho]

Currently building the Batcave and Wayne Manor in the sims and it’s massive…thank you CC 🙏🙏

[supermanthisho]

The exterior of the manor (not done)

The inside (not done at all, I’m having trouble filling up four floors 😭):

(This is just the ground floor which has an open area above the stairs to look down into the foyer and hall, the upstairs hall is also a gallery for art)

The Batcave (again not done. I need to download some cc and the tool mod bc I can’t resize objects):

There’s three floors:

1st (top floor/highest):

Elevator

Secret staircase from the library

Training/ gym

Zeta tubes

Lab

In the manor’s basement on the same floor:

Garage

Vault/safe

Cellar

Laundry room

Bathroom

Storage

2nd floor (middle):

Batcomputer

Memorabilia hall

Meeting room

Bathroom

Joker card

Two face penny

Dinosaur

3rd floor (lowest/bottom):

Tunnels into Gotham (that actually are dead ends in the game)

Water for boats

Car platform

Garage/car repair

Medical bay

It was such a pain trying to make the different levels of the Batcave float but finally I managed!! The curved walls killed me. Also im having issues with the first floor of the basement filling back in when I want negative space and it looks weird when I delete it again. I’m going to fill in the walls with rocks and stuff so it actually looks like a cave. So excited!!!

[supermanthisho]

Currently building the Batcave and Wayne Manor in the sims and it’s massive…thank you CC 🙏🙏

[shisuni]

ᯓ➤ glitter pens and hot chocolate ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀ ʟɪꜱᴛ !

← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ jason todd ✘ reader + platonic! damian wayne ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ

ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ Damian has a family. He finds one more with you two. And in a way, Jason accepts the one he has.

scene 0 : your mom will make you soup later yeah? scene ✗ : Just us two…" "Oh, that would be wonderful!" "…Three?" scene ✗ : glitter pens mean we are family scene ✗: 'parent'-teacher meeting ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1/2 scene ✗ : 'parent'-teacher meeting ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2/2 scene ✗ : Damian is NOT doing split custody ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1/2 scene ✗ : Damian is NOT doing split custody ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2/2

©shisuni 𝖺𝗅𝗅 rights reserved , 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅/𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗂/𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗀𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗂𝗍. Any oc's are not permitted to be put into other works unless dm'd, discussed, and agreed upon.

[brinasunlight]

I love them all so much 🥹🤧🥰

[supermanthisho]

Any smut writing tips so I don’t feel super awkward writing it?

[utopeian]

hot damn

SUMMARY Man-eater? Nah, the only man you want to eat is waiting for you to come home.

PAIRING jason todd x feminine!reader

GENRE fluff, established relationship

WORD COUNT 1k+

CONTENT not proofread, reader dresses femininely and is hot which causes problems, jason loves to tease reader, a conversation surrounding vaguely suggestive topics, explicit language, no use of Y/N and pronouns

AUTHOR’S NOTE unashamedly self-indulgent and loosely based off something that happened to me recently lol. anyway, enjoy!

You groan as you toe off your heels with uncalled-for hostility, purse slipping from your shoulder to thrash around your wrist as you do, pissing you off further. Despite the irritation running deep in your grand entrance, it comforts Jason to know that you’re home.

From behind the rim of his steaming cup of tea, he grimaces at you taking deep breaths to regulate yourself, murmuring, “I take that something happened?”

The sight of your boyfriend sitting so comfortably on your sofa makes you wish you had stayed home with him instead of going out. You put your shoulder bag down on the coffee table with as much grace as you can muster right beside his much and the book he had been in the middle of reading. The purse was ones of the first gifts Jason had given you, so of course, you tried not to take your anger out on something so sentimental (and archival).

A faint gust of perfumed air enters his nose as you sit down haphazardly, the mix of that and your natural smell intoxicating him. From his splayed out form on the couch, he sits up to give you his whole attention. You, on the other hand, slouch back on the sofa with your head tilted towards him, your left ankle tucked under your right thigh.

“I cannot believe someone accused me of being a man-eater. Or… a man stealer… whatever! Like I give a shit about other men!” You scoff, “They don’t even exist to me! We were going around, talking about our ideal types. Y’know, the usual. After I shared mine, one of my friends who’s talking to a guy that she really likes told me that he’s similar to my type.”

“We’re close enough for me to joke with disgust that she can keep him because, number one, I don’t care for men. And two, he literally taken and does not fit my bill; I don’t care for men who aren’t you. And I verbally said all of this, right? Well, except the latter part.”

Jason folds his lips inward, trying not to laugh at your immediate rant. Instead, he nods along to your story, face twitching here and there.

“You know what she said?”

“What did she say, babe?”

“She said, ‘yeah, I’ll keep him, alright’ and glared at me. Glared! I just told her I don’t give a fuck about her ugly ass soon-to-be-boyfriend! I wanted to tell them that, ‘the only man I want to eat is waiting for me at home’!”

You’re both secure enough and aware that you being a man-eater is so far from the truth, but he understands your relationship with him not being public knowledge and having to make excuses surrounding the topic can frustrate you on a really bad day.

He tries to defuse your anger by fueling it just a tiny bit. He's also really enjoying how riled up you're getting about wanting to talk about him to your friends.

“Oh, yeah, and who would this man be?”

You let out a humorless scoff.

“Take a wild fucking guess, babe!”

He bends his torso to grab his mug and takes a sip. It’s at a perfect temperature. “Is it wrong to admit that I find you really hot right now?”

“Yes. Literally, I’m upset because people can think I’m hot,” you turn the other direction to prove your point, but you mean nothing by it. Mumbling away, he can hear you say, “Hot enough to steal their boyfriends, apparently. Me? Hell no, even if I wasn’t in a loving relationship, I would never!”

“I completely forgot that people can perceive me in that way, just so… wrongly.”

He sets the mug back down to put a consoling hand on your shoulder, coaxing you back to him. “I’m sorry, baby.”

You huff, unmoved by his affection. “No, you aren’t.”

“No, I am not. I just so happen to agree with them.”

You sigh, turning back to him just to frown at him. His hand drops to rest it on your thigh. As you bring up a hand to rub your eye, he softly swats it away and shakes his head, prompting your frown to grow deeper. However, it was a vital reminder that you still had your makeup on. Your expression relaxes by the slightest.

Jason leans back in his seat with a growing smirk on his face, taking your silence as an opportunity to prod you. “Actually, I’m curious. What were the traits of your ‘ideal partner’?”

You turn your head to the side with so much intensity and sarcasm that it he finds scarily attractive.

“Glad you asked, boyfriend. I said I wanted them goofy, but kindhearted. Makes me laugh, doesn’t complain even if I’m difficult; if they do, it’s out of good nature. Taller than me, strong enough to toss me around.”

The fact that you went on to name all these traits in an ideal partner, only for them to be about him flushes his body with a whole lot of bashfulness. He’s sure that if you weren’t in your riled up state, you’d point out the change of color from his face down to his neck. He’ll do what he does best instead of admitting that your words had an effect on him: feigning nonchalance.

“To be fair to your friends,” you squint at his words immediately, “that sounds like a lot of people.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, frustrated as to why no one gets what you mean.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t thinking of ‘a lot of people’. I don’t care for other people; I was thinking of you!”

For your well-being, he stops picking on you, grabbing your hand to pull you close. His other warm hands slithers around you, rubbing the length of your back. You melt into him as he murmurs, “We should really tell everyone before our first anniversary.”

“Yeah, but it’s so fun to keep them on their toes when I say I’m going on a date and they ask, ‘really?!’ And then I just lie and say no.” Your reply is muffled by his chest, both of you unbothered if your makeup transfers to his tee. There’s no place you’d rather be.

His chuckle rumbles you both.

“Baby, I love you, but you really are the problem.”

You withdraw from him with a melodramatic gasp. “I am not!”

[supermanthisho]

BRUCE WAYNE MASTERLIST

STILL A WORK IN PROGRESS

main masterlists page

requests or ideas of feedback is always welcome! just keep it polite, please!

fluff (f), smut (s), angst (a), comfort (c)

one-shots/drabbles:

‘Do you ever wish you were athletic?’ (request) (f)

Bruce with a normal! Reader (f)

Mi manor es tu manor (f + s + a)

☆〜（ゝ。∂）

[supermanthisho]

Normal! Reader who is constantly miffed by Bruce’s lavish lifestyle. Shopping consists of PR and personal assistants managing to close department stores just for Bruce to shop in peace.

Hundreds of dollars worth of champagne being poured without a second of hesitation. All while you and Bruce are given a private fitting room to try on clothes that go up into the thousands.

Normal! Reader who lost a piece of jewellery at the manor and can’t seem to find it. Doesn’t matter though because you’re already headed to a private appointment at a jewellery shop. Bruce insists that you get a new…everything.

Normal! Reader who just wants to head to the supermarket before going to the manor. Craving chips, a soda, and some chocolates. You watch as Bruce tries to pay at the self-service register with a cheque. He settles for his platinum card.

Normal! Reader who sometimes insists on doing things her way. Living easily and lavishly is all fun and grand, but there’s a guilt. You didn’t work your way up to this. So many people have it worse. And you’re scared that you’re losing your perspective and level head. So of course you drag Bruce to some random corner of Gotham for street food and just sit and watch people.

Bruce who doesn’t realise that having a chauffeur, a personal assistant, a butler, and an entire PR team isn’t a very comfortable life. It takes a second too long in his sharp mind to realise that the constant presence of people—who are technically his employees—isn’t the most welcome when you’re finally coming downstairs after a steamy good morning.

Normal! Reader who insists on living at their place for at least a year into their relationship so they can maintain some of their ‘average person’ habits. Even if Bruce has spruced up the place with thousands of dollars worth of safety upgrades and maintenance. All you did was complain about the mice and the mold scare you had a few months back.

Bruce who doesn’t bat an eye at some foreign politician’s expensive jewellery and dinner party. Something, something in Paris where he’ll likely leave before they serve the vintage dessert wines and Michelin star pastries. Normal! Reader who feels completely out of their depth in some president’s home, holding silver cutlery and thanking the waitstaff.

Bruce who notices your confusion when a tray looms over your shoulder, the man serving you not making a move to put anything on your plate. Using his own fork and knife, he grabs some food to put onto your plate. Then, when the man moves onto the next esteemed guest, Bruce leans in and speaks softly. He explains the order of the courses. When you should stand up. How you can’t leave to go to the bathroom if the host is still eating. Which cutlery to use. All while his hand finds yours under the tablecloth to ground you.

Normal! reader who takes advantage of Bruce’s access to basically anything on earth to get educated on their finances. Sure, they’re dating one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, but they want to know that they’re doing good with their own money.

Bruce who learns that you’re talking with his accountant and financial advisor regularly, and have even opened up multiple bank accounts so your money doesn’t just sit in one. He decides then and there that he’s willing to get you whatever money can buy. Just because you aren’t reliant on his.

Bruce who makes sure that at every event you stay away from the dark side of the rich and powerful. People with an ego trip and too much power in their hands. You don’t need to talk to people who hunt others for sport or engage in stuff the FBI (and Batman) are currently investigating.

[the-darklings]

Jason and his girlfriend would read their books together 🥲❤️ I love how it’s canon that he actually reads Jane Austen!!

Still don't go here, but I had ideas, thoughts, ponderings even so enjoy! A little angsty, but mostly just insanely fluffy. ( ✶ JASON BF HDCS ✶ DICK BF HDCS. )

JASON & GF!READER READING TOGETHER HDCS—

Reading is one of the most Jason things about Jason. Because it's the place where the entire myth of Jason Todd (the gun, the helmet, the dead-eyed killer the city is afraid of) collapses completely into the truth of who he actually is: a kid from Crime Alley who taught himself to love books because they were the only thing in the world that nobody could take from him.

The first time you find out he reads is going to be a fact you have to put together yourself. because he's not going to volunteer it.

You'll be at his apartment for one of the early visits and you'll register, slowly, that there are books everywhere, real books, dog-eared and broken-spined and clearly loved.

Stacked on the coffee table and overflowing the shelf and balanced on the windowsill above the radiator, and you'll pick one up (it'll be Pride and Prejudice, a battered Penguin Classics edition, the spine taped together with electrical tape) and you'll open it and find his handwriting in the margins.

Sometimes just a single underline under a sentence with a star next to it, and you'll look up at him with an expression that he's going to notice immediately and try to deflect from, going "what," in that defensive way, and you'll say "you read Austen?" and he'll go red at the back of his neck and mutter "don't make a thing of it, sweetheart," and that's the moment you'll understand that you've stumbled into something private.

Because here's the thing about Jason and books: this isn'tt a casual hobby, this is genuinely important.

This is the kid who lived above a bar in Park Row and stole library books because nobody at the library would have given him a card. Same kid who Bruce Wayne found stealing the tires off the Batmobile and asked what he was going to do with them and the kid said he was going to sell them so he could buy a hotdog and books. This is the kid who, in the manor, had a tutor and discovered that the world he'd been living in was a small room of a much bigger house.

He used reading as a way to survive being raised by Bruce Wayne, who escaped into Dickens and Austen because the cave was full of grief and the manor was full of silence and the books were full of people.

When he came back from the dead the books were one of the things he kept, one of the few things from the before that didn't feel contaminated by what came after.

He reads constantly. You will not understand at first how much of his time goes into it. Genuinely.

Because Jason is a man who reads in the gaps: on stakeouts, in safehouses, in the half-hour between dinner and patrol, in the small hours when he can't sleep, on the subway with a paperback folded in half in his back pocket, in his kitchen while the coffee brews.

The breadth of what he reads is going to genuinely startle you the first time you really look at the shelves: the Austen (all of it, multiple editions, Persuasion the most thumbed because Persuasion is the one he loves most and you will work out why over time), the Brontës, Dickens (Great Expectations falling apart, the binding held together with rubber bands), the Russians (Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, all the big ones, with Anna Karenina sitting at his bedside with a bookmark three-quarters through that hasn't moved in months because he keeps starting it over), poetry he absolutely doesn't want you to know he reads (Keats, Frost, a battered Mary Oliver, a slim volume of Auden), some genre stuff he doesn't apologise for (Le Carré, Chandler, a Stephen King phase he's never quite outgrown), and political theory and history books that he doesn't really shelve, they sort of roam the apartment, stacked on chairs and floors and the edge of the bathtub.

Persuasion, specifically, is the one. He won't tell you why for a long time, and when you finally ask, he'll be vague about it ("it's a good book, sweetheart, that's all") but you'll work it out yourself, eventually.

Because Persuasion is the Austen about second chances, about a woman who lost the person she loved when she was young and gets him back as a different and harder person years later. About whether you can come back from the thing that broke you and still be loved, about the man returning from war salt-bitten and changed, wondering if the past will have him.

And the fact that this is the Austen Jason Todd has read seven times and keeps coming back to is the kind of detail that'll sit in your chest for a week the first time you put it together.

The first time you read together is going to be an accident, the way most intimate things with Jason are an accident.

You'll be at his apartment, the rain will be coming down, neither of you has anywhere to be, he'll be on one end of the couch with Anna Karenina open, and you'll be at the other end with whatever you brought.

At some point your foot will end up in his lap and his free hand will land on your ankle absently, and an hour will go by, and then another, and neither of you will have said a word. You'll look over and he'll be deep in it, his lips moving very slightly the way they do when something has caught him, and you'll realise that this is (for Jason) intimacy. This is one of the most intimate things he can offer, the act of being quiet together, the act of being trusted enough to read in your presence.

And once you've stumbled into it once, it becomes a thing (not a routine, Jason doesn't do routines, but a pattern).

Sunday afternoons, rainy nights, the long quiet hour before he has to leave for patrol, you on opposite ends of the couch or one of you in the armchair and the other on the rug with their head against the armchair leg, both of you with books, the radio playing something low in the background (Jason likes old blues, Billie Holiday, the kind of music that goes through you), the lamp on, the coffee going cold on the table, and the silence between you the kind of silence that's not absence but company.

He has opinions, and once you've earned them you can't make them stop coming. He'll look up from his book and go "god, listen to this," and read you a paragraph in that low, rough voice that you didn't know was a thing you needed in your life.

The paragraph will be something (a passage about grief from Anna Karenina, a sentence from Dickens about hunger that he reads with a particular weight, a line from Auden that he won't explain but that you know means something to him) and the way he reads aloud is good. Technically good, he was in school plays as a kid, he can hit the rhythm of a sentence, and you'll think the first time he does it that you would listen to Jason Todd read the phone book.

Jason's normal handwriting is a quick slashing scrawl, but his marginalia is careful. Small enough to fit between the lines, and the annotations are a mix of things: the occasional disagreement (a no he doesn't next to a character motivation he finds unconvincing), the underlining of a sentence with a single star meaning this, a !! next to a turn of phrase he loves, very rarely a longer note in the bottom margin, and once (just once) you'll find, in his copy of Persuasion, the words "this part" next to a passage about how she's loved him for years in silence and the words have a different quality of pressure than the rest of the annotations. Like he wrote them harder, and you will close the book and put it back and never mention that you saw.

He recommends books to you with a specific, careful generosity that is unlike anything else he does.

He doesn't push, doesn't insist, he'll just leave a paperback on your kitchen counter with a sticky note that says "thought you'd like this. don't have to." and walk out, and the books he picks are uncanny. He gets you right, he picks things you would have chosen yourself if you'd known they existed, and the precision of his curation tells you that he's been paying close attention to how you think for a long time.

He gets jealous of your books, in a small absurd way that he's mostly embarrassed about.

If you're reading something and laughing and won't tell him what, he will demand to know, hauling himself across the couch to look over your shoulder, "what, what is it, what's so funny, sweetheart, c'mon".

If you make him read a passage out loud he will, but he'll grumble about it, but then halfway through the passage he'll get caught by the writing and finish it seriously, and look up at you with new respect for whatever you were reading, and the next day there'll be a copy of it on his bedside table.

He reads in bed, often, after you've gone to sleep.

Jason doesn't sleep well, this is something you'll know early, and one of the things he does instead of sleeping is lie next to you with the small reading lamp on and a book propped on his chest. You'll wake up in the small hours sometimes to the soft sound of a page turning and the warm presence of him next to you, and you'll roll over without opening your eyes and put your hand on his stomach and feel his free hand come down to cover yours. You'll go back to sleep, and in the morning he won't mention it but the book will be a chapter further along.

The first time he reads to you, properly (not a "god, listen to this" paragraph but actually reading to you) is going to be one of those nights, a sleepless one, where you've woken up and you can't get back under.

He can tell, and instead of asking what's wrong (Jason knows better) he'll reach over and pick up whatever he's currently reading and say "c'mere," and you'll fit yourself against his side with your head on his chest, and he'll read to you, quietly, in that low voice, your ear pressed to his ribs so that the words come through both his voice and the vibration of him.

You'll fall asleep before he gets to the end of the chapter, and he'll mark the page with his finger and just stay there, holding you, the lamp on, the book open against his thigh, for as long as it takes for him to be ready to sleep too.

He reads to you in the bath, sometimes. You'll be in the tub and he'll be on the closed toilet seat in sweatpants with the book open, reading you a chapter of whatever you're currently working through together, and the casualness of it (the fact that Jason Peter Todd reads to his girlfriend in the bathtub on a random Tuesday night) is the kind of detail that will hit you in the chest in the grocery store six months later and you'll have to stand still in the cereal aisle for a minute to recover.

He buys you books for every occasion, and the books are always thoughtful, always specifically calibrated to you and to where you are in your life. The inscriptions in the front are always in his small careful annotation-hand and they're always short, never sentimental on the surface ("happy birthday, sweetheart, thought of you" or "saw this and grabbed it" or just "J.") but the choice of book is the love letter, and you'll learn to read the gifts the way you read everything else with him: by paying attention to what he does instead of what he says.

He takes you to bookstores (used bookstores, specifically, the kind that smell like dust and damp paper, the kind with handwritten signs and a cat sleeping in the front window) and watching Jason in a used bookstore is like watching a different person.

Because he goes soft, he goes quiet, his shoulders come down, his hands get gentle. He turns the pages of old hardcovers with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how fragile they are, and he'll spend an hour in a single aisle and emerge with three things you wouldn't have predicted.

He'll pay in cash, always, and he'll carry the bag himself, and when you get home he'll sit down with the new acquisitions and examine them, smelling the pages, checking the binding, opening to a random middle page to read a paragraph as a kind of greeting.

He reads when he's upset. This is something you'll work out over time.

Jason has a few coping mechanisms, and one of them (the healthiest one, the one you'll come to recognise and protect) is that when he's wound too tight, when something has happened that he can't talk about, when he's one bad hour away from doing something he'll regret, he'll pick up a book and lie down somewhere quiet and read until his breathing slows.

The book, in those moments, is almost always something he's read many times before, comfort reading, the literary equivalent of a worn-soft hoodie (Persuasion, mostly, but also David Copperfield, also a particular edition of Frost's collected poems that he keeps in the drawer of his bedside table) and if you ever come home and find him on the couch with one of those specific books, you'll know, without asking, what kind of day it has been.

The right move is to make him a coffee and put a blanket over his legs and sit on the floor next to the couch with your own book and not say anything, and he will, eventually, put his hand in your hair and leave it there, and that'll be the conversation.

And then there'll come a night (and it'll be a bad one, the worst you've seen, the kind where he comes through your window instead of the door because his hands are shaking too hard for the lock, the kind where there's blood on his jacket that isn't his and a particular set to his jaw that means something has happened he's not going to be able to talk about for days) and on this night his coping mechanism isn't going to work.

On this night he won't be able to settle, on this night he's going to pace, going to check the window, going to clean a gun he already cleaned this morning. He'll physically bristle, all surface, no give, and he's going to try to leave ("I should just go, sweetheart, I'm not — I'm not okay, I'm gonna — I should go") and the temptation is going to be to argue with him or to ask what happened or to try to fix it, and you aren't going to do any of those things, because you've learned him by now, you know what works.

What you're going to do is reach for his hand (not his arm, not his shoulder, his hand, where you know he can take it) and you're going to say, quietly, "come lie down. just lie down. you don't have to do anything," and Jason is going to resist, his whole body is going to resist.

He's going to make some half-sentence about how he can't, about how he won't be able to, about how if he stops moving the noise in his head is going to be worse, and you're going to say, "I know. lie down anyway. I'll read to you," and something in his face is going to flicker, briefly, because this is not a thing he's ever asked for and not a thing anyone has ever offered, and the offer is going to land somewhere he didn't know existed.

He'll come, eventually (slow, like a wounded thing, still bristling) and he'll lie down on the bed on his back, on top of the covers, fully dressed except for the jacket, his hands folded tight on his stomach, his jaw still set, his whole body radiating the kind of held tension that means he's one wrong sound from being back up and out the window.

You're going to sit on the bed next to him, against the headboard, with your hip pressed against his shoulder, and you're going to pick up Persuasion from the bedside table because it's the safest thing you have, and you're going to start reading, somewhere in the middle, somewhere you know he loves (quiet, even, no performance, no rush, just reading) and for the first ten minutes nothing is going to happen.

He's going to lie there, jaw clenched, eyes open, staring at the ceiling, still wound tight, still half-gone, and you're going to keep reading. You're not going to look at him, not going to comment on him not relaxing, but you're not going to stop.

You're going to read like the goal is the reading itself and not the fixing of him, because Jason can smell a fix-attempt a mile off and the moment he thinks you're reading at him he will get back up and you won't see him for a week.

And then, slowly (and you'll feel it happen against your hip more than you will see it) the tension is going to start to leak out of him. The jaw will unclench by degrees. His hands will unfold from his stomach. His breathing will slow, fractionally.

His head will turn, at some point, to look at you, and once he's looking at you he's not going to stop (and this is the part you'll remember for the rest of your life) he's just going to watch you, eyes huge and a little stunned, as if you're a thing he's seeing clearly for the first time, as if your voice reading these specific words to him is doing something to his nervous system that he has no language for and no defines against.

His face is going to soften the way it does when his armour is failing, the thing very few people have ever seen, the soft young thing that lives underneath the rest of him.

You'll keep reading, won't stop to acknowledge that he's watching you. You won't turn to meet his eyes, because if you do he'll catch himself and re-armour, and that's not what tonight is for. You'll just keep your voice steady and your eyes on the page, and after a while (five minutes, ten, you won't be able to track the time) Jason's hand is going to come up slowly. Like he's approaching something that might startle, and he's going to put it on your thigh, palm-down, warm and heavy, and he's going to leave it there.

You'll keep reading. You will, carefully, casually, free up your non-page-turning hand and let it come to rest in his hair, and you'll start, slowly, to run your fingers through it. Not stroking outright, not petting, just being there.

Your fingertips against his scalp, and at the first pass through, his eyes are going to close, and his whole face is going to do a small involuntary softening. You're going to know, in that moment, that you have him, that he's here, that the worst part of the night is over.

The chapter will end but you won't stop reading at the chapter break because you know that the silence would be a kind of question and tonight is not a night for questions.

So you'll turn the page and start the next one, and Jason's hand will tighten briefly on your thigh and then relax again, and at some point (without his permission, without his planning, without him quite registering it happening) he's going to shift, slowly, by inches, until his head is resting against your hip and his arm is draped across your lap and his whole body is curled toward you on the bed instead of laid out straight on it, and the curl is going to be a thing his body has done on its own, the way bodies do when they finally believe they're allowed to when they're safe.

And you'll read until your voice gets tired, and then you'll read a little longer, and somewhere (somewhere in the middle of a sentence about Captain Wentworth, somewhere in the part about how love survives the parts of us we thought it couldn't) his breathing is going to even out, and his hand on your leg is going to go heavy.

You'll glance down and Jason's eyes will be closed, and his mouth will be soft, his face will be the face of a man who's genuinely asleep, the face you've only seen a handful of times because Jason almost never sleeps in front of you on purpose.

And you'll close the book around your finger to mark the page, and you will not move. You'll sit there in the lamplight with his head against your hip and your hand still in his hair, and you'll look at him (really look at him, in a way he would never let you while he was awake) and you'll think about everything that has been done to this man.

Everything he's survived, everything he's been carrying that he won't put down, and you'll think about the fact that on the worst night you've ever seen him have, the thing that brought Jason back from the edge was not a fight, was not a fix, was not sex, was not even comfort in any of the ways the word usually means... it was being read to. Slowly, in lamplight, in a bed, by someone who had no agenda except being in the room with him, and you'll understand that you've just learned the deepest possible thing about Jason Peter Todd, which is that what he's always wanted, underneath all of it, is for someone to sit next to him in a quiet room and not require anything of him.

He'll sleep through the night. Won't wake at the small sounds the way he usually does.

In the morning he'll be embarrassed, but will not say anything about it. Refuses to. He'll make you coffee with his back to you, and somewhere around noon he'll hand you a fresh copy of Persuasion that he's gone out and bought new, and he'll mumble "figured we needed a less beat-up one" and walk away before you can answer.

You'll understand that this is a thank-you, and you'll understand that the next time it's a bad night, he will not try to leave.

The first time you put a book down on the bedside table and Jason picks it up later and reads the chapter you were on so that he can talk to you about it the next morning, you'll realise that the man you're dating is courting you in the language of his soul.

That the books are not just a hobby you share. Books are how he's loving you, and the specific tenderness of being loved by Jason Todd through literature, through the act of him sitting down with the same words you sat down with so that the two of you have been somewhere together without him having to use his own voice... is going to be one of the central facts of your life with him.

And there'll come a night, probably six months in, probably nine, when he'll be lying in bed with you after, the lamp on, both of you reading, his shoulder against yours and his sock-foot hooked over your ankle, and you'll look up from your book and look at him.

Just look at him. His hair a mess, his mouth moving slightly the way it does when something has caught him, the whole man warm and present and yours in that small lit circle of the lamp, and you'll understand that this, this exact arrangement, this Wednesday night in your bed with Jason Peter Todd reading Jane Austen next to you, is something he should not have lived to have.

This is something that was taken from him and that he fought his way back to, and the fact that he's here, the fact that the world gave him back to itself enough that you're getting to sit next to him while he reads, is going to break something open in your chest.

You will not be able to say it, but you'll reach over and put your hand on his thigh, and Jason will, without looking up, cover your hand with his, and you'll go back to your book, and neither of you will say a word, and the moment will pass, but you'll remember it for the rest of your life.