elio🦇

all flesh rots,

[trowneyy]

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[trowneyy]

𝐰𝐞𝐛-𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐝

⤷ peter parker

• {content} when peter accidentally webs your hand to the headboard (smut - mdni!)

The morning light was barely filtering through the blinds, casting a soft, golden grid across the duvet. You stirred first, blinking against the sleep in your eyes, feeling the steady, warm weight of Peter beside you. He was fast asleep, face half-buried in a pillow, looking entirely harmless—no mask, no suit, just messily ruffled curls and soft breathing.

Smiling, you shifted on the mattress, turning onto your side. You reached a hand out to drape an arm over his waist and pull him into a morning hug.

You didn't even get your wrist across his torso.

The moment your shadow crossed his face, a sudden thwip-ppp! echoed through the quiet room.

Before your brain could process the noise, your right hand was violently snapped backward and pinned flat against the wooden headboard above your head. A tight, glowing-white mesh of web fluid locked your wrist completely flush against the oak.

Peter bolted upright in a fraction of a second, heart hammering, eyes wide and wildly searching the room for a threat. His Spider-Sense was still buzzing in his ears, his body rigid in a combat stance—until his gaze dropped down to you.

He looked at your wrist pinned to the headboard. He looked at his hand, still shaped into his classic web-shooting gesture. He looked at your face.

The color drained from his cheeks instantly.

"Oh my god," Peter gasped, his voice cracking horribly. "Oh—oh god, I am so sorry! I didn't—my instincts, they're—they've been so on edge lately, and you moved fast, and I thought—not that you're a threat! You're definitely not a threat, you're the least threatening person in the world, well, except when you haven't had coffee, but—shit, are you hurt? Did I break your wrist? Is it too tight?!"

He scrambled across the bed on his knees, his hands hovering frantically around yours, utterly terrified to touch you in case he made it worse.

"I'm a monster," he muttered under his breath, tugging at his hair. "A literal, twitchy arachnid menace. I pinned you like an insect. I am so, so sorry—"

"Peter," you said softly.

He didn't hear you, currently spiraling into a full meltdown. "I can pull the bed away from the wall! I can go get a pair of heavy-duty shears! I can—"

"Peter."

"I can try to snap the headboard—"

"Peter, shut up for a second," you giggled, the sound bubbling up from your chest.

He froze, staring down at you with wide, guilty hazel eyes. "Why are you laughing? I just handcuffed you to the furniture with bio-adhesive!"

"Because," you said, tugging slightly against the webbing, testing the tension, "it’s kind of funny. And honestly? It’s a little hot."

Peter blinked once. Then twice. The panic in his expression stalled out, replaced by utter, hilarious confusion. "It's... what?"

"It's hot," you repeated, a slow, teasing smile spreading across your face. You looked up at your pinned wrist, then back to him. "You have crazy superhero reflexes, Pete. Can't blame a guy for acting on instinct."

"I—no, wait, don't try to make me feel better by pretending you have a weirdly specific web fetish," he stammered, his face turning bright crimson. "I startled, I panicked, and I glued you to the headboard like a fly."

"Well, Spidey," you murmured, shifting lower on the bed, tugging lightly at your bound wrist to pull your body an inch closer to his, "what are you going to do with your fly now that you've caught her?"

Peter choked on his own breath. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. "You... you can't be serious."

"I am entirely serious," you teased, resting your free hand gently on his knee. "You spend so much time fighting your instincts, trying to control every little twitch so you don't hurt anyone. But we're in bed. On a Saturday morning. You don't have to fight it."

He looked down at your hand on his knee, then up to your pinned arm, his gaze darkening just a fraction as your words sank in. The initial embarrassment was slowly giving way to a warm, simmering heat.

"So," you added, tilting your head up at him, "are you going to keep apologizing, or are you going to lean into it?"

Peter swallowed hard. A sly, hesitant little grin finally tugged at the corner of his lips. "You realize... if I don't fight it, you're completely at my mercy, right?"

"Is that a threat, Parker?"

"Just stating facts," he murmured, his voice suddenly dropping an octave. The nervously babbling teenager vanished, replaced by the grounded, intense confidence he usually reserved for wearing the mask.

He slowly crawled over you, hovering his weight over your chest, his forearms resting on either side of your head. His eyes held yours, filled with a warm, playful heat.

"You're taking a big risk, teasing a guy who can stick you to the ceiling if he wanted to," Peter whispered, his thumb lightly tracing the line of your jaw.

"Show me," you challenged softly.

Peter let out a breathy laugh, leaning down until his lips brushed against the shell of your ear. "Two hours," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin, making a shiver run down your spine. "That's how long this webbing lasts. Which means you're stuck right here with me for two whole hours."

"Sounds exhausting," you whispered back, running your free hand up his back, feeling the lean muscle beneath his t-shirt. "What are you going to do with me?"

"Well," Peter said, sliding his lips down to your neck, leaving a trail of feather-light kisses that made your toes curl, "first, I'm going to make you take back everything you said about me being a menace."

"Never," you gasped lightly as his hand slid down your waist, pulling you flush against him.

"We'll see," he hummed against your collarbone, his fingers tangling with yours on the headboard, his body pressing warm and heavy over yours. "We've got plenty of time."

He captured your mouth before you could offer another witty comeback.

The kiss started slow, deep and searching, but it didn't stay gentle for long. Emboldened by your lack of resistance—and the thrilling weight of your bound arm above you—Peter’s restraint began to slip. His lips pressed harder against yours, parting them with a quiet, needy groan that resonated straight against your chest.

Your free hand gripped the fabric of his shirt, pulling him down until there wasn't a single inch of daylight between you. He shifted his weight, straddling your hips, his thighs anchoring you to the mattress. The sheer contrast of his raw strength and the delicate, deliberate way he held you drove a spark straight through your lower belly.

His hands were everywhere. One slid down the sensitive curve of your ribcage, his thumb dragging up the hem of your shirt to trace the bare skin beneath. His palms were warm, slightly calloused, pressing firmly against your hip to pull you tight against his groin. You let out a soft whine into his mouth, arching into the touch, and Peter answered by deepening the kiss—his tongue tangling with yours, hot and demanding.

"Peter..." you breathed out against his lips when he finally pulled back an inch for air.

He didn't let you breathe for long. His mouth tracked a searing path down your jawline, nipping lightly at the soft skin beneath your ear before burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath was ragged, his heart hammering wildly against your ribs.

"Still think this is funny?" he growled softly against your skin, his hands slicking up your waist, fingers digging gently into your hips to keep you pinned right where he wanted you.

"Maybe a little," you panted, pulling at his shirt until he helped you tug it over his head, tossing it somewhere onto the floor. You ran your bare hand over his broad shoulders, feeling the tension melt into pure, unadulterated heat as he pressed his chest back against yours.

He chuckled, a dark, low sound that vibrated against your collarbone, before bringing his lips back to yours in a deep, bruising kiss. His hips rolled slowly against yours, a heavy, deliberate rhythm that made you gasp, your free hand tangling tightly in his messy curls to keep him close. The restraint was entirely gone now, replaced by a possessive, intoxicating rhythm that guaranteed neither of you would be leaving this bed anytime soon.

"I need you," you breathe into the kiss. Your head drops back into the pillows as Peter's mouth slides down your jaw and throat, leaving a trail of wet, hot kisses. A shiver runs through you when his hands push your oversized t-shirt up, baring your breasts to the cool air. His palms cup the soft flesh, thumbs brushing over your nipples.

Peter let out a low, guttural moan at the sight of you, his gaze sweeping over your chest with a hunger that felt almost predatory. He didn't just touch you; he claimed you, his palms squeezing your breasts firmly, molding your soft flesh as his thumbs flicked and teased your hardening nipples. The sensation sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core, and you let out a sharp, needy gasp, your body arching off the mattress.

"So beautiful," he rasped, his voice sounding thick and strained. He leaned down, capturing one nipple in his mouth and sucking hard. The sudden, intense pressure made your toes curl and your hips jerk upward, seeking a friction he wasn't giving you yet. He switched to the other side, his tongue swirling around the peak before he nipped it with his teeth—just enough to make you cry out, a sound of pure, unadulterated want.

While his mouth continued to devour your breasts, Peter’s hand slid lower, trailing a path of fire down your stomach. He didn't stop until his fingers reached the edge of your underwear, hooking them with a decisive tug. He didn't take them off—he simply pushed them aside, exposing you completely to the morning light and his intense stare.

He paused for a heartbeat, his breath coming in ragged hitches as he looked at how drenched you were for him. "Look at you," he whispered, his voice a dark, velvet growl. "You're absolutely dripping."

He slid two fingers deep inside you in one fluid motion, and you screamed into the quiet of the room, your pinned wrist straining against the webbing. The feeling of him filling you, combined with the helplessness of your position, pushed you right to the edge. Peter didn't go easy on you; he used his enhanced strength to drive his fingers in with a rhythmic, punishing pace, his thumb finding your clit and grinding against it with a precision that had you sobbing his name.

"Peter, Please, I can't—I need—"

"Need what?" he murmured, leaning up to nip at your earlobe, his fingers working you into a frenzy. "Tell me exactly what you need, since you're so fond of being my little fly."

"I need you inside me," you wailed, your free hand clutching his muscular shoulder, nails digging into his skin. "Now, Peter, please,"

He didn't need to be told twice. With a sudden, urgent movement, he freed himself from his pants, his cock springing out, thick and pulsing with a need that matched your own. He positioned himself at your entrance, the broad head of him rubbing against your slick folds, teasing you for one final, agonizing second.

Then, he lunged.

He drove into you in one powerful, singular thrust, burying himself to the hilt. You let out a choked sound, your eyes snapping shut as your internal muscles clamped tight around him. Peter let out a strangled groan, his head falling back as he shuddered from the sheer intensity of the fit. He was too big, too much, and absolutely perfect.

He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust to the fullness of him, his chest heaving against yours. Then, he began to move.

It wasn't a gentle pace. Peter moved with a raw, athletic power, his hips slamming into yours with a heavy, rhythmic thud that shook the headboard. Every thrust drove you further into the mattress, the webbing on your wrist keeping you anchored while he tore through you. The friction was overwhelming, a searing heat that built and built with every single stroke.

"You're so tight," he gasped, his movements becoming more frantic, more desperate. He gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your skin to hold you steady as he hammered into you. "God, I'm going to... I'm going to lose it..."

You were right there with him. The feeling of being trapped, the weight of his body pressing you down, and the relentless pace of his thrusts pushed you over the precipice. Your walls began to spasm around him, clutching him in tight, rhythmic waves of pleasure.

"Peter, I'm—I'm coming,"

The sound of your climax was the final trigger. Peter let out a loud, primal shout, his entire body tensing as he delivered several deep, bruising thrusts, filling you with a hot, pulsing flood of release. He collapsed against you, his face buried in your neck, both of you shaking and gasping for air in the golden morning light.

As the silence returned to the room, broken only by your synchronized breathing, Peter shifted slightly, kissing your shoulder with a soft, lingering tenderness.

"So," he whispered, a playful, smug lilt returning to his voice. "Still think I'm a menace?"

[trowneyy]

𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫

⤷ dick grayson

• {content} dick loves your new pilates set

The apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the AC and the upbeat track playing from your phone. You were in the middle of your core routine—holding a high plank on the mat when the front door unlocked and clicked shut.

Dick walked in holding the leash, Haley trotting happily in front of him after their morning walk. He was wearing a simple fitted grey t-shirt and sweatpants, looking soft, messy, and thoroughly domestic.

He leaned down to unclip Haley’s leash, but the moment he unbent and looked up, his eyes locked onto you.

He froze dead in his tracks. Haley trotted right past him toward her water bowl, but Dick didn't move an inch. His blue eyes dragged slowly over your new, skin-tight pilates set—a deep slate-blue top with cross-back straps and matching shorts that showed off every inch of your legs.

A slow, wicked smirk crept onto his face. The lazy morning mood vanished in an instant.

"Well," Dick purred, tossing his keys into the entry bowl with a loud clink. "That is a very dangerous sight to come home to."

You didn't break your plank, though a knowing smile tugged at your lips. "I’m on a timer, Grayson. Go wash your hands."

Instead of heading to the sink, he sauntered across the living room with that slow, effortless grace. "Hands are fine. What is this outfit?"

"Just a new set," you panted, switching your weight to one hand to start a series of side-plank dips. "Now move, you're blocking my light."

Dick chuckled, dropping straight to his knees on the edge of the mat. He didn't interrupt your form—not yet. He just sat back on his heels, resting his forearms on his knees, his eyes darkening as he watched your core and back muscles flex with every move.

"It's distracting," he murmured, his voice dropping into a thick, low register.

"It's activewear."

"It's a hazard," he corrected smoothly. He reached out, resting one large, warm palm flat on your calf. His calloused fingers trailed agonizingly slowly up the back of your leg, sweeping over the exposed skin of your thigh until his thumb hooked into the hem of your shorts. "I was going to make coffee, but you’re making it very hard to focus on breakfast."

You finally dropped out of the plank onto your hip, catching your breath as you looked up at him. "It’s just clothes, Dick."

"It fits like a second skin," he whispered, leaning in until his chest was inches from yours. He smelled like crisp morning air and his signature fresh cologne. "And it’s making me want to do things that have absolutely nothing to do with pilates."

His other hand came up, two fingers hooking into the front strap of your top, tugging just enough to feel the tension while his thumb stroked the bare skin of your collarbone.

"I still have ten minutes left on my video," you warned softly, though your pulse was already racing.

Dick smirked, his hands sliding down to your waist to pull you effortlessly off the mat and right into his lap. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, his breath hot and heavy against your neck.

"Give me five," he murmured, trailing a row of slow, open-mouthed kisses down your throat while his hands mapped the curves of your hips. "If you still want to finish your workout after that... I'll even hold your ankles for your sit-ups."

[trowneyy]

𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠

⤷ dick grayson

• {content} dick only respond to you calling him baby

The apartment was quiet for a Sunday afternoon, save for the rhythmic humming of the washing machine and the faint scent of fresh linen.

You were currently knee-deep in folding the endless mountain of laundry on the bed. You grabbed the next item from the basket, held it up, and instantly stopped, staring at it in absolute disbelief.

It was a pair of Dick’s favorite boxers—or at least, what used to be boxers. At this point, the fabric was so worn down it was almost translucent, and there were two distinct, gaping holes near the seam. They were hanging on by a single thread and sheer willpower.

"Dick, are you serious?" you called out toward the living room, where your boyfriend was currently stretched across the rug doing his afternoon mobility routine. "Dick, come look at these!"

No answer. Not even a rustle of his sweatpants.

"Dick?" you said, a little louder, peeking your head around the bedroom door.

He was flowing smoothly from a deep hamstring stretch into a cobra pose, looking entirely serene and completely oblivious to your existence.

You blinked. You knew for a fact he wasn't deaf—the man had peak-human Bat-family hearing and could spot a footstep on a roof three blocks away. You opened your mouth to yell his name again, but then the realization hit you.

You had called him 'Dick.'

In the three years you’d been together, you almost never called him by his actual name. He was "babe," "baby," "honey," or, on particularly chaotic mornings, "sweetheart." Calling him Dick was practically a foreign language to his subconscious.

A mischievous grin spread across your face. You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms.

"Richard?"

Silence. He shifted into a shoulder bridge.

"Grayson?"

He sighed softly, deepening the stretch, completely locked into his own world.

"Officer Grayson?"

Nothing.

You took a slow breath, held up the shredded boxers like evidence in a court trial, and dropped your voice to its usual fond, affectionate tone.

"Hey, baby?"

Dick’s head snapped up instantly. His bright blue eyes locked onto yours, a warm, easy smile instantly spreading across his face.

"Yeah, sweetcheeks? What's up?" he asked, popping off the floor with effortless agility and strolling toward the bedroom. He leaned into your space, instantly tilting his chin down for a kiss.

You held up the holy pair of boxers right between your faces like a shield, staring at him with an amused, disbelieving look. "Are you serious right now?"

Dick paused mid-lean, blinking at the ruined fabric, then up at you like a confused puppy. "What?"

"First of all, these are going in the trash. Second of all, I just called your name four times."

"No, you didn't," he said smoothly, sliding his arms around your waist anyway. "I would've heard you."

"I said Dick."

He flinched subtly, screwing up his nose as if the word tasted weird. "See? Hearing it now, it doesn't even sound like a real word. Who is he? Sounds like a stranger. I don't know him."

"It is literally your legal name!" You laughed, reaching up to tap his cheek.

Dick gently caught your wrist, tugging you a little closer until your chest was resting against his.

"My name," he corrected softly, his voice dropping into that low, warm register he saved just for you, "is baby. Or babe. I also accept 'hey handsome' if you're feeling fancy."

"You're ridiculous," you murmured, though you couldn't stop the smile tugging at your lips.

"I'm a man conditioned by love," he declared heroically, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. "If you start calling me Dick, I'm going to assume I'm in trouble, or that Bruce is standing right behind me. Neither of those options are good for my heart."

"So if I need to save you from a falling building, I just have to yell 'Look out, babe!'?"

"Precisely," Dick grinned, kissing your cheek before eyeing the ruined boxers in your hand. "And for the record, those are vintage. They're aerated. It's tactical."

"They're going in the trash, baby."

"Fair enough," he sighed dramatically, wrapping his arms around you tighter.

[trowneyy]

𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐧 𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦

⤷ bruce wayne

• {content} bruce loves using your butt as a pillow

It's past two in the morning when you hear the shower shut off in the bathroom just off the bedroom, which means patrol ran long again, which means you already know how the next ten minutes are going to go.

You don't move from where you're sprawled on your stomach across the bed, book propped open in front of you, one leg kicked up lazily behind you. You're three chapters deep into something you should've finished last week, and you have exactly zero intention of losing your page.

The bathroom door opens on a puff of steam. You don't look up.

"You're still awake," Bruce says, voice rough with the particular tiredness that comes after a bad night — not injured-tired, just done-tired, bone-deep.

"Mm. Waiting for my husband to come home from his little nighttime hobby."

"It's not a hobby." He pads across the room in nothing but sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair still damp, and you know without looking that he's got that faint crease between his brows he gets when a night's been long but not disastrous. You've learned to read him in increments like that.

"Vigilante crime-fighting is absolutely a hobby, Bruce. You don't get paid."

"I get paid in—" he pauses, clearly searching for something "—civic pride."

"Devastatingly funny. Truly, Gotham's got jokes."

He huffs something that's almost a laugh, and then the mattress dips beside you, and you already know what's coming a full two seconds before it happens.

"Don't you dare—"

Too late. His hand lands square on your backside with an easy, familiar smack, and you yelp into your book.

"Bruce!"

"What." He says it like the most reasonable man alive, already sliding a hand over the spot he just smacked, squeezing once, unbothered, like he's checking the mail. "It's right there."

"It's attached to me, that's not an invitation—"

"It's always an invitation." He says this with the calm, insufferable confidence of a man who has never once been told no and meant it. Which, fine. He hasn't.

You swat weakly behind you, more out of principle than actual objection, and he catches your wrist, presses a kiss to your knuckles like an apology he doesn't mean even a little, and then — inevitably, gravitationally, like this is just where the night was always headed — he folds himself down and drops his head right onto your butt like it's a goose-down pillow he paid four figures for.

"Oh my god."

"Comfortable," he mumbles, already sounding half a step from unconscious. His arm slings loosely over the back of your thighs, anchoring himself there.

"You have an entire pillow. Several, actually. I've counted."

"None of them are this good."

"You're insane. You are a grown man. You run a multi-billion dollar company and dress up as a bat and you are currently using my ass as a headrest."

"Priorities," he says, muffled, eyes clearly already shut.

You sigh the sigh of a woman who married this exact behavior with her eyes wide open, and go back to your book, one hand idly dropping to card through his damp hair because — fine. Fine. It's not like you're going anywhere.

"How was patrol," you ask, mostly just to feel him talk, the low rumble of his voice vibrating faintly against you.

"Quiet. Couple of break-ins. Jason wouldn't stop narrating everything over comms."

"That tracks."

"Alfred left a plate for me. I didn't eat it."

"You're eating it tomorrow before you leave this bed, I don't care whose butt you'd rather be using as furniture."

"Deal," he says, already three-quarters asleep, thumb tracing a slow, absent line against the back of your thigh. "Love you."

"Love you too, you enormous menace." You turn a page one-handed, careful not to jostle him. "Squeeze my butt again and I'm telling Alfred."

"He already knows."

"Bruce."

He just smiles against you, eyes still closed, and doesn't move an inch.

[trowneyy]

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐍

• bruce wayne

{summary}You come home with new clothes and decide to give Bruce a private fashion show. He’s tired—at first.

{content}bruce wayne x reader, established relationship, fluff, soft intimacy, domestic moment

Wayne Manor is quiet in that heavy, late-night way that settles after everything is done.

Bruce looks like he barely made it through the door before collapsing onto the couch.

Tie gone. Sleeves rolled. Shirt open just enough to show the line of his chest. One arm draped over the backrest, the other covering his eyes like he’s trying to shut the entire world out.

You stand in the doorway with a shopping bag hooked around your wrist, watching him for a second, already smiling.

“Don’t fall asleep,” you say.

“Not sleeping,” he murmurs. “Power conservation.”

“Great,” you hum. “Because I just got back from shopping.”

A pause.

Then his arm slides down just enough for one eye to peek at you.

“…You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

Now he fully looks at you, interest cutting straight through the exhaustion. “And you went alone?”

“I wanted honest feedback.”

A slow smirk pulls at his mouth. “That sounds like a mistake.”

You shrug. “We’ll see.”

He shifts, sitting up a little more, dragging a hand through his hair. “Alright,” he says, voice low, waking up. “Come on then. Impress me.”

You grin. “Oh, I will.”

The first outfit is a dress—and not a shy one.

It fits like it was made to be noticed, hugging your shape, catching the light as you walk in without saying a word.

Bruce straightens.

Actually straightens.

His arm drops from the couch, posture sharpening as his eyes track you in, slow and deliberate like he’s already recalculating something.

You stop in front of him, then—without breaking eye contact—do a slow turn.

“Thoughts?”

He leans forward immediately, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely like he’s trying to behave.

“That’s…” he exhales, dragging his gaze back up to your face, “…not casual shopping.”

You smile, tilting your head. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then say what you mean.”

His eyes flick down again—this time not subtle, not rushed—then back up, sharper now.

“I think,” he says slowly, “you walked in here knowing exactly what that dress does.”

You take a step closer. “And what does it do?”

He leans back just slightly, like he’s forcing space between you. “Makes me reconsider letting you out of the house alone.”

You laugh. “Possessive already?”

“Observant,” he corrects.

The second outfit hits harder.

A fitted top—soft but cut just low enough—and a skirt that moves with every step, brushing your thighs like it’s part of the act.

This time, you don’t stop far away.

You walk right up to him, then pivot, letting the skirt flare slightly before settling.

Bruce lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“Oh, that’s not fair,” he mutters.

You glance at him. “What?”

“That one moves.”

“It’s a skirt, Bruce.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

You grin and do another turn, slower, exaggerating it just enough.

He leans back, dragging a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hide the reaction—and failing.

“Careful,” he says, voice dropping. “You’re starting to test my patience.”

You step closer, stopping between his knees now. “You said you wanted to be honest.”

“I did.”

“Then be honest.”

His hands come up—not touching you yet, just hovering at your hips like he’s deciding.

Then, lightly, he taps the fabric of the skirt.

“This one’s trouble.”

“Why?”

His gaze lifts, dark and steady. “Because you know I’d follow you anywhere in it.”

That lands.

By the third outfit, the game has changed.

You walk in like you own the room—jeans fitted perfectly, top just cropped enough to show a hint of skin when you move.

Bruce doesn’t even pretend to relax this time.

He’s watching you before you fully step into the light.

You stop in the middle of the room.

Wait.

“…Well?” you prompt.

He studies you for a second, then gestures lazily with two fingers.

“Come here.”

You raise a brow—but you do it, slow steps, deliberate.

You stop just in front of him.

His gaze drags over you again, slower this time, heavier.

Then—

“Turn around.”

There’s no hesitation in his tone.

You smile a little, but you obey—turning slowly, knowing he’s watching every second of it.

The jeans fit perfectly.

And this time, he doesn’t hide it at all.

“Yeah,” he says, low, almost to himself.

You glance over your shoulder. “Yeah?”

His hand comes up, not grabbing—just resting briefly at your hip, grounding you there as his eyes stay exactly where they are.

“That’s my favorite,” he says.

You turn back, crossing your arms. “You’ve said that twice now.”

“I mean it this time.”

“Oh, so the others didn’t count?”

“They did,” he says, standing now—finally closing the distance, “but this one—”

His hand brushes lightly along your side as he steps past you, close enough that you feel it.

“—this one you wore for me.”

Your breath catches slightly, but you recover fast. “You’re very confident.”

“I’m usually right.”

ou disappear again, and this time it’s quiet for just a little too long.

Bruce doesn’t sit.

He tried—briefly—but that lasted all of ten seconds before he pushed up from the couch, pacing once, then stopping, then dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying to get a grip.

“You’re taking your time,” he calls out.

“Good things take time,” you call back.

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It is.”

He huffs a quiet laugh—but there’s no real patience left in it now.

By the time you come back, he’s already halfway across the room.

You don’t walk in right away.

You lean against the doorway, one shoulder pressed to the frame, the shopping bag dangling from your fingers like it weighs nothing.

But your expression?

That gives you away.

Bruce slows.

His eyes flick to the bag—then back to your face—and whatever he was about to say dies instantly.

“…What is that look?” he asks.

You shrug lightly, pushing off the frame and stepping toward him. “Final piece.”

“Another outfit?”

“Oh, it’s an outfit,” you say, voice softer now, just a little more deliberate.

That’s enough to shift something in him.

He stops a step in front of you, close enough that the air feels different.

“You’re not wearing it,” he points out.

“Not yet.”

Your fingers hook into the edge of the bag, opening it just slightly—but not enough for him to fully see.

Just enough.

Just a hint.

His gaze drops—and catches.

That’s all it takes.

His breath stills.

“…You’re serious,” he says.

You bite back a smile. “I usually am.”

He looks at you again, slower this time, like he’s recalibrating.

“You walked in here,” he says quietly, “and decided to do all of that first.”

You nod once. “Build-up matters.”

A short, disbelieving laugh escapes him. “You’ve been setting me up?”

“Mm. Pretty much.”

There’s a pause.

Then he reaches for the bag.

You pull it back just slightly.

“Ah,” you say. “Careful.”

His eyes narrow—not annoyed, just… focused now.

“You’re really going to make me work for it?”

You tilt your head. “You’ve been enjoying the show.”

“I have,” he admits. “But I think I’m done watching.”

You take a slow step back.

“Shame,” you murmur. “The best part’s next.”

That’s when you finally let him take it.

He doesn’t even fully pull it out—just enough to confirm what he already knows.

And the shift is instant.

Whatever restraint he had left? Gone.

His grip tightens around the fabric still half-hidden in the bag, jaw setting as his eyes lift back to you—darker now, locked in.

“…You planned this,” he says.

You smile, backing up another step. “Of course I did.”

“For tonight.”

“For you.”

That lands harder than anything else.

You turn before he can answer.

Not fast.

Not rushed.

Just confident.

“I can go try it on,” you say over your shoulder, voice light again—but there’s something underneath it now. “If you want a better look.”

You hear the shift behind you before you even reach the hallway.

The quick step.

The change in his breathing.

You make it exactly two steps past the doorway before his hand closes around your wrist—not rough, but firm enough to stop you.

“You don’t get to walk away after that,” he says.

You glance back, feigning innocence. “After what?”

“That.”

You smile slowly. “You seemed interested.”

His other hand comes to your waist, pulling you back just enough to erase the space you created.

“Interested?” he repeats, low. “That’s one way to put it.”

You lean back just slightly into his hold. “Then what would you call it?”

A pause.

Then, closer—“Done waiting.”

Your breath catches—but your smile doesn’t fade.

“Bedroom’s still that way,” you remind him softly.

“Yeah,” he says.

And this time he doesn’t hesitate.

The bag is still in his hand, but it’s barely relevant now as he turns you with him, guiding—no, steering—you down the hallway with steady intent.

Your laugh slips out, quieter now, cut short as the bedroom door opens—

and shuts firmly behind you.

[trowneyy]

Hold still is so cute! Could you write something with a similar tone for bruce wayne again? Maybe they find a quiet moment away from the crowd at one of his charity galas to share an intimate dance?

𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒

• bruce wayne

{summary} a quiet dance with bruce

{content} established relationship

The ballroom is dazzling in the way Wayne Foundation galas always are — chandeliers throwing gold light over a sea of silk and champagne flutes, a string quartet doing its best to be heard over polite laughter. You've been to a dozen of these. You could probably recite the seating chart in your sleep.

But you never get tired of watching Bruce work a room like this.

He's up at the podium now, one hand resting easy on the edge of it, the other tucked into his pocket like he hasn't got a single care in the world. The Bruce Wayne smile is doing its job — easy, a little self-deprecating, exactly charming enough to make the donors feel like they're in on some private joke. You know better. You know the tightness at the corner of his jaw that no one else would catch, the way his eyes are doing quick, practiced sweeps of the room even as he delivers a line about the foundation's new youth outreach numbers.

And then, for just a second, his gaze finds yours.

It isn't long. A donor wouldn't even notice it. But something in his expression eases, just slightly, like he needed the anchor point. Like the whole speech was for the room, but that half-second was for you.

You bite back a smile and lift your glass to him, small and private. He almost — almost — loses the thread of his sentence.

The applause comes a few minutes later, warm and generous, and then the foundation's board chair steps up to say a few words about the evening's fundraising total. The room's attention shifts. Bruce's doesn't.

He comes down off the little stage with the unhurried ease of a man who has nowhere to be, weaving through the crowd with a nod here, a handshake there, never quite stopping. And then he's in front of you, and his hand finds yours like it was always going to.

"Come with me," he says, low, just for you.

"Bruce, you're supposed to be mingling—"

"I mingled." He's already pulling you gently toward the tall glass doors at the far end of the room, half-hidden behind a curtain of pale drapery. "For two hours. I get a break."

You don't argue. You never really do, not about this.

The balcony air hits cool against your skin after the crowded warmth of the ballroom, a relief that makes you exhale without meaning to. Gotham spreads out below in its usual glittering sprawl, and behind you, muffled through the glass, the quartet has started up something slow.

Bruce doesn't say anything right away. He just turns to face you, and for a moment he's not smiling the gala smile anymore — just looking at you, something unguarded in it that he doesn't let many people see.

"You did good in there," you tell him.

"I always do good in there," he says, but there's a wry, tired edge to it. "It's exhausting."

"I know." You reach up, straighten a lapel that didn't need straightening. "You looked at me. During the speech."

"Did I." Not a question. His mouth curves.

"Very unprofessional of you."

"Terribly." He catches your hand where it rests on his chest, doesn't let it go. The music drifts out through the closed doors, soft and indistinct, more feeling than melody. "Dance with me."

"Out here? There's no floor. There's barely music."

"There's enough." He's already drawing you in, one hand settling warm at your waist, the other still folded around yours. "I don't need a floor. I need five minutes where I'm not Bruce Wayne."

That undoes you a little, every time. You step into him, let him lead you into an easy sway that has more to do with closeness than choreography, your feet barely moving, his forehead dropping to rest against yours.

"Just Bruce," you murmur.

"Just Bruce," he agrees. "For five minutes."

You dance like that — slow, wordless, the party a warm blur of sound behind glass and the whole city glittering beneath you like it's holding still just for this. His thumb traces small, absent circles at your waist. Your hand curls into his lapel like you could keep him here if you just held on tight enough.

"They're going to notice we're gone," you say, eventually, though you make no move to pull away.

"Let them." His voice is quieter now, rougher at the edges — the version of him that only comes out when it's just you. "I'll go back in. Shake a few more hands. Write a few more checks." A pause, his hand tightening slightly at your waist. "I just wanted this first."

You tip your head back to look at him, and whatever he sees on your face makes something in his shoulders loosen further, like he's set something down he's been carrying all night.

"Five minutes," you remind him softly.

"Five minutes," he says, and doesn't move to go back inside. Not yet.

The music plays on, faint and far away, and for a little while longer, Gotham can wait.

[trowneyy]

𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐄𝐍

• bruce wayne

{summary} He thinks he’s slipping. You think he’s hotter. Obviously, you’re right.

{content} bruce wayne x reader, established relationship, fluff, soft intimacy, domestic moment, body image insecurity

You weren’t even supposed to be in the bedroom yet.

You were looking for your phone.

Instead, you stop dead in the doorway.

Bruce is standing in front of the mirror, shirtless, hair still slightly damp like he just got out of the shower. One hand is braced on the dresser, the other… hovering over his stomach, pressing lightly, then pulling away like he doesn’t like what he feels.

His expression?

Critical. Focused. Annoyed.

“…Great,” he mutters.

You raise a brow, leaning against the frame. “Wow. Who pissed you off this time?”

He doesn’t turn around immediately.

“…Me,” he says flatly.

That gets your attention.

You step inside, slower now. “That sounds dramatic. Should I be concerned?”

Now he glances at you through the mirror.

“Probably not,” he says. “Unless you’ve developed strong opinions about poor discipline.”

You snort. “Oh, I have plenty of those. Just not about you.”

He gestures vaguely at himself, like the answer should be obvious.

“This,” he says.

You look.

And look a little longer than necessary, just to make a point.

“…Yeah,” you say.

His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

You hum, walking closer, circling slightly so you’re not just another reflection behind him.

“Yeah,” you repeat, “you look good.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do that thing where you pretend—”

You reach out and poke his side.

He stops mid-sentence.

“First of all,” you say, completely ignoring his complaint, “rude. Second—what ‘thing’?”

“That,” he gestures again, more annoyed now, “where you act like there’s no difference.”

You tilt your head, considering him.

“There is a difference.”

He nods once, like finally, finally—

“Yeah,” you continue, “you’re hotter.”

Silence.

He turns his head, actually looking at you now.

“…You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You step right into his space now, no hesitation, your hand sliding lightly across his stomach—not critical, not analyzing, just there.

His breath catches, subtle but there.

“You feel nice,” you say casually.

“…Nice,” he repeats, like the word personally offended him.

“Mhm.” You nod. “Very. Ten out of ten. Would absolutely ignore responsibilities to touch again.”

He lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff. “That’s not helping.”

“It is,” you argue. “You just don’t like the method.”

He shakes his head, stepping back half a pace—until his back nearly hits the dresser.

“I’ve lost definition,” he says. “I’m slower. I should’ve noticed sooner.”

There it is.

You soften—but only a little.

Instead of arguing, you step closer again, closing that half-step distance like it never existed.

“Bruce.”

He doesn’t answer.

Your hand slides up his chest, steady, grounding.

“You know what I see?”

He gives you a look. “Apparently something fictional.”

You roll your eyes and—without warning—lean in and press a kiss to his collarbone.

He freezes.

Another one, just above it.

“I see someone who hasn’t slept properly in weeks,” you murmur.

A kiss to his shoulder.

“Someone who’s been carrying half the city on his back.”

Your fingers curl lightly against his side.

“And someone who still looks—unfairly—good doing it.”

He exhales, slower this time.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes.

“You’re allowed to change,” you say. “You’re not a statue.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

He hesitates.

And that hesitation says everything.

You sigh softly, but there’s no frustration in it—just understanding.

“C’mere.”

You don’t wait for permission. You take his hand and guide it—gently—back to his own stomach where he was just criticizing himself.

He tenses at first.

“Feel that?” you ask.

“I know what it feels like.”

“Yeah,” you say, your hand covering his, pressing it there just a little more firmly, “but you’re feeling it like it’s a problem.”

You shift closer, your other arm sliding around his waist.

“I’m feeling it like it’s you.”

He goes quiet.

Your thumb brushes lightly over his knuckles.

“And I like you,” you add, softer now.

He watches you for a second—really watches you this time, like he’s trying to decide if he believes you.

“…You’re biased,” he says.

You grin. “Hopelessly.”

That finally cracks something.

A small smile. Barely there, but real.

You take advantage of it immediately, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips—light, teasing.

“Also,” you add, not moving far, “for the record?”

He hums faintly.

“You’re hot.”

He shakes his head, but there’s no heat in it anymore.

“…You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” you say, backing him lightly against the dresser now, hands still on him, “you’re smiling.”

He pauses.

Realizes.

And—yeah.

He is.

You soften again, just a little, your forehead brushing his.

“Stop picking fights with yourself,” you murmur. “You’re on my team.”

His hand comes up then, settling at your waist, grounding himself there.

“…Stay?” he asks quietly.

You huff a small laugh. “Wasn’t planning on leaving.”

And this time, when he glances toward the mirror—

He doesn’t look annoyed.

He just looks… less harsh.

Which, for Bruce, is basically progress.

[trowneyy]

𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐈 𝐑𝐔𝐍 𝐓𝐎

• damon salvatore

{summary} he is your safe place

{content} Damon Salvatore x human!reader, comfort, parents arguing, talk of divorce

The air in Mystic Falls was crisp enough to bite through your jacket, but you barely felt the chill as your boots hit the damp pavement. All you could hear was the echo of raised voices ringing in your ears—the sharp, ugly words your parents had hurled at each other across the kitchen table. Words like done, mistake, and finally, the one that made your chest collapse: divorce.

You hadn’t stayed to hear the rest. You had just run.

Your feet moved on instinct, carrying you past the dark storefronts and down the long, winding driveway lined with towering trees, until the grand, familiar silhouette of the Salvatore Boarding House rose out of the mist. Of all the places in this chaotic town, your body knew where safety was before your mind even had time to process it.

Stepping onto the porch, your hand trembled violently as you knocked on the heavy wooden door.

A moment later, the door swung open.

Damon Salvatore stood in the doorway, a glass of dark amber bourbon resting loosely in his hand. His signature, smirking expression was already plastered across his face before he even looked at you.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged—"

He cut himself off mid-sentence. His dark eyes caught the shine of tears on your cheeks, your reddened eyes, and the shuddering breath escaping your lips.

In a fraction of a second, the snark completely evaporated. The playful glint in his eyes vanished, replaced by an intense, dead-serious focus. Without a word, he set his glass down on the entryway table with a muted clink and took a step forward.

"Hey... hey, what happened?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, completely stripped of any sarcasm.

You opened your mouth to explain, but only a wet, sob-choked sound came out.

That was all Damon needed. Before you could try again, he reached out and pulled you firmly into his chest.

His arms wrapped around you—strong, solid, and fiercely protective. You immediately collapsed into the embrace, your hands clutching tightly at the leather of his jacket. The cold night air was instantly replaced by his warmth, smelling faintly of cedar, leather, and smoke. He held you tightly, resting his chin lightly against the top of your head, letting you shatter safely in his arms.

"I've got you," he murmured softly into your hair, rubbing broad, comforting circles onto your back. "I've got you. Come inside."

He guided you into the warm parlor, shielding you from the cold breeze as he shut the heavy front door behind you. Sitting you down on the plush leather couch right in front of the roaring fireplace, he draped a heavy blanket over your shoulders and knelt down in front of you.

"Talk to me," Damon urged softly, his eyes searching yours with a gentleness he reserved only for you. "Who do I need to kill?"

A tiny, breathless laugh escaped you despite the tears. "My parents..." you whispered, wrapping the blanket tighter around yourself. "They were screaming. They said... they said they're getting a divorce. Everything is just falling apart, Damon."

Damon’s jaw tightened—not with irritation at you, but with an instinctual urge to fix whatever was hurting you. He sat beside you on the couch, shifting so his knee pressed against yours, offering an anchor in the storm.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice quiet, steady, and commanding your full attention. "Whatever mess they are making, it is not your fault, and it is not your burden to carry. Do you hear me?"

You nodded weakly, another tear escaping and trailing down your cheek.

Damon leaned in a little closer. He lifted his hand, his long fingers hesitating for just a split second before his thumb reached up to gently brush the stray tear off your skin. His knuckles lingered there against your cheek, warm and feather-light, wiping away the wetness with painstaking tenderness.

For a heartbeat, the room went completely still. The silence between you crackled with everything neither of you had ever dared to put into words—the fierce devotion, the quiet longing, the unspoken promise that you meant more to him than almost anything else in this town.

Damon’s dark eyes locked onto yours, full of a quiet intensity that made your heart skip a beat despite the sorrow heavy in your chest.

"Whenever it gets too loud out there," Damon murmured, his thumb giving your cheek one final, soft caress before his hand slowly lowered back to his lap, "you come straight here. You don't knock, you don't ask. You just come in. You always have a place here... with me."

You took a deep, shaky breath, the heavy weight in your chest finally beginning to ease. Resting your head against his shoulder, you closed your eyes as Damon wrapped a protective arm back around you, pulling you close to his side where you were completely, undeniably safe.

[trowneyy]

𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃 𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒

• damon salvatore

{summary}years after going their separate ways, you and Damon Salvatore unexpectedly find yourselves at the same halloween masquerade in Mystic Falls

{content} Damon Salvatore x vampire!reader, reunition, flirty tension, alcohol

the bass from the speakers vibrated straight through the floorboards of the house, humming in the soles of your heels. mastic falls took halloween absurdly seriously, but you weren’t complaining. between the free-flowing blood-laced punch and the sea of masked strangers lost in the high-energy chaos, it was the best distraction you’d had in decades.

flo rida and sia’s “wild ones” thundered through the room, the best beat dropping just as the crowd hit a fever pitch. you weren’t complaining right in the middle of it, swaying, hands in the air, letting the music wash away the decades of weight on your shoulders. being a vampire meant hyper-awareness, but tonight, after a few glasses of bourbon, you weren’t complaining content to just blend in.

until you bumped backwards into a chest as solid as marble.

“woah there, sweetheart,” a rich, smooth voice purred right against the shell of your ear.

you spun around, a polite apology on your lips, but the words died before they could escape.

standing in front of you was a man in a sharp black suit, his sharp jawline framed by an ornate, textured black masquerade mask. his icy blue eyes gleamed through the eyeholes with a dangerously familiar spark, though you couldn’t immediately place where you’d seen those electric eyes before. he possessed the kind of effortless, arrogant confidence that practically demanded attention.

instead of stepping away, you tilted your head, letting a slow, mischievous smile curve your lips. “my bad. didn’t mean to invade your personal space”

“who said i was complaining<“ his smirk widened, playful and daring. he took a half-step closer, the heat of his body cutting right through the cool air. “ in fact, i would say your timing is impeccable”

the chorus of “wild ones” hit, loud and electric. without asking, his hand slid to your waist, his long fingers pressing firm through the fabric of your dress. you didn’t pull back. instead, you draped your arms around his neck, matching his rhythm as the music pulled everyone around you into a wild, moving tide.

“hey, i heard you are a wild one..” you sang out under your breath, laughing as your hips swayed against his.

he leaned in, his lips hovering mere inches from your ear as he picked up the next line without missing a beat. “if i took you home, it’d be a home run..”

his voice was a low, seductive gravel that sent a jolt straight down your spine. the friction between your bodies grew tighter, every touch laced with a strange, magnetic pull that felt far too natural for two ‘strangers’ on a dance floor. you caught yourself staring at the curve of his mouth, the way his fingers pressed into the small of your back like he already knew exactly where to touch you.

“is this your idea of making a good first impression?” you teased over the music, breathless despite yourself.

“first impressions are overrated” he shot back, his thumb tracing a slow line against your hip. “i prefer skipping straight to the memorable parts”

“bold move. lets see if you can actually keep up”

his blue eyes locked onto yours, darkening with something intense and unreadable. “show me”

you didn’t need to be asked twice. reaching up, you cupped the back of his neck, pulling him down to bridge the tiny gap left between you.

when your lips met, the rest of the crowded room vanished. the kiss wasn’t hesitant, it was electric, deep, and fiercely familiar. his arms wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling you so close there wasn’t an inch of air between you, while your hands tangled in the dark, soft hair at the base of his neck. there wasn’t a rhythm to it, an effortless sync that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

when you finally pulled back, both of you breathing heavily, your mind felt completely foggy.

you leaned your forehead against his chest, catching yourself staring breath as your hand lingered on his lapel. “okay… wait” you let out a soft, hazy laugh, shaking your head. “either this party punch is way stronger than i thought, or that kiss felt.. terrifyingly familiar”

a low rumble of chuckle vibrated in his chest. “familiar, huh? you saying i have a signature style?”

“i’m saying” you murmured, looking up though the eyeholes of your own mask, ”i swear i’ve kissed those exact lips before. a long, long time ago”

he went still for a fraction of a second. the smirking, playful facade melted into something much softer, curiosity breaking through his blue eyes.

“well” he said softly, his voice dropping the theatrical flair, “ there’s only one way to test that theory, isn’t there?”

slowly, his fingers reached up to the ribbon tied at the back of your head. he untied it with gentle precision, letting your mask slip away into his hand.

at the same time, you reached up and caught the edge of his black masquerade mack. gently lifting it over his dark hair.

as the light hit his bare face, your breath caught.

raven hair, sharp cheekbones, and those vivid blue eyes looking back at you with absolute shock, and then, pure, brilliant delight.

“damon?” you whispered, your eyes widening.

“well, well, well” damon breathed out, a full, authentic smile breaking across his face, the rare one he only saved for people he truly cared about. “look what the wind blew into mystic falls”

years of space and distance vanished in a single second. you let out a disbelieving laugh, threw your arms completely around his neck, and pulled him into a tight, fierce hug. damon wrapped his arms around you just as tightly, lifting you off your feet for a brief second as he spun you around right there on the crowded dance floor.

“i can’t believe its you” you laughed into his shoulder, holding on tight. “what are the odds?”

“in this town? probably high” damon murmured into your hair, pulling back just enough to look at you, his hands resting comfortably on your waist. “god, its god to see you, crazy”

“its good to see you too, salvatore” you smiled, looking up at him as the music pounded around you both. “now… are you going to get me a real drink, or are we going to keep dancing like teenagers?”

damon offered you his arm with that signature, crooked grin. “lead the way, wild one”

[trowneyy]

𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃 𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒

• damon salvatore

{summary}years after going their separate ways, you and Damon Salvatore unexpectedly find yourselves at the same halloween masquerade in Mystic Falls

{content} Damon Salvatore x vampire!reader, reunition, flirty tension, alcohol

the bass from the speakers vibrated straight through the floorboards of the house, humming in the soles of your heels. mastic falls took halloween absurdly seriously, but you weren’t complaining. between the free-flowing blood-laced punch and the sea of masked strangers lost in the high-energy chaos, it was the best distraction you’d had in decades.

flo rida and sia’s “wild ones” thundered through the room, the best beat dropping just as the crowd hit a fever pitch. you weren’t complaining right in the middle of it, swaying, hands in the air, letting the music wash away the decades of weight on your shoulders. being a vampire meant hyper-awareness, but tonight, after a few glasses of bourbon, you weren’t complaining content to just blend in.

until you bumped backwards into a chest as solid as marble.

“woah there, sweetheart,” a rich, smooth voice purred right against the shell of your ear.

you spun around, a polite apology on your lips, but the words died before they could escape.

standing in front of you was a man in a sharp black suit, his sharp jawline framed by an ornate, textured black masquerade mask. his icy blue eyes gleamed through the eyeholes with a dangerously familiar spark, though you couldn’t immediately place where you’d seen those electric eyes before. he possessed the kind of effortless, arrogant confidence that practically demanded attention.

instead of stepping away, you tilted your head, letting a slow, mischievous smile curve your lips. “my bad. didn’t mean to invade your personal space”

“who said i was complaining<“ his smirk widened, playful and daring. he took a half-step closer, the heat of his body cutting right through the cool air. “ in fact, i would say your timing is impeccable”

the chorus of “wild ones” hit, loud and electric. without asking, his hand slid to your waist, his long fingers pressing firm through the fabric of your dress. you didn’t pull back. instead, you draped your arms around his neck, matching his rhythm as the music pulled everyone around you into a wild, moving tide.

“hey, i heard you are a wild one..” you sang out under your breath, laughing as your hips swayed against his.

he leaned in, his lips hovering mere inches from your ear as he picked up the next line without missing a beat. “if i took you home, it’d be a home run..”

his voice was a low, seductive gravel that sent a jolt straight down your spine. the friction between your bodies grew tighter, every touch laced with a strange, magnetic pull that felt far too natural for two ‘strangers’ on a dance floor. you caught yourself staring at the curve of his mouth, the way his fingers pressed into the small of your back like he already knew exactly where to touch you.

“is this your idea of making a good first impression?” you teased over the music, breathless despite yourself.

“first impressions are overrated” he shot back, his thumb tracing a slow line against your hip. “i prefer skipping straight to the memorable parts”

“bold move. lets see if you can actually keep up”

his blue eyes locked onto yours, darkening with something intense and unreadable. “show me”

you didn’t need to be asked twice. reaching up, you cupped the back of his neck, pulling him down to bridge the tiny gap left between you.

when your lips met, the rest of the crowded room vanished. the kiss wasn’t hesitant, it was electric, deep, and fiercely familiar. his arms wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling you so close there wasn’t an inch of air between you, while your hands tangled in the dark, soft hair at the base of his neck. there wasn’t a rhythm to it, an effortless sync that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

when you finally pulled back, both of you breathing heavily, your mind felt completely foggy.

you leaned your forehead against his chest, catching yourself staring breath as your hand lingered on his lapel. “okay… wait” you let out a soft, hazy laugh, shaking your head. “either this party punch is way stronger than i thought, or that kiss felt.. terrifyingly familiar”

a low rumble of chuckle vibrated in his chest. “familiar, huh? you saying i have a signature style?”

“i’m saying” you murmured, looking up though the eyeholes of your own mask, ”i swear i’ve kissed those exact lips before. a long, long time ago”

he went still for a fraction of a second. the smirking, playful facade melted into something much softer, curiosity breaking through his blue eyes.

“well” he said softly, his voice dropping the theatrical flair, “ there’s only one way to test that theory, isn’t there?”

slowly, his fingers reached up to the ribbon tied at the back of your head. he untied it with gentle precision, letting your mask slip away into his hand.

at the same time, you reached up and caught the edge of his black masquerade mack. gently lifting it over his dark hair.

as the light hit his bare face, your breath caught.

raven hair, sharp cheekbones, and those vivid blue eyes looking back at you with absolute shock, and then, pure, brilliant delight.

“damon?” you whispered, your eyes widening.

“well, well, well” damon breathed out, a full, authentic smile breaking across his face, the rare one he only saved for people he truly cared about. “look what the wind blew into mystic falls”

years of space and distance vanished in a single second. you let out a disbelieving laugh, threw your arms completely around his neck, and pulled him into a tight, fierce hug. damon wrapped his arms around you just as tightly, lifting you off your feet for a brief second as he spun you around right there on the crowded dance floor.

“i can’t believe its you” you laughed into his shoulder, holding on tight. “what are the odds?”

“in this town? probably high” damon murmured into your hair, pulling back just enough to look at you, his hands resting comfortably on your waist. “god, its god to see you, crazy”

“its good to see you too, salvatore” you smiled, looking up at him as the music pounded around you both. “now… are you going to get me a real drink, or are we going to keep dancing like teenagers?”

damon offered you his arm with that signature, crooked grin. “lead the way, wild one”

[trowneyy]

𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐄𝐍

• bruce wayne

{summary} He thinks he’s slipping. You think he’s hotter. Obviously, you’re right.

{content} bruce wayne x reader, established relationship, fluff, soft intimacy, domestic moment, body image insecurity

You weren’t even supposed to be in the bedroom yet.

You were looking for your phone.

Instead, you stop dead in the doorway.

Bruce is standing in front of the mirror, shirtless, hair still slightly damp like he just got out of the shower. One hand is braced on the dresser, the other… hovering over his stomach, pressing lightly, then pulling away like he doesn’t like what he feels.

His expression?

Critical. Focused. Annoyed.

“…Great,” he mutters.

You raise a brow, leaning against the frame. “Wow. Who pissed you off this time?”

He doesn’t turn around immediately.

“…Me,” he says flatly.

That gets your attention.

You step inside, slower now. “That sounds dramatic. Should I be concerned?”

Now he glances at you through the mirror.

“Probably not,” he says. “Unless you’ve developed strong opinions about poor discipline.”

You snort. “Oh, I have plenty of those. Just not about you.”

He gestures vaguely at himself, like the answer should be obvious.

“This,” he says.

You look.

And look a little longer than necessary, just to make a point.

“…Yeah,” you say.

His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

You hum, walking closer, circling slightly so you’re not just another reflection behind him.

“Yeah,” you repeat, “you look good.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do that thing where you pretend—”

You reach out and poke his side.

He stops mid-sentence.

“First of all,” you say, completely ignoring his complaint, “rude. Second—what ‘thing’?”

“That,” he gestures again, more annoyed now, “where you act like there’s no difference.”

You tilt your head, considering him.

“There is a difference.”

He nods once, like finally, finally—

“Yeah,” you continue, “you’re hotter.”

Silence.

He turns his head, actually looking at you now.

“…You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You step right into his space now, no hesitation, your hand sliding lightly across his stomach—not critical, not analyzing, just there.

His breath catches, subtle but there.

“You feel nice,” you say casually.

“…Nice,” he repeats, like the word personally offended him.

“Mhm.” You nod. “Very. Ten out of ten. Would absolutely ignore responsibilities to touch again.”

He lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff. “That’s not helping.”

“It is,” you argue. “You just don’t like the method.”

He shakes his head, stepping back half a pace—until his back nearly hits the dresser.

“I’ve lost definition,” he says. “I’m slower. I should’ve noticed sooner.”

There it is.

You soften—but only a little.

Instead of arguing, you step closer again, closing that half-step distance like it never existed.

“Bruce.”

He doesn’t answer.

Your hand slides up his chest, steady, grounding.

“You know what I see?”

He gives you a look. “Apparently something fictional.”

You roll your eyes and—without warning—lean in and press a kiss to his collarbone.

He freezes.

Another one, just above it.

“I see someone who hasn’t slept properly in weeks,” you murmur.

A kiss to his shoulder.

“Someone who’s been carrying half the city on his back.”

Your fingers curl lightly against his side.

“And someone who still looks—unfairly—good doing it.”

He exhales, slower this time.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes.

“You’re allowed to change,” you say. “You’re not a statue.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

He hesitates.

And that hesitation says everything.

You sigh softly, but there’s no frustration in it—just understanding.

“C’mere.”

You don’t wait for permission. You take his hand and guide it—gently—back to his own stomach where he was just criticizing himself.

He tenses at first.

“Feel that?” you ask.

“I know what it feels like.”

“Yeah,” you say, your hand covering his, pressing it there just a little more firmly, “but you’re feeling it like it’s a problem.”

You shift closer, your other arm sliding around his waist.

“I’m feeling it like it’s you.”

He goes quiet.

Your thumb brushes lightly over his knuckles.

“And I like you,” you add, softer now.

He watches you for a second—really watches you this time, like he’s trying to decide if he believes you.

“…You’re biased,” he says.

You grin. “Hopelessly.”

That finally cracks something.

A small smile. Barely there, but real.

You take advantage of it immediately, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips—light, teasing.

“Also,” you add, not moving far, “for the record?”

He hums faintly.

“You’re hot.”

He shakes his head, but there’s no heat in it anymore.

“…You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” you say, backing him lightly against the dresser now, hands still on him, “you’re smiling.”

He pauses.

Realizes.

And—yeah.

He is.

You soften again, just a little, your forehead brushing his.

“Stop picking fights with yourself,” you murmur. “You’re on my team.”

His hand comes up then, settling at your waist, grounding himself there.

“…Stay?” he asks quietly.

You huff a small laugh. “Wasn’t planning on leaving.”

And this time, when he glances toward the mirror—

He doesn’t look annoyed.

He just looks… less harsh.

Which, for Bruce, is basically progress.

[trowneyy]

finished the absolute masterpiece today, or it finished me?

took me almost a whole year, i was enjoying myself with the side quests :P

[trowneyy]

a dick grayson one shot is coming next week

[trowneyy]

𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋

• bruce wayne

{summary} Bruce insists he has it handled. You disagree, pull him in, and take the razor from his hand—turning a simple morning routine into something quiet, intimate, and a little too close to ignore.

{content}bruce wayne x reader, established relationship, fluff, soft intimacy, domestic moment

“You’re going to cut yourself.”

Bruce doesn’t look away from the mirror. “I’ve been shaving longer than you’ve known me.”

“Yeah, and yet,” you say, leaning against the doorway, “you look like you’re negotiating with the razor instead of using it.”

That gets you a glance—brief, unimpressed, but softer than he pretends.

“I have it handled.”

“Mm.” Your eyes flick to the uneven line of shaving cream along his jaw. “Sure you do.”

He turns back to the mirror, clearly intending to ignore you.

You don’t let him.

You step in, then—without warning—hop up onto the counter, settling yourself comfortably. “C’mere.”

Bruce pauses mid-motion.

“You’re serious.”

“Very.”

There’s a beat. A quiet standoff.

Then he exhales, sets the razor down, and steps forward.

You nudge him closer with your knee until he’s standing between your legs. The space disappears easily, like it always does with him. Your knees rest against his sides, then pull him just a little closer without thinking.

“Bossy,” he mutters.

“Uncooperative,” you shoot back, picking up the razor. “Tilt your head.”

He does.

No argument. No hesitation.

Your fingers come up to his jaw, guiding him gently as you start, slow and careful. The razor glides along his skin, and he stays still—more still than you’ve ever seen him.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

“I’m standing still.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I’m looking at you.”

You glance up for half a second—just enough to confirm it—and immediately regret it.

“Bruce.”

“Hm?”

“Focus.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

His hands settle on your thighs, warm, steady. Not distracting. Just… there.

Grounding.

You shake your head slightly and keep going.

“If you move,” you warn, “I will absolutely ruin your face.”

“You won’t.”

“You’re very confident for someone who could lose half his jaw right now.”

A faint hint of a smile touches his mouth. “I trust you.”

That lands softer than expected.

You don’t comment on it. Just rinse the blade, bring it back up, and continue, a little slower now.

It’s quiet for a moment. Easy. The kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling.

“You don’t let people do this for you,” you say after a while.

His grip tightens just slightly against your legs. “I let you.”

You pause—just for a second—then keep going like it didn’t affect you at all.

“Don’t get sentimental,” you murmur. “I’m holding a weapon.”

“Dangerous position.”

“For you.”

“For me,” he agrees quietly.

You finish one side, wiping the remaining foam away with your thumb. The touch lingers just a second longer than necessary.

Neither of you moves.

“Other side,” you say softly.

He tilts his head immediately.

Your knees press in a little as you lean closer, steadying yourself. His hands shift slightly—still respectful, still careful—but there’s something a little more intentional in the way he holds you now.

“Don’t move,” you murmur.

“I’m not moving.”

“You always say that.”

“And I always listen.”

You smile under your breath. “Debatable.”

Still, he stays perfectly still while you finish.

When you’re done, you set the razor aside and grab a towel, gently wiping the last traces of shaving cream from his skin.

“There,” you say, leaning back just enough to look at him. “All clean.”

Bruce doesn’t step away.

If anything, he leans in—just slightly—like the space you’ve created isn’t one he plans on keeping.

Your hands rest on his shoulders now. His stay where they are.

Close.

“Good,” he says. “You’re hired.”

You huff softly. “Pretty sure I didn’t apply.”

“I could convince you.”

“Oh yeah?” Your fingers absentmindedly smooth over his collar. “How?”

His gaze drops for a brief second—then returns to yours. “I’ll think of something.”

You nudge him lightly with your knee. “Careful. You’re getting charming.”

“Only for you.”

That… lands.

Your hand slides from his shoulder to his jaw again, thumb brushing over the freshly shaved skin like you’re checking your work—but slower this time.

“Stay still,” you murmur.

“I thought we were done.”

“We are.”

“Then what—”

You lean in before he can finish, closing the small space between you.

The kiss is soft.

Unhurried.

More warm than anything else—familiar, easy, like it belongs right here between teasing and quiet moments.

Bruce stills for half a heartbeat—just enough to register it—

Then his hand shifts to your waist, steadying you as he leans into it, returning the kiss just as gently. No rush, no pressure—just staying there, like he has nowhere else to be.

When you pull back, it’s slow. Your forehead nearly brushes his.

“…There,” you murmur.

His thumb traces a small, absent circle at your side. “There?”

“Finishing touch,” you say, softer now.

A quiet breath of a laugh leaves him, barely there. “Effective.”

You smile faintly, your hands slipping back to his shoulders.

You start to shift, your legs loosening around him—but before you can move away, his hands slide down to yours, catching them.

“Next time,” he says, voice lower now, “I’m returning the favor.”

You tilt your head, amused. “You shaving me?”

His mouth curves slightly. “We’ll improvise.”

You roll your eyes, but your fingers tighten around his anyway as he helps you slide off the counter.

He doesn’t let go once your feet hit the floor.

And when you leave the bathroom together, he stays just a little closer than necessary—like he hasn’t quite decided he’s done with the moment yet.

[trowneyy]

• bruce wayne aesthetic

[trowneyy]

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐍

• bruce wayne

{summary}You come home with new clothes and decide to give Bruce a private fashion show. He’s tired—at first.

{content}bruce wayne x reader, established relationship, fluff, soft intimacy, domestic moment

Wayne Manor is quiet in that heavy, late-night way that settles after everything is done.

Bruce looks like he barely made it through the door before collapsing onto the couch.

Tie gone. Sleeves rolled. Shirt open just enough to show the line of his chest. One arm draped over the backrest, the other covering his eyes like he’s trying to shut the entire world out.

You stand in the doorway with a shopping bag hooked around your wrist, watching him for a second, already smiling.

“Don’t fall asleep,” you say.

“Not sleeping,” he murmurs. “Power conservation.”

“Great,” you hum. “Because I just got back from shopping.”

A pause.

Then his arm slides down just enough for one eye to peek at you.

“…You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

Now he fully looks at you, interest cutting straight through the exhaustion. “And you went alone?”

“I wanted honest feedback.”

A slow smirk pulls at his mouth. “That sounds like a mistake.”

You shrug. “We’ll see.”

He shifts, sitting up a little more, dragging a hand through his hair. “Alright,” he says, voice low, waking up. “Come on then. Impress me.”

You grin. “Oh, I will.”

The first outfit is a dress—and not a shy one.

It fits like it was made to be noticed, hugging your shape, catching the light as you walk in without saying a word.

Bruce straightens.

Actually straightens.

His arm drops from the couch, posture sharpening as his eyes track you in, slow and deliberate like he’s already recalculating something.

You stop in front of him, then—without breaking eye contact—do a slow turn.

“Thoughts?”

He leans forward immediately, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely like he’s trying to behave.

“That’s…” he exhales, dragging his gaze back up to your face, “…not casual shopping.”

You smile, tilting your head. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then say what you mean.”

His eyes flick down again—this time not subtle, not rushed—then back up, sharper now.

“I think,” he says slowly, “you walked in here knowing exactly what that dress does.”

You take a step closer. “And what does it do?”

He leans back just slightly, like he’s forcing space between you. “Makes me reconsider letting you out of the house alone.”

You laugh. “Possessive already?”

“Observant,” he corrects.

The second outfit hits harder.

A fitted top—soft but cut just low enough—and a skirt that moves with every step, brushing your thighs like it’s part of the act.

This time, you don’t stop far away.

You walk right up to him, then pivot, letting the skirt flare slightly before settling.

Bruce lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“Oh, that’s not fair,” he mutters.

You glance at him. “What?”

“That one moves.”

“It’s a skirt, Bruce.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

You grin and do another turn, slower, exaggerating it just enough.

He leans back, dragging a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hide the reaction—and failing.

“Careful,” he says, voice dropping. “You’re starting to test my patience.”

You step closer, stopping between his knees now. “You said you wanted to be honest.”

“I did.”

“Then be honest.”

His hands come up—not touching you yet, just hovering at your hips like he’s deciding.

Then, lightly, he taps the fabric of the skirt.

“This one’s trouble.”

“Why?”

His gaze lifts, dark and steady. “Because you know I’d follow you anywhere in it.”

That lands.

By the third outfit, the game has changed.

You walk in like you own the room—jeans fitted perfectly, top just cropped enough to show a hint of skin when you move.

Bruce doesn’t even pretend to relax this time.

He’s watching you before you fully step into the light.

You stop in the middle of the room.

Wait.

“…Well?” you prompt.

He studies you for a second, then gestures lazily with two fingers.

“Come here.”

You raise a brow—but you do it, slow steps, deliberate.

You stop just in front of him.

His gaze drags over you again, slower this time, heavier.

Then—

“Turn around.”

There’s no hesitation in his tone.

You smile a little, but you obey—turning slowly, knowing he’s watching every second of it.

The jeans fit perfectly.

And this time, he doesn’t hide it at all.

“Yeah,” he says, low, almost to himself.

You glance over your shoulder. “Yeah?”

His hand comes up, not grabbing—just resting briefly at your hip, grounding you there as his eyes stay exactly where they are.

“That’s my favorite,” he says.

You turn back, crossing your arms. “You’ve said that twice now.”

“I mean it this time.”

“Oh, so the others didn’t count?”

“They did,” he says, standing now—finally closing the distance, “but this one—”

His hand brushes lightly along your side as he steps past you, close enough that you feel it.

“—this one you wore for me.”

Your breath catches slightly, but you recover fast. “You’re very confident.”

“I’m usually right.”

ou disappear again, and this time it’s quiet for just a little too long.

Bruce doesn’t sit.

He tried—briefly—but that lasted all of ten seconds before he pushed up from the couch, pacing once, then stopping, then dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying to get a grip.

“You’re taking your time,” he calls out.

“Good things take time,” you call back.

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It is.”

He huffs a quiet laugh—but there’s no real patience left in it now.

By the time you come back, he’s already halfway across the room.

You don’t walk in right away.

You lean against the doorway, one shoulder pressed to the frame, the shopping bag dangling from your fingers like it weighs nothing.

But your expression?

That gives you away.

Bruce slows.

His eyes flick to the bag—then back to your face—and whatever he was about to say dies instantly.

“…What is that look?” he asks.

You shrug lightly, pushing off the frame and stepping toward him. “Final piece.”

“Another outfit?”

“Oh, it’s an outfit,” you say, voice softer now, just a little more deliberate.

That’s enough to shift something in him.

He stops a step in front of you, close enough that the air feels different.

“You’re not wearing it,” he points out.

“Not yet.”

Your fingers hook into the edge of the bag, opening it just slightly—but not enough for him to fully see.

Just enough.

Just a hint.

His gaze drops—and catches.

That’s all it takes.

His breath stills.

“…You’re serious,” he says.

You bite back a smile. “I usually am.”

He looks at you again, slower this time, like he’s recalibrating.

“You walked in here,” he says quietly, “and decided to do all of that first.”

You nod once. “Build-up matters.”

A short, disbelieving laugh escapes him. “You’ve been setting me up?”

“Mm. Pretty much.”

There’s a pause.

Then he reaches for the bag.

You pull it back just slightly.

“Ah,” you say. “Careful.”

His eyes narrow—not annoyed, just… focused now.

“You’re really going to make me work for it?”

You tilt your head. “You’ve been enjoying the show.”

“I have,” he admits. “But I think I’m done watching.”

You take a slow step back.

“Shame,” you murmur. “The best part’s next.”

That’s when you finally let him take it.

He doesn’t even fully pull it out—just enough to confirm what he already knows.

And the shift is instant.

Whatever restraint he had left? Gone.

His grip tightens around the fabric still half-hidden in the bag, jaw setting as his eyes lift back to you—darker now, locked in.

“…You planned this,” he says.

You smile, backing up another step. “Of course I did.”

“For tonight.”

“For you.”

That lands harder than anything else.

You turn before he can answer.

Not fast.

Not rushed.

Just confident.

“I can go try it on,” you say over your shoulder, voice light again—but there’s something underneath it now. “If you want a better look.”

You hear the shift behind you before you even reach the hallway.

The quick step.

The change in his breathing.

You make it exactly two steps past the doorway before his hand closes around your wrist—not rough, but firm enough to stop you.

“You don’t get to walk away after that,” he says.

You glance back, feigning innocence. “After what?”

“That.”

You smile slowly. “You seemed interested.”

His other hand comes to your waist, pulling you back just enough to erase the space you created.

“Interested?” he repeats, low. “That’s one way to put it.”

You lean back just slightly into his hold. “Then what would you call it?”

A pause.

Then, closer—“Done waiting.”

Your breath catches—but your smile doesn’t fade.

“Bedroom’s still that way,” you remind him softly.

“Yeah,” he says.

And this time he doesn’t hesitate.

The bag is still in his hand, but it’s barely relevant now as he turns you with him, guiding—no, steering—you down the hallway with steady intent.

Your laugh slips out, quieter now, cut short as the bedroom door opens—

and shuts firmly behind you.