kommanders

[kommanders]

not you writing abt me being their third omfg😭

we loved your vibe ୭̥⋆*｡

☆ / dick grayson x fem!reader x koriand'r. mdni, threesome

"Hey, my boyfriend and I saw you across the bar and we loooved your vibe."

You blink at the almost 6 foot woman and her slightly shorter (but still taller than you) boyfriend. They were pretty intimidating. The woman had big curly pink hair, she was wearing the lowest waisted jeans and a green crop top. The man had this perfect messy inky hair and a plain white shirt with baggy jeans, complemented with a gold chain and two rings.

Your drink was halfway to your mouth when she said it, and you almost choked.

“Excuse me?” you managed, staring up at the towering woman in front of you.

She grinned, easy and bold, one hip cocked like she was used to having this effect on people. “I said we loved your vibe. My boyfriend and I were wondering if you’d like to join us tonight.”

Your eyes flicked between the two of them. She was all heat and curves, curls bouncing as she tilted her head at you. He was quieter, watching you with sharp blue eyes that didn’t waver, like he could read your thoughts already.

Your pulse kicked up hard in your throat. “Wait. Are you- are you asking me what I think you’re asking me?”

The man finally spoke, voice low and smooth. “We’re asking if you’d like to come home with us.” He let the word home hang there, heavy with suggestion, and then offered the faintest smirk.

You put your glass down a little too quickly. “You can’t just… walk up to people and—”

“Why not?” the woman interrupted, laughing, a rich and unapologetic sound. “We’re honest. You’re gorgeous. We think you’re gorgeous. And we like to share.” She glanced back at him, brushing her fingers against his shoulder like she couldn’t resist touching him even mid-conversation.

Heat prickled at the back of your neck. They were magnetic together even more than apart. You couldn’t stop staring at their hands, the way his ring glinted when he touched her hip, the way she leaned toward him like gravity demanded it. And now their attention was squarely on you.

The man tilted his head. “You can say no,” he said, softer now. “We don’t want to make you uncomfortable. But if you’re interested…” His eyes swept you up and down, subtle but unmistakable. “…we’d make it worth your time.”

Your mouth went dry. “You two are insane.”

“Maybe,” she said with another laugh, curls bouncing as she leaned down closer to your ear. “But you’re not walking away, are you?”

And the truth was you weren’t.

You shook your head a little. "I don't even know your names."

Her laughter spilled out of her like champagne, bright and easy, and she leaned back just enough to look at you properly.

“Oh, you’re right.” She pressed a hand dramatically to her chest, eyes sparkling. “Where are my manners? I’m Koriand’r.” She rolled the name like music on her tongue before grinning wider. “But my friends just call me Kory.”

The man beside her leaned a little closer, resting his elbow on the bar casually, but his gaze didn’t waver from you. “Dick,” he said simply, offering his hand out to you like this was the most normal introduction in the world. His palm was warm, grip steady, like he was daring you to pull away.

Your eyes flicked between them. Kory with her wild curls and fearless grin, Dick with his quiet intensity and for a second, you almost laughed at how surreal this was.

“Now you do,” Kory said, tilting her head, curls brushing over her shoulder. “So? What’s yours, gorgeous?”

The way she asked it wasn’t casual. It was deliberate, intimate, like she wanted to memorize it already, like she’d say it later in a way that would make your knees shake.

Your lips parted, heartbeat kicking hard as you gave them your name.

Dick smiled at the sound of it, small but knowing, while Kory repeated it under her breath, tasting it like a secret.

You swallowed, suddenly very aware of the fact that they were both leaning just a little too close, that the air between all three of you was thick and charged.

“…This is insane,” you whispered.

“Or,” Kory countered with a sly grin, “it’s the best decision you’ll make all week.”

Dick could see in your eyes a flicker of doubt, you weren't confident on going home with two strangers that have been eyeing you the whole night.

"C'mon. Let us buy you a drink." Dick said with a tiny smile, offering his hand.

Your throat felt dry, though not from the lack of alcohol. Their combined attention was dizzying. You let out a shaky little laugh, eyes flicking between them, searching for some crack in their confidence and finding none.

"I could use a drink." You smiled shyly, accepting his hand guiding you towards the bar. You shivered at the touch of Kory's hand in the small of your back.

The drinks arrived, cold glasses set down in front of the three of you. Dick slid yours closer with two fingers, his rings clinking softly against the glass.

“Cheers,” he said smoothly, raising his own. Kory followed, her grin sweet but wicked at the edges.

You hesitated, but lifted yours anyway. The first sip went down sharp, heat blooming in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol or the way both of them were looking at you.

Kory leaned in, elbow on the bar, curls brushing your bare arm. “You’re even prettier up close,” she murmured, eyes lingering like she was drinking you in more than the cocktail in front of her.

You swallowed hard. “You two always pick people up in bars together?”

Dick laughed quietly, low in his chest. “Not always. Only when the vibe’s right.” His dark eyes found yours, steady and calm, like he was daring you to look away. “And with you? The vibe’s very right.”

Kory’s hand slid just close enough to your knee that you felt the ghost of her touch. “We could stay here all night and keep talking…” Her voice dipped, teasing. “…or we could take this somewhere more private.”

You blinked at her, pulse stuttering. “You mean—”

“We mean,” Dick cut in, smiling like he’d already read your thoughts. “No pressure. But you come home with us tonight, you won’t regret it.”

Kory giggled softly, leaning in closer so her perfume wrapped around you. “And we’ll take very good care of you.”

Dick swirled what was left of his drink, eyes still fixed on you. There was a smile on his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time, it was sharper.

“You know,” he said slowly, “we don’t usually bother pushing this far.” He leaned a little closer, his arm brushing yours. “But I think you already know we’re not leaving this bar without you tonight.”

The statement landed heavy, a mix of promise and challenge.

Kory’s hand finally settled on your knee, warm, deliberate. She tilted her head, pink curls spilling forward as her mouth curved into that sultry, knowing smile. “Why would we? You’re exactly what we were looking for.”

Your throat went dry. “That’s… a lot of confidence.”

Dick chuckled, low and steady. “Not confidence. Certainty.” He set his empty glass down and angled toward you, his knee brushing yours under the bar. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t feel this too.”

You tried, but his gaze held you in place, unwavering.

Kory leaned in so close you caught the sweetness of her drink on her breath. “We’ll be good to you,” she murmured, voice soft but full of heat. “But we’re not walking out that door without your hand in ours.”

Her thumb stroked slowly against your leg, subtle, grounding, but it made your whole body tense.

Dick’s hand brushed your arm, light but purposeful. “So,” he asked, quiet, almost teasing, “are we going to finish these drinks… or are we leaving now?”

You were completely naked in the bed of their apartment, they never stopped looking at you while they also discarded their own clothes. They were both built like greek gods, both with perfectly toned stomach, strong arms and legs that could easily suffocate you.

Kory sat on the edge of the bed first, her big curls falling around her shoulders, eyes roaming your body with a hunger that made your stomach flip. Dick followed, slower, deliberate, his gaze just as intense.

You shifted nervously under their combined stare, pulling the sheet a little higher over yourself.

“Don’t hide,” Kory murmured, her hand reaching out to pull the sheet right back down. Her palm was warm, hot even, brushing over your thigh. “You’re too beautiful to hide.”

Dick sat beside you, his hand landing on the other side of your hip, trapping you between them. “She’s right,” he said, voice low and smooth, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Look at you… spread out and waiting for us. You’re perfect.”

Your pulse thundered in your throat. “This feels… surreal,” you whispered.

Kory’s grin softened, but her touch didn’t. Her hand slid up your stomach, fingers brushing over your breasts before cupping one, thumb flicking your nipple until you gasped. “It feels right,” she corrected. “You’ll see.”

Dick leaned down, kissing your shoulder, slow and deliberate. His mouth trailed up to your neck, lips teasing the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw. “Let us show you,” he whispered against your skin.

Kory climbed onto the bed fully, swinging one leg over so she was straddling your chest. She looked down at you with that same fearless smile, curls bouncing as she leaned forward just enough to press her breasts against your face. “Can you taste me, gorgeous?” she teased, tugging her crop top over her head and tossing it aside.

Dick’s hand slid between your thighs, his rings cold against your burning skin. He teased your folds with slow, deliberate strokes, never quite giving you what you needed. “Already wet,” he murmured, smirking against your throat. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

Kory giggled when you whimpered beneath her, rolling her hips just enough for you to feel the heat of her against your chest. “She likes it,” she said, voice lilting, “look at her squirm.”

Dick finally slid two fingers inside you, his pace controlled but firm, curling them just right. You moaned, and he bit your shoulder lightly, as if savoring the sound. “Say it,” he demanded softly, his lips brushing your ear. “Say you’ve been waiting for us.”

Your voice broke. “I… I have.”

Kory gasped dramatically, leaning down to kiss you deeply, hot and hungry, her tongue claiming yours while Dick worked you open with his hand. “Mmm,” she purred as she pulled back, licking her lips. “So sweet. I want her mouth, Dick.”

He chuckled low, pulling his fingers from you only to suck them clean before shoving them back inside. “Greedy,” he teased, eyes darkening as he watched your reaction.

Kory slid further down until she was straddling your face fully now, lowering herself with a wicked grin. “Be greedy with me,” she whispered. “Eat.”

The second your tongue touched her, she moaned, throwing her head back, her curls bouncing as her hips rolled against your mouth. Dick kissed your stomach, trailing down until he replaced his fingers with his tongue, lapping at you with slow, deliberate strokes that had you arching off the bed.

“Fuck, you taste even better than I imagined,” he groaned against you.

Kory leaned forward, tangling her fingers in your hair, guiding your mouth against her. “Don’t stop,” she begged, her voice high and breathless. “Don’t you dare stop.”

You were shaking, every nerve lit on fire from their combined touch. His mouth devouring you, her heat pressing down against your tongue, their hands roaming, gripping, owning every inch of you.

Overwhelmed, overstimulated, you muffled a cry against Kory’s slick folds, and Dick laughed darkly, pulling back just enough to look up at you. “Already falling apart?” he asked, lips glistening.

You didn't answer him, you couldn't with your mouth full, so you just tugged his hair and pulled him back between your folds. He went back working his two fingers knuckles deep and his tongue lapping over your clit while Kory rode your face.

"Fuck—D-Dick I'm—" you blurted out, bucking your hips up feeling the sting in your walls, only for him to put a hand on your stomach keeping you in place.

"Yeah, baby. C'mon. I'll eat it all up."

His voice rumbled against your core, low and filthy, as his tongue flicked faster. His fingers curled, hitting that exact spot inside you that made your vision blur. Your hands clawed at the sheets, at his hair, at Kory’s thighs above you, but there was no escape from how they were devouring you.

Kory was gasping, grinding down onto your face with no shame. “She’s so good, Dick—fuck—her tongue is perfect.” Her nails dragged down your chest, leaving faint red trails over your skin. She tugged your hair to keep your mouth right where she wanted it. “Don’t stop, pretty thing, don’t you dare stop.”

You tried to answer, to beg, but Dick pushed two more fingers inside you, stretching you until your cry vibrated against Kory’s clit. She shuddered hard, laughing breathlessly as her hips rolled faster.

“That’s it,” Dick growled, sucking your clit into his mouth so hard your back arched clean off the bed. “I want you dripping all over my face. I want Kory tasting you when she kisses me.”

Your thighs were trembling, shaking around his head. “I—I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted, biting your inner thigh hard enough to sting. “Right now. Come for us.”

Kory leaned down, her curls spilling across your chest as she smirked down at you. “Listen to him, gorgeous. Make a mess for us.” Her hips ground down harder against your tongue, and the combined weight of them, their mouths, their hands, their voices commanding you, broke you open.

Your whole body convulsed, stars exploding behind your eyes as your orgasm ripped through you, wet and overwhelming. Dick groaned against your folds, drinking you in while his fingers fucked you through it, relentless.

Kory gasped when your moans sent shocks through her own climax. “Oh—fuck yes—” she cried out, thighs clamping around your head as she shuddered above you.

When you went limp, trembling and gasping for air, Dick finally pulled back, lips and chin glistening. He crawled up your body, catching Kory’s mouth in a filthy kiss so she could taste you on his tongue.

When they finally broke apart, both of them looked down at you, wrecked and spread out beneath them. Dick smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. They shared a quick look thinking about all the positions they could put you on this night.

masterlist

[kommanders]

love my malewife kyle rayner

not a lot, just forever

summary: Kyle Rayner's ecstatic to learn about your pregnancy — you are too, but that doesn't exempt you from being a little scared of telling your family. Weirdly enough, the last one to find out is, apparently, the world's best detective himself.

pairing(s): kyle rayner x batsis!reader, platonic!batfamily x batsis!reader

word count: 7.5k

warnings: pregnancy (duh), vomit, swearing, bruce is GOING THROUGH IT, mentioned that reader has a therapist, reader was adopted before dick and was the first batgirl, mostly fluff, mention of reader's parents dying, every similarity between damian and dick was intended and premeditated, nothing else i think?

author's note: might feel rushed because I'm trying to learn to write summed up one shots instead of fucking books💔💔💔I love writing long fics but I often lose interest in them and after 30 pages and 16k words I really don't need that. this is also a love letter to milka's cookies because I am hungry and technically on a diet but I want them so bad

dividers from @uzmacchiato!

You’ve been dating Kyle Rayner for three years and living together for one when it happens. 

Your period’s two weeks late. You don’t think much about it until the nausea and weird cravings start kicking in — and if there’s one thing Bruce taught you right, is to be aware of your body’s signals about something being off; another thing he’s unfortunately passed down to you is the ability to go completely blank in situations that require the emotional stability that neither of you has.

(No wonder Kyle had spent years trying to get you to agree to a single date — you weren’t even mentally prepared for one.) 

So when you spend a whole day throwing up — which, by the way, you never do — there’s only two possibilities in your head: it’s either a weird space virus that Kyle brought home from last week’s mission or pregnancy. Your bet’s on the space virus, but first it’s better to ensure that the latter is not an option, and your chance presents itself when your dearest boyfriend — tired and sad of hearing you suffer — gets ready to go to the store to buy the ingredients needed for chicken noodle soup. 

He still insists that his mother's recipe is much better than Alfred’s one — also, a miracle that you got yourself a partner that knows how to cook, because growing up with Bruce Wayne also means being unable to light a single stove. Alfred tried his best to teach you how to, but not even him knows how to make miracles happen. 

Kyle kisses your temple and hums, “I’ll be back soon, I promise,” he says, brushing your hair out of your forehead. He’s been tied to your side all day even if he’s got a deadline just next week and hasn’t even started drawing the first panels, and if you weren’t as stoic as you usually are, you would swoon for him. “Ah, could you buy another thing for me at the store?” you ask casually, cheek leaning against the cold tile of the toilet for comfort. 

He nods, “Anything you want, babe.”

“A pregnancy test,” you say it like it’s the most normal thing ever, “and a Milka cookies sensation pack. The XL one.” 

Kyle blinks, and you can almost see his brain short-circuiting in that thick head of his. “Oh.” he blurts out, “I… okay. Yeah, yeah, I can do that.” 

He’s going to come back home spiraling, you think as the door closes. 

“Okay, I’m totally not spiraling right now,” he says as soon as he gets back home, plastic bag in hand, hair messy from the wind outside, “Like, are you sure it could be pregnancy? How long have you known? Because these aren’t the kind of things that you just guess, right? Are there specific symptoms?”

You sigh from your place on the couch and get up to rummage through the bag as he continues yapping, “I mean, should I have noticed? Could I have noticed?” the yapping doesn’t stop as you take the test he bought and go back to the bathroom, because he follows you and continues talking while you pee on the stick and hope to not wet your hand, “Do you even want kids?” you place the test on the counter and wash your hands, “I mean– I do, and I would love to have a baby with you, but we’ve never talked about it and with the whole ‘tragic childhood with an emotionally unavailable father’ thing you have going on I’m not sure you’d want that and you don’t have to worry about what I want– it’s totally your choice and I’ll be there whatever you want to do–” 

You turn and take his face into your hand, squeezing his cheeks and making his lips pucker. “Kyle.”

His voice comes out a bit muffled, “Yeah?” 

“You’re spiraling.” 

His shoulders sag a bit. “I am. Are you not?”

You blink, “We’re adults in a healthy relationship, Ky. Even if I’m on birth control, I think at least one pregnancy scare was bound to happen.” you raise an eyebrow, “I am surprised that it wasn’t earlier on, though.” 

“Okay. Okay.” his foot’s been tapping on the floor since he got back from the store, “Um– how long do we have to wait? For the test to show the results, I mean. I bought the most expensive one just in case and I hope it wasn’t a scam, because if it was I will cry.”  

“It probably was,” you didn’t even know that brands of pregnancy tests were a thing until now, and you highly doubt that one is more reliable than the others. He’s already got tears in his eyes, but you continue, “But I do appreciate the thought, honey, thanks.” 

He sniffles, nuzzling into your hand, “The pleasure’s mine,” he just hopes that the test is the right one, because as much as he knows how to cook, the premium adult in the house it’s you. You do the taxes, make sure the bills and rent are paid — God, is he a sugar baby? Because with the trust fund and place at Wayne Enterprises that you have, he might as well be. His job as a comic book artist probably looks like a kid’s summer job in comparison. 

The timer from your phone buzzes — when did you even set up a timer? — and your hand flies to the test, angling it under the bathroom’s light to see better the results. “Fuuuck.” it’s not a ‘Fuck, this shouldn’t have happened’, it’s more a ‘Fuck, it’s kinda crazy that this is happening’ kinda fuck. 

Kyle peeks from behind your shoulder, “Lemme see–” you hold out the test for him to take, and he gapes. “Stop.” It comes out as a much less virile ‘Stawwwp!’ and soon enough, he’s jumping around the house with a test showing the words [PREGNANT — 3+] written on the screen. “I’m gonna be a dad! I’m gonna be a dad! I’m gonna be–” he stops once his hopping brings him back to the bathroom and looks at you with his big doe eyes, “I mean, uh… am I gonna be a dad?” he’s not begging — he would never force you to do anything you don’t want to. He just needs confirmation.

You huff, and a rare smile blesses your face. “Yeah,” you murmur, eyes soft, “you’re gonna be a dad.” 

He whoops, hoisting you up by the waist and spinning you around, all while continuing chanting “I’m gonna be a dad!” over and over again. He stops every once in a while just to place kisses everywhere his lips can reach, smothering you in love and spit.

You let him, mentally already making a list of things to buy — a house, first of all, then a crib, onesies and all of that — and the medical appointments to schedule — OB-GYN and, oh God, your therapist’s going to have to work overtime to make sure you don’t mess this baby up with your ears worth of trauma. 

But, of course, you don’t say anything — not now. You don’t want to ruin the moment, and more than anything, you don’t want to think about the hardest part of the journey ahead of you — that is, telling your father. 

The first months you make sure to keep things low-key, mostly to assure that everything goes well before you tell anyone about the baby. 

You go to your appointments, take your vitamins and try not to stress about everything going on at Wayne Enterprises — because at the end of the day, you always come home to Kyle, and you two look for houses in the nicest neighborhoods that Gotham has to offer as he rubs the expensive ointment for stretch marks that you bought on your belly (even if it’s mostly useless, as you’re not even showing yet, you don’t tell him to stop, because he’s got hands that just know how to give a great massage — you make a mental note to yourself to ask him for a back massage one of these days). 

You tell Bruce about your search in the house market just in case he knows someone on Crest Hill who’s thinking about selling their property, because that’s honestly the nicest zone in Gotham and it’s the same where the Manor is, so he’s bound to know some of the neighbors. He frowns at your question, grimacing a bit, “You two are… buying a house? Isn’t it too early for that?” 

You raise an eyebrow, “Dad, we’ve been together for three years — I think that’s more than enough.” 

His frown deepens. “But you two aren’t even married. Not that you have to move in together, but aren’t you two a tad bit too young to buy a house together?”

“You had two kids at my age.” 

“I don’t think you’ve ever taken me as inspiration, so that doesn’t count.” 

You roll your eyes, “Do you know if any of the people living on Crest Hill are selling their house or not?” 

He sighs. “I’ll let you know.” 

Later that day, when you’re laid down on the couch and half napping as Kyle cooks dinner, you get a message from him with your response. Henry Solten’s selling one of his houses. Nice garden, two-story house with an attic. I can see it to get you two a tour if you want. Tell me if it was what you were looking for. 

You look a bit more into it, and you’ve gotta admit that Solten’s house is nice — suspiciously what you and Kyle were looking for, actually. Big enough for a kid — and any that might follow, for that — and your boyfriend looks as pleased as you about it. You two agree to still wait for the second trimester to make any permanent decision, but set up an appointment through Bruce for next week to see it in person. I can probably get you a favouring price, your father adds in one of his texts, even if he has to know that between your exorbitant salary and embarrassing trust fund any price is not a problem — because he’s the one who made sure of that. 

That same night you go to bed with your belly feeling pleasantly warm thanks to Kyle’s pasta, and as you’re between dream’s world and the real one you hear something. “Psst. Hey.” 

It takes you a moment to realize that Kyle’s not talking to you — he’s talking to the baby. His hands come up to your hips, gently raising your shirt as he presses his ear to your belly. “I know you can’t hear me — you kinda don’t have ears yet. You’re just a weird blob of cells for now, I guess, but it's not fair that your mom gets to spend the whole day with you and I can’t get a minute alone with you, is it? This is me making it fair.” 

He presses a soft peck to your bellybutton, nuzzling into the soft skin of your midriff, “I love you and your mom so much, kid. You can’t even imagine.” it’s a miracle you don’t burst into tears, really. 

After that, you let him have his ‘alone time’ with the baby, even if most of the time you’re awake — it actually lulls you to sleep, Kyle babbling about everything and anything to a baby that isn’t even a baby and can’t hear right now. It makes you wonder if Bruce would’ve done that for you, were you his biological daughter — you know for sure that your biological father didn’t. 

You buy Solten’s house — against all of Bruce’s protests to let him pay for it — one week after the start of your second trimester, and thanks to all the strings that the Wayne name can move in real estate, the procedure of buying it is much quicker and easier than it would’ve been normally. The process of moving soon starts, and Kyle spends half the time grumbling about not being allowed to use the ring to move all the boxes down the apartment to the rented truck you got in one go and the other half telling you to please not lift anything heavier than a pillow. 

It’s during the last day of packing boxes and getting them into the truck — you don’t even know you had so many things, by the way — that you tell Damian about the baby, even if it wasn’t really in your plans. 

He comes over to the apartment after hearing from Bruce that you’re moving out, hands in his pockets in the most nonchalant way a twelve-year-old kid that’s basically three apples tall can manage. “Heard you were making the worst decision of your life and thought I’d step by,” he mumbles, inviting himself in and down-right slumping on the couch that you had yet to bring to the new house. 

Damian’s distaste for Kyle isn’t something new — nor the distaste your whole family has for him — but you know better than that. You know that behind their voiced doubts and teases lies fondness and just mild concern. You ruffle his hair, going to the kitchen to get the snacks you keep there just for him, “Fought with Bruce again?”

He freezes. “Your ability to always guess right about things like that scares me.” 

“Oooh, the Damian Wayne scared? I must’ve scored really big.” you pat his head, dropping the paprika carrot chips you took out of the pantry in his lap while lowering your elbows to rest on the couch’s headrest, “Kid, I’ve been with Bruce before the Justice League was even a thing. I know that frown because it’s the same one I had at your age when he made me mad. C’mon, spit it out.” 

“He’s just been so annoying these past few months!” oh, God, here we go, “It’s always ‘We’re not doing enough, Robin’ and ‘Maybe you should step away from the scene for a bit, Robin’ — well, what about he steps away from the scene for a bit? He’s the one who’s been hogging all the limelight since the dinosaurs were still around!” It could be a joke, but knowing Damian, he’s referring to the giant dinosaur kept in the Batcave — which would make the saying ‘since dinosaurs were around’ quite true. 

“It’s just weird, you know? He just started acting like this out of the blue. One day he was happy about how we were doing with the criminals, and the next, BOOM! We’re not doing enough because some of them are still around. What am I supposed to say? It’s his fault if after twenty years and counting in the business the city’s yet to be cleaned out from all the scum of the slums.”

He starts angrily munching on his chips, and if that’s how he treats those poor fried carrots, you don’t want to think about how he’d deal with the supposed 'scum of the slums' if Bruce wasn’t looking. The things he’s saying are weird, though — while Bruce has always thought he wasn’t doing enough, it’s not usual for him to voice out these feelings. He mostly understands that there’s only so much he can do, so venting to Damian of all people about not doing enough is completely bonkers. “I’m starting to think someone has possessed him to irritate me to death,” he grumbles out, cheeks puffed out like a hamster. 

You almost melt. God, you love your little brother so much. And that’s when you decide that maybe — just maybe — telling him about the baby wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Just to keep up his morale. “Hey, Dames,” you murmur gently, brushing the hair out of his face — he really needs a haircut. “Do you still have Bitey?”

Bitey’s the first toy you ever owned, and a gift from Bruce from when you first moved into Wayne Manor. It’s a grey wolf plushie that’s definitely seen some things, as you passed it down to all your siblings once they came to live in the Manor, but it always got back to you in one way or another — all of them have always returned it, even if you never asked for them to. Now, you feel bad about asking Damian to give it back in just a few months, but it’s for the sake of the tradition of having Bitey passed down. 

He squints, looking at you suspiciously, “…I do.” he really can’t tell you that he’s been sleeping with it since you gave it to him. “Why?” 

You shrug, “Um… you know, I usually wouldn’t ask this, but could you give it back to me in, say… a few months?” 

He gasps. “No way! You’ve never asked Grayson or Todd or Drake or Cass to give it back– why me? I have the right to keep Bitey until I deem it appropriate for it to be returned to you–” he goes on as you reach for a folder on the kitchen table, passing it to him as he goes on, “What’s this? Whatever it is, sister, it won’t make me overlook the blatant favoritism that you showed towards the othe... oh.” 

It’s the hospital folder, the one with the latest ultrasounds showing the mass of cells that’s building up to be your baby. Damian gasps, “I think I should be happy for you — but the only concern I have right now is that the baby isn’t Rayner’s. Please, tell me you have cheated on him.”

You frown. “That’s not a nice thing to say, Damian.” 

“Please! He’s a total cretin!”

You wave your hand at him, “That’s not true–”

At that moment, the front door opens. Kyle emerges from the hallway of your complex, voice ringing out throughout the apartment, “Hey, babe, have you seen the boxes with my comics? They weren’t in the truck when I–” he promptly falls face down after tripping on a box labelled in bold, red ink, KYLE’S COMICS, making Damian point the scene like an obvious proof as you sigh, exasperated. “See? What did I tell you!” 

Kyle merely raises his face from the floor, smiling at your brother, “Oh, hey Damian! Didn’t know you were coming over.” 

You make Damian swear on his life that he’s not going to tell anyone about the pregnancy yet before he goes back to the Manor, and he scoffs as he does it. “Please, sister, do not think of me so low to be confiding in the others about such things.” 

The fourth month of the pregnancy comes around, and with it the realness of it all. As you get used to the new house, you also start preparing the nursery, and Kyle comes back from every morning run with a different souvenir — a plushie, a onesie, you name it. The time to tell the family about the pregnancy gets closer and closer, and with it your brothers’ unexpected visits seem to multiply, because two weeks after moving to Crest Hill Dick presents himself at your door unannounced. 

It’s Kyle who gets the door, and he happily greets your brother — the only member of your family who actually kinda likes him. “Heard you two bought a house and thought I’d pass by,” he says as your boyfriend invites him inside, “y’know, to see my sister be the responsible adult I’ll never manage to be,” 

You get down from the upper floor at that moment and frown at the sight of your brother swaying on the balls of his feet. One look at his face is all you need. “What did B tell you this time?” 

He groans, “God, you’re too good at this game,” he slumps on the new couch without too many problems and starts ranting. “I’m really happy that I’ve moved to Bludhaven, you know? Because he’s been unbearable as of lately, and I don’t know how long I will manage to stand him. He’s running the Manor like the navy and I’m suffering the consequences of it. Damian’s sneaking out more and more to hang around my flat and he says that nothing’s wrong but I know that something happened.” he finally looks at you, distressed, “Do you know something? Is it like some virus spreading around these days or what?” 

You raise an eyebrow as you and Kyle get comfortable on the sofa in front of him, skeptical. “I mean, Damian told me something about it, but no. I’ve seen Bruce pretty much every day at work and he looks like the same ol’ guy to me.” 

“Could this be about Poison Ivy’s last break out?” Kyle asks, his arm slung over your shoulders, “I knew he was beating himself up for it, and I tried to help, but he refused. Said he’d handled these things alone for the last two decades and didn’t want or need my help.” 

You facepalm, “God, he’s always so– so insufferable when it comes to needing some help. I don’t understand, what’s the problem with it?” 

Dick looks at you blankly, “One time I asked you if you needed some help in cleaning out your weapon inventory and you told me that getting help was for the weak.”

You wave your hand at him, “That was a long time ago, I was young,” 

He blinks, unamused, “That was two weeks ago.” 

Kyle chuckles as you groan, “Okay, maybe we have problems with getting help in this family, but it’s not like we can send him to a therapist like he did to me. He couldn’t even tell them one quarter of his problems– at least I can tell mine half of them. Besides, he doesn't even really do things alone; he's got you, Babs, Damian, Alfred–” 

“Well, I was actually wondering if you could talk to him,” Dick adds, a little… embarrassed? Is that embarrassment on Dick Grayson’s face? “Just… not as your civilian self, y’know. I was thinking that if your Batgirl were to come out just a little bit again–”

“No,” the reply comes simultaneously from both you and Kyle, stern, even if you doubt that the motives are completely the same. For him, it’s because you’re pregnant, for you… well, for you it’s because Batgirl has carried too much in her life for you to go back to her. “Dick, I left that life behind a lot of time ago. If you want, I can try to talk to Bruce, but I’m never stepping back into the costume. Not now, not ever.”

His hands are joined like in prayer, “Please, not even a little easter egg comparison, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it?”

“No,” your answer is final, “there’s a reason I stopped being Batgirl, okay? And you out of all people should respect my decision even more.” you cross your arms as Kyle’s hand goes to your bicep, rubbing it delicately to comfort you, “I’ll talk to Bruce. Is there anything else you need or can you just go?” 

He smiles sheepishly, “Actually, could I use the bathroom?” 

You sigh. “Upstairs, first door on the left.” 

Off he goes, leaving you and your boyfriend alone with your thoughts. “Maybe your father’s having, like, a midlife crisis or something,” he whispers, “y’know, it happens to people his age. You start thinking about being old and all that…” 

“Please, Ky, he’s had worse and handled with it better–” you both yelp when a full-on banshee screech comes from upstairs, and Dick comes running down the stairs, seemingly terrified, “What was that?” he yells, looking at you both with crazy eyes. 

You and Kyle look at each other, confused, “What was what?” 

“That– that room! You said it was the bathroom!” 

It takes you a moment to understand — but then you remember Dick’s absolute shit knowledge of left and right, and guess that he might’ve mistaken left for right again, and entered… the nursery. The very still-in-making nursery, with the box of the crib that still has to be built and the chest with the onesies that Bitey is sitting on. Your face becomes red, because that’s absolutely not how you wanted your brother to find out about this, “Well, Dick, I say you put two and two together,” you hint, unamused and a bit shrill. 

He stares at you two, mouth wide open, and then starts screaming again. “You knocked up my sister? That’s so not cool, bro! You’re, like, two years older than me! She’s my age! Does that mean I’ll have to get my shit together someday too?” he falls dramatically to the floor, clutching his chest, “I’m not ready for you two to have a baby! Who will I go to when I need to be reassured about being an irresponsible adult if you’re too busy being a dad, man?”

You blink as your boyfriend starts laughing like a hyena. “You’re… not ready for me to have  a baby? Because you’re irresponsible?” 

Kyle’s still howling, “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard! Man, this is absolutely going in the photo album written behind every pic of you and the baby–” 

They both end up kicked out of the house, because honestly, you’re not patient enough to deal with their shit. Kyle comes back with a bouquet of flowers and cookies three hours later, begging for forgiveness, while Dick has the great idea of aggravating his situation by sending a message to the siblings group chat that reads: DID Y’ALL KNOW ABOUT THE KID OR WAS I THE ONLY ONE NOT INCLUDED💔💔💔

One very angry phone call and a deleted message later, not one but three very confused siblings show up at your door — and you know that things are getting weird when it’s Cass, Tim and Jason that team up. “Yo,” it’s the latter who greets you first, “it’s like everyone went crazy lately — first B, then Damian, then Dick with… whatever that message was. We knew you just bought a house and were just wondering if you did it thanks to this freaky virus going around or something.” 

You really can’t take this anymore, and are grateful that Kyle is out of the house for last minute GL business. “Oh, just get in.” 

Cass is the only one who takes the news well. She immediately comes to hug you, snuggling into your shoulder like a cat while Tim and Jason just stare in disbelief. “You’re what?” 

“You two could at least try to act like you’re happy about it.” 

You’re pretty sure you just saw Tim’s eye twitch. “Does B know? Is that why he’s been acting like a maniac?”

You frown, “He doesn’t know, I meant to, like, organise a dinner together or something to tell you all but you’re all too nosey to mind your business. Dick literally snooped around and found out.” nevermind that you were the one to tell Damian. 

Suddenly, a smile graces Jason’s face, “Does that mean Damian doesn’t know? Because I’ll never let him live this down–”

“Damian was the first one to know.” 

“…You just had to ruin the moment, huh?” 

“This is supposed to be my moment, dumbass.” 

You choose to go to the Manor that same night, because now that the whole family knows, it won’t be long until Bruce finds out, and you'd rather be the one to tell him. Kyle doesn’t ask you if you want him to come — smartly, you should add, because it’s best if you talk to your father alone before he decides to settle things between them privately. 

Alfred greets you at the door, his presence stoic as ever. “Good evening, Miss, at what do we owe the ple–”

“I’m pregnant.” 

He blinks, unmovable. “Well, that’s wonderful. I imagine you came here to tell Master Bruce the happy news?”

You come up to hug him, and after a brief moment of confusion he reciprocates. “Thanks, Alfie,” you mumble, “you’re the first person after Kyle that said that this is good news. I really needed that.” 

He gently pats your back, “Do the others know?” 

You scoff, “None of them were too pleased about it. Cass was happy about it, but… you know she doesn’t really talk.” 

His eyes soften, “It’s just the way they cope, Miss. I’m sure it’s all just a misunderstanding; they’ll come around.” 

Bruce is, as he always is, in the Batcave. These days it’s hard to find him anywhere else. His eyes are fixated on the screen of the Batcomputer, and he doesn’t even seem to acknowledge your presence until you call out, “Hey, Bruce,” 

He turns, bags under his eyes prominent, and he looks almost worried to see you there. He says your name, getting up from his seat, “You shouldn’t be here,” he mumbles, his hands cupping your shoulders as you frown, “it’s too cold. I should have a jacket somewhere–”

“Please, Bruce,” you cut him off, “it’s September. I would like to say that the temperature down here is perfect, actually.” you look at the giant screen in front of you, various news pamphlets open and surveillance footage replaying over and over again, “New prison break out to manage?”

He shrugs, “Dent’s been dealing some weapons in the black market for the last two weeks, if what my sources are saying is true. By the way, it’s almost October, so no, the temperature isn’t perfect.” he insists on getting that jacked he mentioned on you, even zipping it up for you like you’re some kind of hyperactive toddler. “There you go.”

You almost laugh. “The others told me you were acting weirdly, but I didn’t think it was this serious,” 

He barely reacts. “Hn. I’m not acting weirdly, I’m just being careful,”

“Are you the same man that gets into active shootings with a costume and a dream?” 

He glares at you. “Why did you come here?” 

You hop on a stool near the computer, “To check on you, dad. The others seemed worried, and I know that we haven’t had much time to talk these last few weeks, but I’m worried about you.” 

“Well, don’t be. I’m perfectly fine.” 

“Please, Bruce, you don’t look nor act fine. We just want to help.” 

You just can’t seem to get his attention, because as soon as his gaze goes back to the screen, it’s like you’re not even there anymore. As clearly this isn’t working, you make a drastic decision: to just spit the truth out. “Dad,” you start, voice trembling, “I… I’m pregnant.”

He doesn’t even blink. “I know.” 

You stutter, “You– what– I– oh, you know what? I’m so tired of you knowing everything. Is that why you’ve been acting so weird? How did you even find out, and why didn’t you say anything? I was pretty sneaky with it, you know!” 

“I found it weird when you asked me about the house,” he merely explains, not seeming bothered with this invasion of privacy like he’s done this his entire life — well, he kinda did. “I got suspicious and thought you were being mind-controlled or ill. It took me a quick check through your medical records to find out your… condition. I thought it best not to say anything in case you wanted to do a big reveal with the others and wanted me to act surprised.” 

“You really should stop doing that.” guess his weird behavior is explained, but the why of it all still confuses you. “I mean, I get that it may weird you out, but I still don’t get why you’ve been so odd since finding that out. I’m an adult woman in a loving relationship, Bruce, and even if me and Kyle never mentioned having kids, you could’ve guessed that something like this would’ve happened.” 

Finally, he stops. His stare is so blank that you’re honestly kinda scared. “I’m… I’m getting old.” 

You blink. “O… kay?” wait. Wait. Is your emotionally unavailable father opening up to you after almost two decades of stony facades save for a few crash outs? And it’s because you’re about to have a baby? Dear God, Kyle was right about him having a midlife crisis. 

“I’m not the Batman I was once,” he mutters grimly, “but Gotham is as relentless as ever.” 

“I mean, you’re still kicking butts left and right,” you say, “and I doubt that Gotham’s criminals actually think that you can age. They probably think that you’re, like, immortal or something.” 

Finally, his gaze turns to you, and he doesn’t seem too relieved. “My hair’s starting to turn grey.” 

It's genuinely starting to creep you out. “My God, Bruce, you’re fourty-four! Stop talking like you’re Santa Claus’ age, because Alfred is on the brink of his seventies and I’ve never heard him complain about a single joint creaking.” you stop when you take a better look at him, because– are those tears in his eyes? You’re not even sure you’ve ever seen him cry after Jason’s death. “I– God, will you just tell me what is going on in your head? I can’t read minds, Bruce.”

He fucking sniffles. “I… my baby’s going to have a baby. I’m not ready for that.” you almost melt. This is Bruce Wayne, Batman, your father — reduced to a puddle of sad emotions when faced with the fact that his first child will become a mother in a few months. “I… it just feels like yesterday when I took you to the Manor for the first time.”

You didn’t come from a perfect family like he did, nor had a nice house and a butler — but you guess that your parents dying during an armed robbery in an alleyway, even if you weren’t there to witness it, hit him a little too close to home to ignore the story when it was published on the newspaper. You were the first kid he fostered, and probably also one of the biggest messes, seeing the way your version of Batgirl was deemed to be far too violent by basically everyone — including Damian, and Damian got here after you dropped the costume and has killed multiple people. 

(One time, when he told Jason that he didn’t get why you stopped being Batgirl, he showed him footage of you beating up some of Black Mask’s goons completely unprompted and with weapons that he was pretty sure were now banned from the Batcave. Damian blinked and said Yeah, okay, now I get it.)

“And I know that I wasn’t the best father– I was never prepared to be one. Nor was I a really good mentor. But through it all, all of you — you, your brothers, your sister, have managed to go on despite everything. But you — you’ve managed to do something I’m not sure any of us will ever be able to actually do.” 

His head turns towards the costume display cases, where your suit is still set up despite not being used in over three years. “You’ve left this life behind.” 

“It wasn’t easy,” you mutter, “Batgirl literally haunts me, and it’s just a stupid costume.” 

It’s true, she does; your violent past and all the definitely too-near-death experiences you've had are still present in your recurring nightmares. You still get a little scared when you see Barbara or Stephanie in the costume, thinking that it came back to finally finish you off, and the relief you felt when you found out that Cass modified the suit was indescribable. 

The truth is, Batgirl isn’t just a costume to you — it’s a reminder of years spent amidst violence and the loss of yourself. “And, I mean, a good therapist does help with anger issues. I can’t tell her about the nights spent fighting crime and all the traumatising experiences I’ve had because of them, but I can tell her about my crippling fear of becoming a bad mom and the other thousand issues unrelated to vigilantism I have.”

He forces a smile. “You’ll be a great mom, I’m sure of it.” 

“And you’ll be a great grandpa,” you nudge him with your elbow, “I can already see the headlines: Billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne retires from his nightlife activities at only forty-four following the birth of his first grandchild: women and men all over the world declare grief-stricken strike.”

He perks up, “Speaking of which, is everything going well with the gestation?” 

You almost laugh at the way he says gestation like you’re some kind of lab rat. “Oh, yeah,” you muse, cupping the underside of your small bump, “it’s a boy.” 

You don’t entertain the idea of a babymoon until Bruce gives you and Kyle two tickets for the Bahamas and a reservation in one of the most exclusive resorts of the area for Christmas. 

Truly, you didn’t notice how tense and sore you’ve been these last few months until you’re laid out on a sunbed, fresh out of an all-inclusive spa treatment, and your biggest worry is making sure that none of the women eyeing up Kyle while he’s ordering drinks at the refreshments boot try something with him. 

Your belly is big enough that you often feel like an inflated balloon, even if the small kicks and your boyfriend’s constant and undivided attention are nice. The kid loves to hear your voice (or so you think, by the quantity of the kicks you get when you talk to him) but gets quiet when Ky has his alone time with him, which makes you wonder if he either likes you or him. That ointment you got back when you first found out you were pregnant does wonders, because you’re one month away from your due date and there’s not a single stretch mark in sight on your skin — even if you have to also credit Kyle for it, because he was the one who never forgot to put it on you every night before going to bed. 

The prodigal son finally comes back to your sunshade with your non-alcoholic drinks in hand, all giddy sun-kissed. “There!” he holds out the straw of your fruity drink for you to take a sip, “I asked the bartender about those cookies you asked about, but she told me that they don’t have them. I’ll pass by the deli later and get them for you.” 

He gives you your glass, setting down his to take the sunscreen and drop a blob of it on his hands, moving to smear it on your legs. “Looking a bit red here, lovie.” 

“I can’t even see my legs, Ky. What did you expect?”

He shrugs, a lazy smirk on his face, “Nothing else, don’t worry. I’m here to help.” 

And when it gets a bit too hot all you have to do is take the inflatable donut Kyle bought as soon as you two landed and sit on it while floating away, your boyfriend leaning on one of the donut’s side admiring the view — aka, the very pregnant love of his life basking in the coolness of the water. 

The vacation is a dream come true. You get to relax before you have to think about the stress of the labour, tan quite nicely and don’t have to think about anything because Kyle is at your beck and call; sore ankles? He gives you a massage. Thirsty? He gets back from the bar with the whole drink inventory. You’ll be two weeks away from the due date when you get back, and honestly, you’re sure you’ll miss this.

Except you really don’t — because once they place your little boy in your arms after almost a whole day of labour, all the pain and struggles suddenly feel like nothing. 

Tommy Rayner is born, healthy and with a prominent scowl on his face, on February 19th, effectively stopping Bruce’s birthday party. He’s also a bit late on the schedule, but the doctors assure you that he just didn’t have any rush in getting out of the little sanctuary you made for him. 

The scowl he’s got on softens as he settles on your chest, only to come back not even a minute later as Kyle approaches, tears in his eyes and hands trembling while rubbing tender caresses across his back. He almost glares at him, then seems to be turning to you almost as if to ask ‘Really? You couldn’t find better?’. Needless to say, he’s a miniature copy of you, and the mystery regarding his silence when Kyle talked to him is suddenly solved. 

He latches onto your breast without any fuss as you and his father stare at him, enamoured, his little hands making grabby motions on your skin like a cat making biscuits. “He’s so tiny,” Kyle manages to mutter out, camera in his hands, snapping pictures of you and your boy. “Do you need anything? I’ll bring you everything you want. You deserve it, sweetcheeks, because I’ve seen some freaky stuff — but that was something I’ll never get over.” he shivers, kissing your forehead, “If you never want to have another kid, I’ll understand. I’ll schedule a vasectomy right away, just say the word.” 

He gets out of your room with the intent to buy Milka cookies, the biggest boat of sushi to-go he can find and gets swarmed by your family members instead — he doesn’t even know how they got here, because none of you called them when your water broke. They drown him in questions, with Is she okay?s and How’s the baby?s as he barely manages to breathe with the little space they’ve given him. Bruce is in front of them all, and Kyle would’ve never thought to see the man who swore to find a way to skin him alive legally if he ever let anything happen to you or your son with tears in his eyes. “So — tell us, how is she?” 

Kyle excuses himself back into your room amidst their protests, only to come back outside with a blue bundle in his arms, “This is Tommy,” he whispers, careful not to wake him up, “His mommy’s sleeping at the moment, but I’m sure she’ll be elated to see you all once you wake up.” 

And you are — even if he’s not sure if it’s for your family or the mega sushi boat he found at the nearest takeout place. Kyle feeds you the pieces as you hold Tommy in your arms while the others make what feels like a thousand questions per minute, silencing only when your son makes any type of sound. Alfred fluffs your pillow and takes his opportunity to take a better look at your son, “He does look incredibly like you, miss.”

They crowd his bassinet once Kyle places him back down to let you properly demolish the sushi boat, and Damian looks like the proudest of them all as he carefully tucks Bitey near Tommy. "It's a miracle he didn't get your stupid genes, Rayner, it would've spoiled the whole family tree."

Later, when it’s time for everyone to go home, it’s only Bruce that stays. Kyle needed a shower — he got the call about your water breaking from the hospital while fighting a slime monster in space and was still covered in weird alien goo — and so, it’s your father occupying the seat beside your bed, looking at you and his grandson with dazed eyes. “You want to hold him?” you husher as Tommy stretches and blinks, content in your arms. 

He flinches. The big bad Batman, scared of holding a newborn. “Oh, I, uh… I don’t think it’s the best idea, I’ve never held one before.” well, that doesn’t really surprise you — you and all your siblings came to him already too old to even be picked up, often. 

“Aw, c’mon– here, hold him,” despite himself, his hands reach out when you hold your son out for him, “careful with his head, place it on your elbow– there, just like that!” 

Bruce finds himself with a very disgruntled newborn in his arms, looking at him like he just did him a big wrong. “Hey, don’t look at me like that,” his tone is the softest you’ve ever heard him use. 

The baby responds by proudly and loudly farting, leaving his poor grandpa speechless. You laugh, “Well, that explains it,” 

A dim light comes from outside the window — the Bat-signal shines in the clouds, just like most nights in Gotham. Bruce looks at it through the window, but doesn’t move an inch. “If you have to go, you can,” you murmur softly. You’ve stopped getting angry about his disappearances ages ago. “Kyle will be back soon, and we’ll still be here tomorrow morning.” 

He looks at you, then down at Tommy, whose eyes are getting heavier and heavier. “No,” he whispers, finally getting comfortable in his seat, “I’m just fine here.”

congratulations! you've reached the end of the fic :) have some memes:

[kommanders]

#superbat

2 Good - C.K. & B.W.

Synopsis: Your first big interview with Bruce Wayne goes off-script when Scarecrow intervenes. In the aftermath, you uncover the truth about Superman and Batman and end up caught between them in more ways than one.

Clark Kent x Reader x Bruce Wayne

MDNI. fem!reader, porn with plot, oral (f receiving), fingering, blowjob, throatfucking, double penetration, p in v, anal, standing up, brief aftercare, mentions of jonathan crane, scarecrow, gas toxin, fear toxin. Clark being a cutie.

Word Count. 5.8k

Being an intern wasn’t easy; you got looked down on a lot, and most of the time, people didn’t take you seriously. But after many months of hard work, you were officially hired full-time. And today you were doing your first-ever interview.

You were interviewing the one and only Bruce Wayne.

You’d be attending a fundraiser event hosted by Wayne Enterprises. It was the perfect opportunity to interview “The Prince of Gotham.” Not bad for your first interview, huh?

“And take Kent with you.” Perry White’s voice made you shift your attention back to him.

“Huh?” Was your automatic reply. To which your boss sighed.

“You heard me, sweetheart. Kent will help you with the interview. Now, don’t disappoint me, I expect great things from you.”

You gave him a soft nod, smiling at him even though he was not even looking at you. So you’d be working with Clark… Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool, cool, no doubt, no doubt…

So, okay, you were excited. Clark was just such a sweet guy! His papers were also well-written. And, he knows Superman! How can you not be excited about working with him?

Okay, maybe your excitement was also because he’s like, extremely handsome. Luckily, you managed to play it cool around him.

You spotted the man who filled your thoughts walking back to his desk. “Clark!” The sound of your voice made him turn around, giving you a kind smile. God, he was so handsome… You could feel your heart beating just a tad faster. “Perry told me you’ll be helping me with the interview.”

“Oh! Yes, I was informed this morning.” He replied with that jolly tone of his. “So, Bruce Wayne?”

“Yeah…” You replied a bit bashfully. His smile got bigger.

“Why are you interviewing him?”

“Wayne Enterprises funds half the city’s charities, but nobody knows what Mr Wayne himself actually believes in.” Clark seemed a little surprised at your words, his eyebrows raising slightly. “Everyone keeps writing about Wayne Enterprises, but nobody actually asks Mr Wayne what he thinks. I figured it was worth trying.”

Clark gave you another one of those sweet smiles of his before speaking. “He’s not the easiest person to crack. But if anyone can, I’d bet on you.”

"Thank you, Clark." You replied with an honest smile, having to look up at him because of his height. Jesus Christ.

"You're very welcome.”

You both left early to get ready. It was an important event, so you had to look your best. You picked up a simple black cocktail dress, too modest to indulge in something more extravagant. Clark said he’d pick you up, so when you heard a knock on your door, you weren’t surprised.

“Hey.” You said as you opened the door, smiling at him. He was wearing a fitted tux… Thank you, God.

“You look beautiful.” It was the first thing that came out of his mouth, eyes trailing down your figure in slight awe. He’d never seen you in anything but work clothes until now.

Your cheeks flushed slightly, giving him a shy smile. “Thank you, you uh- you look good too.”

He pushed up his glasses, a bashful smile plastered on his face. “Thanks… Uh, shall we get going?" He asked, to which you nodded, taking your bag along and walking out of your house, locking your door behind you.

The ride to Gotham was mostly in silence; your nervous tapping over the seat of his car was all that was heard.

Clark couldn’t help but notice your demeanor, smiling to himself as he drove. You had every right to be nervous; it was your first interview, and with someone so important like Bruce.

You stared outside the window, sky shifting colors as the hours passed.

“You’ve been quiet the whole ride.” He suddenly said. “Nervous?”

You shot him a look. “It’s my first real interview. And it’s Bruce Wayne. You’d be nervous too.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Fair enough.”

The car rumbled along the wet highway, city lights streaking across the window as Gotham loomed closer. The contrast from your blooming Metropolis to the gloomy Gotham was immediately noticeable; it was a bit funny, actually.

Soon, the car slowed, turning onto a street lined with Gothic buildings and flickering streetlights. The air felt heavier; Gotham really lived up to its expectations.

The car stopped in front of the hotel where the event was being held. You sighed deeply, eyes landing on your notepad with the questions, reading them again and again. You raised your head when you felt Clark’s touch on your shoulder.

“You’ll do great.”

You gave him a small smile, nodding slowly as you gathered courage.

Bruce was already at the hotel, having been notified about the interview he had reluctantly agreed to.

It had actually surprised you when you got informed that he accepted the interview. Little did you know, a certain tall man with glasses -who is rather friendly with the moody man- practically begged him to agree.

You stepped out of the car. Clark had given the valet his car keys. How fancy.

You glanced up at the tall, gothic-like building, feeling small. Clark stood next to you, offering his arm so you'd hold on. God, he was such a gentleman.

You both walked into the hotel, announcing your names before being guided to the event. Your heart was thumping loudly against your ribcage, palms sweaty at the prospects. You were about to meet the Bruce Wayne.

“Relax,” Clark mumbled, giving you a sweet smile. “You’ll do great.” God, he was so dreamy… You shook your head, focusing back on the task at hand. Smiling at him, you sighed deeply. “I hope so.”

Walking further in, you saw Bruce sitting alone at one of the tables. Clark noticed him too, a smile appearing on his face. You clenched Clark's arm, and he chuckled a bit at your action. Guiding you towards the gloomy man.

“Bruce.” Clark’s voice carried a hint of tease.

“Clark,” Bruce replied, standing up and giving the taller man a quick hug. It was a bit funny to see.

“Bruce, let me introduce you to my colleague. She’ll be doing the interview.”

Bruce offered you his hand, which you shook; he gave you a somewhat of a smile, not really though. “Pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mr Wayne.”

He motioned you to take a seat, which you did, and Clark followed, sitting next to you.

You flipped open your notepad, trying to ignore the weight of Bruce´s stare. He sat stiffly in front of you, clearly uncomfortable, but not leaving.

You settled your audio recorder. “So, Mr Wayne… You don’t do interviews often. Why agree to this one?”

He shrugged, glancing at Clark like he knew something. “...Felt like it.”

Oh, please, not the one-word replies, you could feel your leg bouncing up and down from the anxiety, though it stilled once you felt Clark’s touch on your thigh. Making you tense up a bit.

Clark noticed.

“You’re going to have to give her more than that, Bruce. She’s not going to settle for one-word answers.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened, but he leaned forward slightly, closer to you.

You cleared your throat, skimming through the rest of your questions. “Gotham has one of the highest crime rates in the country. Why do you think it stays that way?”

Bruce took a long pause, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before replying. “…People are scared. And most of the people in charge don’t care enough to change that.”

“And what about Gotham’s vigilante? Do you think Batman is actually helping… or just making things worse?”

Bruce’s fingers tightened around the edge of his glass. Hesitating, his jaw working before he gave a clipped answer. “…He’s… complicated. Some people think he’s a menace. But without him, things would be worse.”

“So… you think Gotham needs him?”

His eyes flicked up, catching yours in a way that made your pulse skip. He was a good-looking man… Focus!

“…Yeah. Whether people like it or not.” He replied, voice quieter.

Clark gave him a smirk. “That’s the longest answer I’ve ever heard you give a reporter.”

Bruce gave him a sharp look, and you couldn’t help the small grin tugging at your lips at the exchange; you had forgotten that they actually knew each other, and very well, apparently.

“Last question. You’ve been called Gotham’s most eligible bachelor. Do you think that reputation helps or hurts you?”

For the first time, a faint smirk ghosted over his lips, gone almost as soon as it appeared.

“…It’s useless.”

Clark burst out laughing. “See? She got more out of you in five minutes than I’ve managed in all the time we’ve known each other.”

Bruce gave him his usual scowl, making you smile at their banter. “You two seem awfully close.”

Before any of them could reply, the lights began to flicker, making your attention shift to them.

The chandeliers above groaned loudly before plunging the room into darkness.

A hiss spread through the air, like steam escaping through the pipes, followed by a faint, sweet smell.

You frowned, throat closing up. Gas?

The first scream tore through the crowd. Then another. Panic erupted as guests shoved each other, searching for the exits.

Your chest tightened. The room around you warped. Bruce’s face shifted in front of your eyes, his sharp jawline turning monstrous, eyes glowing white, mouth twisted into a sneer.

Clark's hands touched your shoulders. But when you looked up at him, his face wasn’t his. His smile stretched too wide, teeth gleaming like knives. His hands gripped tighter, too tight, like claws.

“Stop, don’t touch me!” you cried, shoving him away, heart hammering.

Laughter echoed through the chaos, high-pitched and cruel. From the stage, a gaunt figure in a ragged mask stepped into the spotlight, arms spread like a preacher.

Scarecrow.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” His voice rasped through a distorted mic. “You are about to see the truth. Fear reveals the soul.”

You collapsed against a marble column, gas seeping deeper into your lungs. Shadows crawled along the walls, whispering your name.

The gas was already in your system, curling like poison through your veins. The shadows whispered still, faint but sharp, pulling you under. Clark crouched beside you, voice urgent. “Stay with me. Just breathe. Stay with me.”

You tried, but the world tilted. Your eyes were closing as you passed out. Clark caught you in his arms.

He shifted you into his arms effortlessly, one arm under your legs, the other steady around your back.

Bruce cursed under his breath. “Fuck…” His voice was low, clipped. “Get her out.”

Clark met his gaze, jaw set. “Not without you.”

For a moment, the chaos around froze, just those two men locked in a silent standoff over your barely conscious form. Then Bruce’s nostrils flared. “Go. Take her to the manor, ask Alfred for the antidote, I’ll deal with Crane.” He left no room for debate. Voice sharp and serious.

Without another word, Clark shifted you against his chest and cut through the panicked crowd, his presence enough to part it. His larger frame shields both of you from the chaos, deflecting blows and debris almost too quickly to be natural.

The gloomy man was no longer Bruce Wayne, having changed into his Batman suit, ready to deal with Crane once and for all. He strode towards a sleek, armored car waiting in the alley, its engine purring like a beast.

Then, in the cover of a darkened alley, Clark bent his knees and, with a burst of wind that rattled the trash lids and sent newspapers flying, he took off into the night sky.

The city shrank below, its chaos dimmed by distance. The cold air hit your face, and for a second, your consciousness returned, eyes meeting his chest, something blue poking out from a few opened buttons. “Clark?” You whispered, barely holding up before you passed out again.

Now all you felt was the solid warmth of Clark’s chest and the faint rumble of his heartbeat as he held you close, cutting through the Gotham skyline like an arrow.

His feet touched the ground once again, now outside of the Waynes' manor.

He rushed inside, searching for Alfred.  "Master Kent." Alfred's voice was tinged with worry, seeing a strange woman in his arms.

"Alfred, she was infected with Crane’s gas. Bruce said something about an antidote."

Alfred nodded, strutting quickly to search for said antidote.

In the study, Clark lay you down on the leather couch, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"Her breath's not steady..."  Clark mumbled, voice filled with worry.

Alfred was quick, bringing a line of antidote vials. His hands worked fast, but steady as he filled the injector.

Kneeling beside the couch, he found your arm, rolled back your sleeve, and pressed the injector to your skin.

Clark hovered close, watching your chest rise and fall. His jaw clenched when there was no immediate change.

“It takes a minute,” Alfred notified. “But she’ll be okay."

Soon enough, the antidote kicked in. Your breath got steady, eyelashes twitching slightly as you slowly came to your senses.

“She’s stabilizing,” Alfred confirmed.

Clark's shoulders loosened, but he kept one hand on your temple, brushing your skin with feather-like touches.

“She’ll need rest. Keep her here tonight.”

Your eyes fluttered open slowly. Hazy gaze landed on Clark. You could remember the way the wind shifted through your face, how the cold air felt as he held you while he was...

Your brows furrowed slightly, gaze falling to his open shirt, shaky hand touching the recognizable 'S'. "Clark..." You whispered, voice barely there. "You're Superman." And then you fell into unconsciousness once again.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only when Alfred muttered, the man almost amused. “She’s quicker than you give her credit for.”

The world seeped into focus slowly. The dull ache in your chest was still present, and your head was pounding. You could hear the faint crackle of fire somewhere nearby, and the warmth of blankets pulled up to your shoulders.

You stirred, blinking against the dim glow of the room, and then your eyes caught movement.

He sat on the high-backed chair near the bed, shoulders hunched, gauntlets still strapped to his hands, the heavy plating of the batsuit dulled and scuffed with blood and grime. His mask lay discarded on the floor beside him.

Bruce Wayne, but not the one you had met earlier. This Bruce was bruised, jaw tight, a cut along his cheek still weeping, his dark hair plastered with sweat.

Your gaze shifted to Clark, who stood next to Bruce, tending the cuts on his face.

And your breath hitched, sitting up straight quickly. The images surged back all at once:

Clark’s arms are carrying you through the night sky. The blur of city lights beneath. The iron weight of fear as Scarecrow’s toxin burned through you.

It hadn’t been a hallucination. It hadn’t been a dream.

“Clark…” You whispered, barely audible. But his attention immediately shifted to you, rushing to your side.

“How are you?” He asked, hesitating for a moment before cupping your face.

“I’m- You’re- You’re Superman and Bruce is-” you whispered, voice hoarse and words stuck. “…Batman.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked to yours, stormy and sharp, but he didn’t look angry. If anything, he looked… tired. Amused, maybe.

“Took you long enough. ” He murmured, voice softer than the gravel you’d heard in the dark.

You blinked once, twice, before a shaky laugh escaped your lips. “I thought it was the toxin at first. But then Clark-” Your chest rose, heart racing as you looked up at the man in front of you. “He…”

You should be scared, maybe even angry at Clark for not telling you, though he obviously had his reasons. But instead of fear, a warmth spread through you. Adrenaline, awe… maybe something else. You were alive, saved, and staring at two men who weren’t just larger than life; they were something beyond it.

“I wanted to tell you,” Clark said, voice low and heavy with sincerity. “But I couldn’t risk-”

You cut him off with a small shake of your head. “You don’t have to explain. I get it. I just… I can’t believe it’s really you.”

His eyes softened. You could feel just how fast your heart was beating as his hand brushed over your jaw. For a second, neither of you moved, and the tension broke. His lips found yours, tentative at first, almost asking for permission.

The kiss was soft, unhurried, typical Clark Kent. But it did carry a hint of desperation underneath. Like he’d been holding it back far too long.

But before the kiss could deepen even more, the sound of someone clearing their throat interrupted you and Clark. Oh yeah, Bruce.

You pulled back, breathless, to find Bruce standing there, gaze sharp, unreadable. He hadn’t moved closer, but the way he looked at the two of you was heavy, deliberate. His bruised lip curved the faintest bit, more smirk than smile.

“It figures…” He muttered, voice low, a bit teasing. “You get the girl first.”

Clark stiffened, a soft flush covering his face, but even with the dim light of the room, you could see it.

Your gaze shifted to Bruce, and the way he looked at you wasn’t tired anymore. It was something else entirely.

You swallowed, and you were sure that Clark could hear just how fast your heart was going.

Clark’s hand didn’t leave your face, but you felt his hesitation the moment Bruce spoke. He started to pull back, but you caught his wrist before he could. “Don’t.” You whispered. You weren’t sure if you were speaking to Clark, or Bruce, or both of them; it didn’t really matter.

Bruce’s gaze held yours, and slowly, he stepped closer. You could feel the weight of him even before his gloved hand brushed along your shoulder, careful but firm, as if testing what you’d allow.

Clark’s eyes searched your face, silently asking permission again. But you leaned in first, capturing his mouth in a deeper kiss, and this time he didn’t hold back.

His hand slid to your waist, pulling you against him, the warmth of his body all-consuming.

You could feel Bruce behind you; the brush of his body was like static down your spine. When his fingers finally grazed the curve of your neck, exposed and vulnerable, you shivered.

Clark's touch became a bit more possessive, his hands wandering around your body, touching the silk material of your dress.

You felt another set of lips kiss your shoulders, hot breath touching your skin.

Bruce left open-mouthed kisses over your shoulder, his gloved hand pulling down the straps of your dress.

Clark's hands moved to cup your face, pressing you impossibly closer against him.

One of your hands came to his hair, touching the dark locks of slightly curly hair that you've always wanted to touch.

Your other hand moved to Bruce's hair, pulling back from the kiss with Clark to kiss Bruce instead.

Earning a pout from the taller man, not that you could see it anyway.

Bruce's lips were a bit chapped, but you weren't exactly complaining. He was a bit more needy than Clark, like he hadn't kissed someone in a long time, and it probably was that way.

Feeling forgotten, Clark began to nuzzle against you, lips finding that sweet spot in your neck. Making you shiver.

A soft moan escaped your lips, and Bruce took the opportunity to slip his tongue inside you.

You moaned into the kiss, and the sound made Clark bite your neck, earning another soft moan that was swallowed by Bruce's lips.

Clark was getting desperate, slacks tightening as he heard your sweet, soft moans. And he couldn't deny it, the sight of you kissing Bruce was something else.

His hands gripped your dress, a loud RIP! sound was heard, and you gasped, pulling away from the kiss. Clark had torn your dress open.

"Sorry, sweetheart." He mumbled, though not really apologetic. 

You could feel the gaze of the two men practically burning on your body. And your cheeks couldn’t help but heat up a bit. The entire situation was so scandalous, but you didn't care right now. 

You felt Bruce’s hand slip to your back, unclasping your bra with surprising precision. Both men took a moment to admire your body. Clark’s mouth was agape, and his face flushed. Cute. 

You felt Clark’s lips against yours again. He was quicker with his kisses, the desperation he felt seeping through them. At the same time, Bruce began to leave wet kisses over the valley of your breasts, making you sigh against Clark’s lips.

Fuck, you couldn’t believe what was happening right now. Your mind was hazy, your thoughts scattered, and your skin felt hot as they touched more and more. 

You moaned into the kiss once you felt Bruce’s lips close around your nipple. His tongue flicked over the sensitive bud, and when he bit, sharp and sudden, your back arched.

“O-ohhh…” you gasped against Clark’s lips, pulling back from the kiss, breath stuttering. “Bruce…”

Bruce didn’t answer. Just a low grunt, his hand gripping your waist harder as his mouth worked rougher.

Clark’s lips left yours, his gaze flicking down your body. He hesitated, like he always did, even now, before lowering himself to his knees. His hands smoothed down your sides, gentle, reverent.

The first press of his mouth to your stomach made you shiver. He kissed lower and lower, until he reached the soaked fabric clinging to your heat. His breath hitched audibly when he saw it, his voice soft but edged with need.

“You’re… already so wet.” He murmured, almost to himself.

You swallowed, cheeks burning, trying to cover the way your hips twitched. “Who are you to talk?” Your foot slid up to his thigh, grazing over the strain in his suit trousers.

Clark let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering shut for a second like he was losing his grip. “God…” He whispered, almost a prayer, before steadying himself, his fingers hooking into your panties.

Bruce finally pulled back from your chest, lips swollen, eyes sharp and unreadable as he watched Clark peel the flimsy fabric aside. He didn’t say anything, but the way his jaw clenched, the way his pupils darkened, it said more than words could.

Clark lowered his head, tongue tracing a slow stripe over your folds. The sound you made had him groaning, the vibration sending another shockwave of heat through you.

Your hand shot to his hair, threading through the dark curls as he worked deeper. Your chest heaved, but before you could fall completely into the sensation, Bruce’s fingers gripped your chin and tilted your face back to him.

“Look at me.” He said, voice low. 

You obeyed, dazed, as he stood up, freeing himself from his belt, his cock thick and heavy in his hand. He didn’t smirk, didn’t taunt, he just pressed the tip against your lips, silent, waiting.

Your lips parted for him, and the smallest sound of approval rumbled in his chest as he pushed inside, slow, stretching your mouth.

Clark groaned against your pussy, tongue pressing deeper, his hands keeping your thighs spread wide like he couldn’t bear to lose you for a second. The way he moaned into you, desperate, hungry. It had you trembling, hips bucking against his mouth.

Bruce’s cock stretched your lips, filling your throat as his hand tangled in your hair, guiding you on him with firm, steady pulls. He hissed low when you gagged softly, but his thrusts stayed controlled. His eyes stayed on yours, dark and piercing.

“Take it.” He muttered, voice gruff. 

Your eyes watered, moan muffled around him as Clark’s fingers slid inside you, curling just right, his other hand pressing gently to your stomach as if he wanted to steady you through it.

“That’s it… You’re doing so good.” Clark whispered against you, his voice almost shaking with need. His tongue flicked your clit again.

The coil inside you snapped. Body shuddering, as pleasure ripped through you so fiercely your throat contracted around Bruce. You cried out, but the sound was swallowed around Bruce´s cock, legs clamping helplessly around Clark’s head.

Clark groaned, holding you firm as you came, his pace unrelenting, drinking you down like he couldn’t get enough.

Bruce’s grip in your hair tightened as he thrust deep, groaning through his teeth when the vibrations of your orgasm pulsed through your throat. He pulled out just in time to see you gasp for air, spit slicking your lips. His thumb dragged across your swollen mouth, his jaw tense, his gaze unreadable.

“Messy…” His voice was low, almost a growl. 

Clark finally pulled back, lips and chin slick with you, his chest heaving. He looked up at you with wide, reverent eyes, almost undone just from the sight of you falling apart. “You’re incredible.” He breathed out, kissing your trembling thigh.

Bruce’s gaze cut to Clark, sharp. Then back to you. “She can take more.”

You barely had time to recover before Clark picked you up, your legs wrapping lazily around him. His touch was gentle. He pressed against you, the thick head of his cock nudging your soaked entrance. His hands slid down your sides, grounding you, his voice low in your ear. “Tell me if it’s too much. Please.”

And Bruce’s voice, rough from behind you. “Or tell us when you want more.”

Clark eased forward, the head of his cock pushing slowly into you. The stretch burned most sweetly, your slick walls gripping him as he filled you inch by inch.

“God…” He groaned, forehead pressing against yours, the sensation overwhelmed him as much as you. “You feel… unreal. So tight-”

His hands clutched your hips firmly, but even then, he moved slowly, carefully, letting you adjust. “Tell me if it’s too much.” He whispered, kissing your temple between words. “I’ll stop if-”

“Don’t stop.” You interrupted him, breathless. “Please.”

You shuddered at the brush of his cock against your ass, slick from your spit and his precum.

Your head fell back against Clark’s shoulder when Bruce pushed forward, slow but unrelenting. The burn made your knees shake, but Clark caught you, one arm locking firm around your waist, holding you steady.

“S-shit…” You managed to breathe out.

“Easy,” Clark whispered against your ear, kissing your temple. “Breathe… I’ve got you.”

Bruce stood behind you, stroking himself as he watched, his expression dark and unreadable. You shuddered at the brush of his cock against your ass, slick from your spit and his precum.

Your head fell back against his shoulder when Bruce pushed forward, slow but unrelenting. The burn made your knees shake, but Clark caught you, one arm locking firm around your waist, holding you steady.

Bruce groaned low as he sank deeper, his breath hot and heavy against the back of your neck. “So fucking tight-”  He muttered, voice strained, jaw clenched as he filled you.

The sensation of them both inside you at once made you cry out, hands gripping Clark’s thick arms. “O-ohhh! F-fuck…” 

He kissed you again, swallowing your moans, grounding you while Bruce set the rhythm; sharp, thrusts that had your body jolting between them. Clark followed, hips rolling in sync, every drag of their cocks sending shockwaves through you.

Pinned between them, you were utterly consumed. Clark’s tender mumbles against your lips. “You’re so beautiful… taking us both so well.”

Bruce let out guttural groans, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

Each thrust left you gasping, the pleasure overwhelming, building up until you shattered. Body clenching around them both as your orgasm ripped through you.

Clark moaned your name like a prayer as he came inside you, thick, warm cum spilling deep. 

Bruce’s groans were darker, rougher, his thrusts turning erratic before he buried himself to the hilt, cumming with a growl against your shoulder.

You sagged in Clark’s arms, trembling, your face buried in his chest, mumbling nonsense.

He stroked your hair, kissing your damp forehead, while he murmured. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

Bruce pulled back last, breathing harshly.

Your legs threatened to give out, trembling with the aftershocks of your breath-taking orgasm, but Clark didn’t let you fall. He held you close against his chest, broad hands rubbing up and down your spine. His lips brushed over your temple, soft and lingering.

“You’re safe.” He whispered, his voice hoarse. “I’ve got you.”

Bruce had stepped back, already tugging the lower half of his suit back into place, but his eyes never left you. He was flushed, hair a mess, chest rising and falling hard beneath the armor. 

“You hurt?” His tone was clipped, as if he already knew the answer, but his gaze scanned over you carefully, searching.

You managed a shaky laugh, leaning into Clark’s warmth. “Not hurt. Just… tired.”

Clark shifted you into his arms, bridal-style this time. He carried you effortlessly to the couch near the fireplace, laying you down against the cushions as though you were something fragile. Bruce followed, standing nearby, arms crossed, still catching his breath.

Clark brushed damp strands of hair from your face, his thumb caressing your cheek. “You should rest. Let your body recover.”

“I don’t think I could move if I wanted to.” You admitted, voice hazy.

“You don’t need to,” Clark murmured, leaning down to kiss you tenderly, full of warmth that made your chest ache.

Bruce’s voice broke through the quiet, low and steady. “You did well. Took us both.” There was no softness in the words, but there was weight, like a rare kind of praise.

When you glanced at him, expecting his usual unreadable mask, you caught the faintest flicker in his eyes. Something protective. Something human.

Clark tugged a blanket over your body, tucking it around your shoulders before settling beside you. His hand remained on your waist, grounding you.

Bruce lingered in the shadows a moment longer, then finally sank into the chair opposite, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Still watchful. 

The exhaustion hit you fully then, eyelids drooping as the warmth of the room and the steady presence of both men. Your last thought before drifting into sleep was that you were safe. Impossibly and forever safe with them. 

Notes: Holy shit, this took so long. I had a big ass writer's block, but it's finally done! I hope y'all liked it. It's my first time writing anal so... yeah.

[kommanders]

ugh i love you for this

cowboy carter !

✎ᝰ — dc boys as cowboy carter songs

♡⃕ — dick grayson, jason todd, wally west x reader

♡⃕ — genre + warnings: fluff & slight suggestive (?) in dick’s part but are we shocked ?

♡⃕ — a/n: I only gave dick two songs cause I ain’t want him to suffer with just angst, so why not make him a yeaner ? kai if you saw this, no you didn’t

꒰ DICK GRAYSON ꒱

Ꮺ daughter ⸺ eldest daughter syndrome hits him hard, and it doesn’t help that his father, mr. wayne, is one of the most powerful people in the town. as much as he has built a legacy surrounding himself and less of his father, he can never shake off the feeling of being perfect or going towards more achievements without a break. but also, he often finds himself within his father; he finds traits, icks, values, and thoughts that lead back to being raised by mr. wayne. these thinkings lead dick to look into a mirror more often than not and wonder if he’s doing all this for himself or to prove to mr. wayne, and others, that he is more than mr. wayne’s eldest son.

Ꮺ ( bonus ) levii jeans ⸺ mostly known for charm and fine looks, it also doesn’t help that this man withheld vast amounts of passion when it comes to you. could be the whiskey that he downed, or the heat certainly rising in his body, that his hands become useful in more ways than one and his eyes color into a dark hue that screams that he wants more of you. he wants the skin underneath the clothing pieces you attire, the lips that he finds as temptation when he’s supposed to be paying attention to something else, your hands that like to linger on, and body language that flows across the dancefloor but also touches to let him know that you want him as well. two people finding themselves wanting to mesh into one another but instead thinks on who will make the first move, the one desired or the one who desires?

꒰ JASON TODD ꒱

Ꮺ bodyguard ⸺ the brooding, rugged young mechanic with the skunk stripe was meant to, and lives for protecting others. as much as he typically finds himself stuffed in his shop, he never once doubt or be skeptical on helping others out, even if he responds with a grunt. however, whenever you’re around, the protection trait turns a bit into possessiveness. his burly hands wrapped around your waist, a small mark left (his doing) on a spot that is subtle yet noticeable in close viewing. without knowing, he finds himself always placing his person near yours if not, at least having straight direct contact on your whereabouts. he doesn’t mean to (yes he does), it’s just to keep you safe from horrible men that plague your town. now you have to shoot him looks to calm him down or give him a light kiss that says, “calm down, I’m safe”. then again, he did teach you how to defend yourself !

꒰ WALLY WEST ꒱

Ꮺ ii most wanted ⸺ the adventurer. the traveler. the man to enjoy the outdoors and wants to see beyond his hometown. thanks to dick, he is able to travel from time to time but he wants to do more. he wants to see more than what even the country has to offer him and the possibilities that he dreamt of are endless. but, he has to do them with you; he wants to travel with you and only you. he wants to see your hand poke and match the wind direction as you two drive away in his truck or take pictures from your passenger seats as you take a road trip. he longs to see the world and to see it with you; he wants to create memories with you that bring value, something to treasure and hold onto until time ends. photos that can be stacks of you two visiting a foreign country; a picnic date in europe, a nightlit dinner in thailand; something, anything that sprouts up a new memory for him. the country ginger dreams for more than his ranch

♡⃕ cowboy hcs slowly making a comeback as summer is slipping away (thank God)

♡⃕ had to control myself and not go off on dick’s part like I wanted to since it’s 2 am 😪

𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐏 💗: psalm 25:2

© 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟧 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗂. 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽

[kommanders]

so good omg

The Best Friend Experiment

Part 1: When Did You Get Hot?

Clark Kent x Reader Summary: You and Clark Kent have always lived in comfortable patterns, late-night dinners, movie marathons, patching him up after patrols, covering for him at the Planet. He’s your best friend, steady and certain, the one constant you’ve always been able to count on. And when your frustration with your lack of experience boils over, you blurt the unthinkable: you want him to be your first. Clark refuses at first. He's horrified, protective, pacing your kitchen like a man afraid of breaking something precious. But when you threaten to give yourself to someone else, his fear of losing you outweighs everything else. He agrees, reluctantly but resolutely, and the two of you strike The Pact. Rules are set: slow steps, gentleness, dinners and handholding, and above all: no kissing on the mouth. Content Warning: 18+, MDNI, Explicit sexual content (oral sex (f &m), first-time exploration, Emotional angst, References to Clark’s past relationships (Lana Lang, Lois Lane), Heavy yearning, slow burn, best-friends-to-lovers tension, Best Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Gentle but Hungry Clark Kent, No-Kissing Rule  word count: 16k Part 2 | Series Masterlist notes – not proofread

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

The apartment smells like garlic and butter long before you pad into the kitchen, socks whispering against the hardwood. Clark is at your stove again, sleeves rolled to his elbows, broad shoulders bent toward a pan like he was built for domesticity instead of saving the world. His hair is a little damp still from the shower he took at your place, post-patrol grime scrubbed away with your shampoo, because his own ran out weeks ago and he hadn’t bothered to replace it when he could just come here.

“Don’t tell me you’re burning my pan again,” you tease, leaning against the doorway.

He turns, grinning that crooked grin, a dimple denting his cheek. “Gosh, no. I’ve got it under control this time. Promise.”

Steam curls around his wrist as he tosses pasta into sauce with an easy flick. He looks maddeningly natural there, in your kitchen, like he belongs. And the truth is, he does. He’s been doing this for months now. Late-night dinners after long shifts, after longer rescues, after days that leave him wrung out and you worried sick until he lands heavy-footed on your fire escape.

You slide onto the counter, knees brushing the fabric of his flannel as he moves past to grab a wooden spoon. He pauses, like he always does, when his body gets too close to yours, like he’s aware of every inch of space and how dangerously little exists between you. His hand ghosts over your thigh, not quite touching, just hovering as he reaches for the spoon. You hold your breath anyway.

“Dating apps treating you any better?” he asks, voice light, casual. You don’t catch the way his knuckles whiten briefly around the handle.

You roll your eyes, exhaling a laugh. “Please. My last match thought Smallville was a brand of chewing tobacco. Next.”

Clark chuckles. It’s low and warm, a vibration in his chest you feel through the air. “Sounds like a keeper.”

You swat his arm. He doesn’t flinch. But he looks at you then, eyes soft in a way that makes your chest tighten.

Dinner’s simple. Pasta and garlic bread, eaten cross-legged on the couch with a movie you’ve both seen a hundred times playing in the background. You steal bites off his plate, just to hear him sigh your name with mock exasperation, though he always slides the bowl closer so you can reach easier.

Later, when his phone buzzes with that tone you recognize, he’s already on his feet, muttering an apology. You grab his jacket, shove it into his hands before he can forget it, and lock the door behind him as he disappears into the night.

He’ll come back. He always does. And you’ll be waiting for him with a smile and the first aid kit.

-

He returns hours later, hair mussed, shirt torn at the shoulder. The window creaks as he steps through, boots heavy on the floorboards, smelling faintly of wind and smoke and that metallic tang of the city. You don’t ask questions. You never do, not right away. You just tug him toward the couch, your palm firm at the crook of his elbow, and make him sit.

The scrape at his jaw is shallow, barely visible beneath the stubble already darkening along his skin. It will heal before sunrise, you both know it, but still you reach for the first aid kit tucked under your coffee table. Habit. Ritual. One of those quiet things the two of you have built without ever needing to discuss it.

He sits obediently, long legs bent awkwardly in the cramped space between the couch and coffee table, his hands resting on his knees like he’s afraid to touch anything. The lamplight glows against his cheekbones, softening the cut of them, turning the strands of his hair copper where they curl damp against his forehead.

You lean in with gauze, your breath catching for just a second at how warm his skin is beneath your fingertips. It’s always warmer than it should be, like standing too close to a hearth. It radiates into your hand, seeps up your arm. 

“You’re gonna run out of patience one day,” he murmurs, voice low, almost rough.

You shake your head, pressing the gauze gently to the scrape. “Not with you.”

The words fall heavier than you intend. They hang there between you, too big for the small apartment.

You don’t notice the way Clark stills, how his throat bobs as he swallows hard. His hand twitches on his knee, like he wants to cover yours, like he wants to anchor himself, but he doesn’t. Instead, he shifts slightly, eyes darting down to your mouth before he forces them away, jaw tight.

You lean back, setting the gauze aside. Smile faintly, the way you always do when a crisis has passed, even a small one. “See? Good as new.”

To you, this is just another night. You don’t think about how handsome he looks like this, not really. Or rather, you do, but it’s filed away in that distant, objective part of your brain: yes, Clark Kent is tall and broad and built like some golden-age movie star; yes, women stare at him in coffee shops; yes, your mother once whispered “he’s awfully good-looking” when she met him at Thanksgiving. But to you, he’s just Clark. The man who forgets his umbrella every time it rains, who always overcooks the garlic bread, who texts you corny jokes when you’re stressed. A friend.

So you don’t notice the way his eyes linger on you now.

What you do notice is how he sighs when he finally relaxes, how his shoulders slope, the weight lifting just enough for him to lean back into your couch cushions. You notice the comfort of his presence filling the room, the way it always does, steady and quiet and certain.

You yawn, stretching, then slump sideways into the couch cushions. Your head finds his shoulder like it always does, without hesitation, as though his body is the most natural pillow in the world. You don’t think about it. Never have.

But Clark does.

The weight of you against him is gentle, familiar, the crown of your head brushing his jaw. He exhales slowly through his nose, willing his heart not to race, not to hammer like it does when he’s hovering over Metropolis with the wind in his ears. You’re warm against his side, and he wonders if you know you always smell faintly of citrus from your shampoo, if you know how the scent threads itself into his memory and clings there stubbornly, just as much a comfort as your laugh.

Your hand slips absently across his chest, fingers tugging at a loose thread on his flannel. You don’t look at him, eyes half-lidded from the late hour, but Clark feels the touch like a brand.

It’s the kind of touch Lois never gave him. Lois had been love on fire, sharp edges and decisive hands, her touch purposeful and electric, never casual. He had loved her for that, once. But when things ended, when her ambition carved a path too sharp for him to follow, he realized how badly he ached for something different.

He risks a glance down at you. Your lashes rest against your cheeks, your breathing slow, your lips parted just barely as if you’re already drifting toward sleep. The loose thread slips free of his shirt under your fingers. He swallows hard.

“Comfy?” he asks, voice too quiet, the words roughened around the edges.

“Mhm.” You burrow in closer, cheek pressing into the slope of his shoulder. “You’re warm.”

He almost laughs. Always warm, you’ve teased before. Like a space heater. Like the sun.

Instead, he tilts his head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. He counts the slow rise and fall of your breaths, lets the sound of them calm him the way even the quiet of Smallville sometimes can’t.

It would be so easy to stay here. To imagine this as something it isn’t.

But Lois’s ghost lingers in the corners of his mind, her voice sharp, her kiss quick, the way she once told him she couldn’t be tethered to someone who belonged more to the world than to her. 

Clark closes his own eyes, forcing his breathing even, careful but contained. He tells himself it’s nothing. Just those same comfortable patterns. But he feels it anyway; the ache blooming in his chest, the quiet, impossible longing that grows a little heavier every time you lean on him without hesitation that he tries to deny and ignore.

One day, he fears, it will be too much to hold back.

You drift further, half-asleep against his shoulder, your breaths evening out. Your hand slips from his chest to your lap, slack with exhaustion. Clark doesn’t move, doesn’t even shift the arm that’s starting to go numb beneath your weight. He just sits there, listening to the quiet tick of your clock on the wall, the muted hum of city traffic outside your window.

When your head tips lower, threatening to slide off his shoulder, he finally moves. Carefully, like every muscle in his body has to be convinced not to wake you, he eases out from under you. You stir faintly, mumbling something incoherent, and he freezes until your breathing steadies again.

“Easy,” he whispers, voice so soft it’s almost a prayer.

He leans down to tug the throw blanket off the back of the couch, unfolding it with a practiced flick. Draping it over you, he smooths it into place along your shoulders, fingers brushing the crown of your head for just a second too long before he pulls back.

You sigh in your sleep, burrowing into the cushions. Peaceful. Trusting. Clark stands there a moment longer, hands braced on his hips, staring down at you like he’s trying to etch the sight into his memory. You, safe. You, comfortable. You, his.

Not his.

He exhales, shakes himself, and tiptoes toward the fire escape. The night calls him again, sirens in the distance, someone out there who will need him. He slides the window open, slips into the dark.

Just before he goes, he glances back over his shoulder. The blanket has slipped down to your elbow, and he wants to go fix it, wants to go back and tuck you in tighter, but he forces himself not to.

“Sleep well,” he whispers into the stillness. Then he’s gone, the curtain swaying in the breeze he leaves behind, and you’re none the wiser.

-

The newsroom is too loud. Phones ringing, keyboards clacking, the low hum of chatter ricocheting off the walls of the bullpen. You’ve had your headphones in for twenty minutes without music playing, just to block it all out.

Jimmy drops into the chair across from your desk with a cup of burnt breakroom coffee and that mischievous grin he always gets when he’s about to annoy you. “So. Tell me about the new guy.”

You groan. “What new guy?”

“The app guy,” he says, gesturing vaguely with his coffee like that explains everything. “Tall, kind of boring looking, weirdly into Lex Luthor’s NFT’s? You sent me screenshots last night.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Jimmy, he thought ‘NATO’ was a type of salad.”

He winces. “Yikes.”

“Yikes,” you echo, spinning a pen between your fingers. “I unmatched in record time. Pretty sure that has to be some kind of world record.”

Jimmy shrugs, taking a noisy sip. “Still. You’ll find one eventually.” Then he murmurs, “Unless… you’re still hung up on the Clark thing.”

Your head snaps up. “What Clark thing?”

He raises both hands, innocent. “Relax. I just mean you two spend… a lot of time together. More than you spend with anyone else. And people talk.”

You snort, maybe too quickly. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Jimmy gives you a look like he doesn’t believe you, but lets it go. You don’t let it go, though. The words linger long after he gets distracted by a photo assignment, rattling around in your brain like loose change.

Because it’s true. You and Clark are close. But not like that. Not in the way Jimmy means. Clark is… Clark. He’s warmth and laughter that rumbles low in his chest. He’s a safe place to land when the world feels too sharp.

And yet, whenLois’s name slips into conversation at the copy desk, someone gossiping about her latest byline overseas, it cuts you sharper than you expect.

Lois Lane. Brilliant. Gorgeous. Not afraid of anything. She had Clark once. She had all of him. His big, clumsy heart, his attention, his hands, his mouth. You don’t even have a fraction of that.

You stare down at the blank page in front of you, pen poised but unmoving. The spiral starts quietly, then picks up speed: you’re tired. Tired of being the only one at girls’ nights who doesn’t have a story. Tired of swiping left on strangers who want to skip straight to “u up?” without ever learning your last name. Tired of lying in bed next to Clark after movie nights, listening to his steady breathing while your body aches for something you’ve never even had.

Virginity. Once, it felt like something worth protecting, worth saving for someone who would matter. Now it just feels like proof you’ve been waiting too long for a bus that’s never coming. And you’re so tired of waiting.

By the time you pack up to leave for the night, the thought has already taken root. It hums low in your chest, restless, impossible to ignore. You find Clark by the elevators, his tie loosened, glasses slipping down his nose as he flips through his notes. He looks up at you, smile tugging at his mouth, and suddenly your gaze sticks there. On the curve of his lips, the way they part like he’s about to say your name.

Your stomach flips. Just for a second, your brain betrays you: you imagine what it would feel like if he bent down and kissed you right here in the half-lit elevator bay. Not a friendly brush of lips. Not soft. Hungry.

His big hands braced on either side of you, mouth claiming yours like he couldn’t stop himself if he tried. Heat bolts through you, pooling low in your stomach so quickly you actually stagger. The image is gone as soon as it comes, but your pulse is still hammering, traitorous.

You snap your eyes away, fumbling with your bag. It’s Clark, you remind yourself, stern and panicked. He’s your best friend. He’s off-limits. He doesn’t think of you that way. You don’t think of him that way.

Still, when you sneak a glance back at him, he’s already looking at you, brows furrowed like he noticed something shift. 

You paste on a smile, too bright, and jab the elevator button with unnecessary force. The thought lingers anyway. 

-

The night feels like every other night you’ve spent together; comfortable, predictable, stitched together by the kind of domestic rhythm that sneaks up on you. Clark is barefoot in your kitchen, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, stirring something. The simmer of sauce punctuates the quiet, the wooden spoon clinking soft against the pot. You’re perched at the counter with a glass of cheap red wine, chin propped in your hand, watching him move around like it’s his kitchen instead of yours.

He hums under his breath as he tastes the sauce, a tune that clings to him like a second skin. You sigh, swirling the wine until the color shivers against the glass. “You know, sometimes I think dating apps are just elaborate psychological torture devices.”

Clark glances over his shoulder, bemused, eyes catching yours through his glasses. “Another bad one?”

You scoff. “Define bad. He spelled my name wrong. Twice. And I’m pretty sure he was only pretending to like books because one was in the background of his profile picture. When I asked which one, he said… ‘the brown one.’”

Clark chokes on a laugh, shoulders shaking as he turns back to the stove. “Ouch. That’s, uh… not promising.”

You tip your glass toward him like a toast and knock back another sip. “Promising? Clark, my romantic life isn’t even functional anymore. It’s… barren. Wasteland barren. Like, salt-the-earth-and-never-grow-again barren.”

He stirs the sauce with more focus than necessary, like he can hide behind the motion. His voice is soft, almost careful. “You’ll find someone. Someone who… sees you. Knows what you need.”

The words sting more than they should. You want to roll your eyes, to laugh it off. Instead, something sharper tumbles out. “Easy for you to say. You’ve had people, Clark. Real relationships. Lana, Lois,” You stop yourself, but the damage is done. His back stiffens, barely perceptible, but you’ve known him too long not to notice.

Your throat feels tight. “I’m just saying,” you add quickly, voice softer now, “you’ve been… wanted. Desired. You know what that feels like. I don’t.”

And it’s true. You remember college, the way Lana Lang used to slip into study sessions with her lipstick smudged and Clark trailing after, his ears red, his collar tugged loose like he’d been pulled too close. You remember the quick glances they exchanged across classrooms, the secret marks just visible on her throat when her ponytail slipped askew.

Then Lois years later; the stolen moments in the newsroom, her biting laugh, the flush in Clark’s cheeks when she teased him too openly. You’d caught the shadow of them once, in the reflection of a window: her hand fisted in his tie, his body bent to hers, hungry and urgent. He had been hers completely, until he wasn’t.

And you? You’ve never had any of that. No marks, no flushed faces in the aftermath of being wanted too much. No whispered secrets in the corner of a crowded room. Nothing but silence, and waiting, and stories secondhand.

You laugh, but it cracks in the middle. “I’m twenty-something years old, Clark, and I’ve never even… you know. Done it. Everyone around me has stories, memories, experiences…and I’m just,” You gesture vaguely with your wine glass, heat crawling up your throat like shame. “Nothing. A blank page.”

He sets the spoon down carefully, like it might break if he’s not gentle. Turns to face you fully, expression so tender it almost hurts to look at. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is.” The words slip out sharp, too defensive. You set the wine down before you drop it.

Clark takes a step closer, concern knitting his brow. His eyes hold yours, soft and steady, and that’s what does it. The way he looks at you, like he’d carry the weight for you if he knew how. Like he wants to.

And before you can think better of it, the words break free. 

“Clark, I want you to be my first.”

Silence.

It drops between you, heavy as lead.

His eyes widen. His whole body goes rigid, like you’ve set off an alarm only he can hear. He actually stammers, “W-what?”

You set the glass down too hard, the sound sharp in the quiet. “You heard me.”

He blinks rapidly, takes a step back, rakes a hand through his hair. “No, no, no. Gosh, you can’t. You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” You snap.

Clark starts pacing, long strides back and forth across your linoleum, his voice breaking against the edges of disbelief. “This is crazy. This is…you don’t want this. You’d regret it. You’d regret me.”

The frustration that’s been simmering in you all night boils over. “Don’t tell me what I want, Clark.”

He turns sharply, mouth open like he’s going to argue, but you’re already there, heart hammering against your ribs, words spilling out reckless and hot.

“Fine. If you won’t help me, then I’ll just sleep with the next guy I match with.” The declaration cuts through the room like a blade.

Clark freezes. His jaw clenches tight, the muscle ticking, something dark flickering across his face; fear, anger, something deeper you can’t name. His voice, when it comes, is low and rough. “Don’t.”

You cross your arms, trying to steady yourself even as your pulse thrashes. “Then what should I do, Clark?”

Clark freezes in the middle of your kitchen. His chest rises and falls too fast, his big hands flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them. That sharp “Don’t” still vibrates in the air between you, too raw, too guttural to sound like anything but instinct.

You uncross your arms, your own words suddenly sounding reckless, childish in your ears. Your throat burns. “If you really don’t want me like that, Clark, it’s fine. Just say it and then forget I said anything. I’m just being stupid.”

“Stupid?” His head snaps toward you, eyes wide, voice breaking.

“Yes.” The word claws out of you, brittle. You grip the edge of the counter, needing the bite of wood under your fingers. “Stupid to think I could compare to… to Lana. To Lois. To anyone who’s ever had you looking at them like they hung the stars. I know I can’t.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. Your ears roar with it. Heat climbs up your neck until you feel like you might combust. You can’t stop yourself.

You keep going, raw and shaking. “I’m not beautiful like Lois. I’m not perfect like Lana. I’ve never even had anyone want me badly enough to…” Your voice falters, lips trembling, but you force it out, “…to leave a mark.”

Clark inhales sharply, like you’ve struck him. His jaw works, but no sound comes out. He drags both hands through his hair, pacing another tight line, his heavy steps against the linoleum loud in the stillness. “Don’t say that,” he finally grinds out, low and harsh, like he can’t stand hearing it.

You let out a hollow laugh, but your chest aches. “It’s true. And it’s fine, Clark. I don’t need saving from this. You don’t have to fix it. You don’t have to fix me.”

That’s when it cracks. Clark spins toward you, shoulders tense, eyes burning with something you can’t name. His voice comes out strangled, all rough edges and desperation, “Listen. You can’t. You can’t just… give yourself to some guy on a screen who doesn’t know you. Who doesn’t care about you.” His throat bobs, his voice rising. “Gosh, you…please. Please let me help you.” The words feel like they rip straight out of him, leaving him raw and trembling.

You blink at him, stunned. “Help me?”

“Yes.” He takes a step closer, then another, until he’s right there, towering, restless energy radiating from every inch of him. “If this is really what you want, if you’re ready, then it should be with someone who,” His voice breaks again, eyes dropping to the floor. “who already knows you. Who already…” He stops himself, fists clenching. “Not some stranger.”

Your heart pounds so loudly it drowns out the ticking of the stove timer. For a second you think you’ve imagined it, his voice breaking, the words please let me help you. You search his face, but he won’t meet your eyes, jaw working like he’s swallowed something sharp.

A strange twist settles in your chest, equal parts victory and dread. You’d wanted him to say yes, hadn’t you? You’d wanted this: his safety, his steadiness, his hands instead of a stranger’s. And now that he has, your stomach churns with sudden nervousness, the enormity of what you’ve asked for crashing down around you.

“You’re serious?” your voice comes out thinner than you mean it to, trembling at the edges.

Clark nods once, curt, as though the word yes might be too heavy for his tongue. “We should…” He drags a hand across the back of his neck, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor. “We should probably set some rules. Talk about… the arrangement.”

The word makes you wince; clinical, detached, like this isn’t your best friend offering to give you something you’ve never had. But you nod anyway, because he’s right. Rules. Boundaries. Otherwise you’ll drown in everything this isn’t supposed to be.

There’s a long pause. The kind that stretches, tightens, pulls at you until you can barely stand it. His hands flex against his thighs, restless. You realize he’s waiting for you to be the one to start it. Your mouth feels dry. “No kissing,” you blurt, before you can second-guess yourself. His head jerks up, startled, and heat rushes to your cheeks as you push on, fumbling. “Not on the mouth. It’s too… intimate. Too dangerous. If we’re going to do this, then I-I need to keep something back. I can’t blur those lines.”

For a moment, he just stares, lips parting like he wants to argue, then closing again. His shoulders sag slowly, the tension draining out of him in a heavy exhale. “Alright,” he says finally, voice quiet but steady. “No kissing.” The words drop between you, solid and immovable. That’s safer. Cleaner. The rule is a wall, and you cling to it.

“My rule…” He starts, “is that you always have to be honest with me. About what you want. How you feel. If you want to stop.” 

You let your gaze linger on him, feeling your heart flutter. You knew he would be the best person to ask this of. “Of course,” you say. “I expect the same of you.” But even as you watch him swallow hard, eyes still carefully averted, you feel it. The realization settling in, sudden and sharp, that this is happening. 

“If we’re doing this,” he says, voice low and deliberate, “then it has to be done right.”

You frown faintly. “Right?”

He nods, finally meeting your eyes. The intensity there makes your throat go dry. “I don’t just mean rules. I mean the way we handle it. You deserve… care. Respect.”

Your chest twists. You look away quickly, down at the stem of your wine glass. “Clark, this isn’t supposed to be anything…serious.”

“I know.” His voice is soft but firm, cutting across yours. “I know it’s not supposed to mean more. But it still matters. You matter. And if I’m the one you trust with this, then it shouldn’t feel cheap. It should feel… safe. Special.” The words make your skin prickle, warm and uneasy. You’d expected fumbling, detachment, something clinical. Like he had seemed moments ago. But no. Not Clark Kent, with his big heart and impossible sincerity, insisting on making it feel like it means something.

He takes another step, close enough that you can feel the faint heat radiating off him. “So,” he says, clearing his throat. “Dinners. Real ones. At home, out in the city, doesn’t matter. No rushing. No skipping steps.” His mouth quirks, faint and sheepish. “Not with me.”

The laugh that slips from you is nervous, but it loosens something in your chest. “So what, you’re writing a gentleman’s syllabus?”

That earns you the ghost of a grin, fleeting but brighter than it should be. “Something like that.”

You nod slowly, heart still thundering. “Okay. Dinners. What else?”

His brow furrows as he thinks. “We start small. Hands first. Touch. Just… getting used to each other.”

The idea makes your stomach clench, a pulse of heat winding low. His hands are so large, so steady; you’ve watched them patch wounds, cradle mugs, tie his tie with fumbling frustration. The thought of them holding you on purpose, of being allowed that kind of closeness, makes your breath catch.

Clark must see something shift in your face, because he extends his hand, palm up, tentative. His size dwarfs yours, calloused lines cutting deep across his skin.

Your fingers hover a moment before you place your hand in his. His warmth seeps into your palm instantly, the contact deliberate, purposeful in a way it’s never been before. His thumb brushes lightly across your knuckles, cautious, reverent.

You don’t look at him. You just let him guide you toward the couch. The cushions dip as you sit side by side, his hand still wrapped around yours. The silence is louder than the ticking clock on the wall.

When his arm slides around your shoulders, you freeze a second, then lean in, cheek pressed to the solid wall of his chest. The fabric of his shirt is soft, but beneath it is pure strength, steady and overwhelming. His heartbeat drums under your ear, slower than yours, steadier, but strong enough that you can feel it reverberate through you.

Cuddling. You’ve done it before in half-steps: falling asleep during movie marathons, leaning on him after long days. But never like this. Never deliberate. Never with his arm firm and deliberate around you, like it belonged there. The silence stretches, warm and suffocating all at once. You tilt your face up without thinking, caught by the nearness of him. His thumb rises, brushing a featherlight stroke along your cheekbone.

Your breath stutters. For one wild moment, you’re sure he’s going to close the gap, press his mouth to yours and shatter the rule you just built. His gaze dips, his hand cups your cheek, and the air between you hums with possibility. But then he swallows hard, pulls back, jaw tightening. His hand falls to his lap.

You exhale shakily, relief and disappointment tangling until you can’t tell the difference. The pact is made. The first lesson is done. And nothing will ever be the same.

-

The next few days at the Daily Planet feel… different. Not radically. Not like the whole office can see what you and Clark decided in the hush of your kitchen. Perry White still barks headlines across the bullpen. Printers still jam. Jimmy still roams around with a camera slung over his neck, muttering about light angles and cropping.

But for you? Everything has shifted a few degrees. You catch yourself glancing at Clark more than usual, more than is safe. And every time you do, he’s already looking at you, like he can’t help it either. The two of you fumble through it, trying to pretend you’re not aware of what’s coming, of the pact you made.

On Tuesday, you’re both assigned a late-night edit. The bullpen has mostly cleared out. Clark sits across from you, glasses slipping down his nose as he types. His tie is loosened, collar open, and when he leans back to stretch, the motion pulls the fabric taut across his chest. You try not to notice. You fail miserably.

“Everything okay?” he asks, catching your stare.

You snap your gaze back to your laptop screen, ears burning. “Fine. Totally fine.” When you risk a peek, his mouth quirks, dimples deepening. He doesn’t call you on it.

Wednesday morning, he brings you coffee. Your exact order, written in his careful scrawl on the cup. Extra cinnamon. Just how you like it.

“Thought you could use it,” he says, setting it down beside your keyboard.

You blink at him. “You bribing me, Kent?”

“Gosh, no,” he says quickly, flustered. “Okay, maybe a little.” He shifts his weight, glasses sliding again. You reach out without thinking, push them back up the bridge of his nose with a single finger. He freezes, eyes wide behind the lenses, and for a split second you feel his breath hitch.

You pull back fast, heart pounding. “You’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached.”

He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Guess I would.”

By Thursday, the tension has settled into something quieter. The two of you walk back from lunch, shoulders brushing occasionally. Clark carries the paper bag of sandwiches like it’s precious cargo.

“You don’t have to keep treating me like glass,” you say suddenly.

His brows furrow. “I don’t.”

“You do. With… this.” You gesture vaguely between you, the pact hanging unspoken in the space. “I’m not going to break.”

He chews his lip, thinking. “I know. But you’re important to me. And important things… I like to handle carefully.” The words make your throat tighten, though you don’t say so. You just nod, bumping your shoulder into his lightly. He smiles down at you, and the knot in your chest loosens a little.

The days pass like that, small moments threaded through your normal routine. Glances that linger too long. Coffee runs that feel like courtship. The brush of his hand against yours when you pass papers back and forth.

Clark bumbles, tripping over his own feet when he tries to reach for the same file you do, spilling a pen from his pocket when you tease him about his tie, but somehow he still comes out of it looking steady, charming in a way that makes your stomach flip. It’s a delicate balance: pretending nothing has changed while knowing everything has.

And every time his eyes soften when they land on you, every time he hovers like he wants to touch you but stops just short, you’re reminded: the pact isn’t just theory anymore. It’s waiting, looming, inevitable.

The next time it happens, it’s a Saturday night. You’re at Clark’s apartment, curled on his couch, an old vinyl spinning softly in the background. The lamps are dim, the kind of golden light that makes shadows cling to the walls. He’s barefoot, in worn sweats and a soft gray T-shirt that stretches across his shoulders. The air smells faintly of the ginger tea he brewed for you, steam still curling from the mug on the coffee table.

It feels comfortable, like any other night you’ve spent tangled into each other’s orbits. But underneath that ease is the thrum of something new, something heavier. Clark sits beside you, his big frame taking up more space than he means to, thighs brushing yours whenever he shifts. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt, clearing his throat once, twice, before he finally says, “So… do you want to… start?”

Your stomach flips, nerves sparking. “Start?”

He meets your eyes over the rims of his glasses, the corners of his mouth twitching. “The, uh, lessons.” He says it clumsily, like the word doesn’t quite fit in his mouth, like it tastes wrong and too intimate at the same time.

Your laugh comes out breathless, shaky. “Right. The lessons.”

A long pause. Then, more seriously, he extends his hand, palm up, as though offering a truce. “We’ll go slow.”

You slide your hand into his. The warmth of his palm hits you immediately, too hot, like he’s running a fever. His fingers curl around yours carefully, reverently, and suddenly something as simple as holding hands feels like standing at the edge of a cliff.

He shifts, tugging you gently until your legs brush fully, until his thigh presses firm against yours. “Don’t just sit there,” he says quietly, coaxing. “Touch me.”

You swallow, nerves rattling, and let your fingertips trace along the broad lines of his palm. Up across his wrist, the pulse thrumming steady beneath your skin. Your hand travels tentatively up his forearm, brushing the fine dark hair there, grazing across the muscle that flexes when he breathes. 

Clark exhales softly, a sound you feel more than hear. Your touch hovers just shy of his bicep, until his hand covers yours, guiding it upward. His voice is low, coaxing, almost tender. “Not just there. Here.” You spread your palm over the swell of his bicep. Solid, unyielding. His shirt shifts beneath your touch, soft cotton stretched over iron muscle. 

He leans closer, his breath warm against your temple. “It’s more romantic like that,” he murmurs, his voice pitched low, coaxing. He draws your hand up further, across the curve of his shoulder, slow and deliberate. “To trace your hands across your partner’s skin.” Your breath hitches as he guides you, your fingers sliding over the slope of his collarbone, the thick column of his neck.

“And here,” he whispers, nose brushing the line of your jaw, his words grazing your skin. “Especially here.” Your pulse stutters. You know he won’t kiss you, but the closeness is unbearable, his mouth hovering just shy of your skin, his breath ghosting heat down your throat.

“Clark…” Your voice trembles.

He pulls back fractionally, enough to look at you, eyes glassy behind his glasses. “Is this okay?”

You nod, too quickly, words caught in your throat. “Yeah. More than okay.”

Your hand lingers at his neck, thumb brushing the sensitive place just below his ear. He shudders almost imperceptibly, and the tiny sound that escapes him is half sigh, half groan. It punches straight through your chest, winding you. You want more. 

Your hand still rests at the thick column of his neck, thumb grazing the tendon there, and you swear you feel his pulse spike under your touch. His breath hitches, low and audible, and then his much larger hand covers yours, anchoring it in place like he can’t bear to let you pull away.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, his voice deeper now, roughened. “That’s what touch does. Makes your partner aware of you. Not just skin… but here.” His thumb presses gently against your palm, slow, deliberate, before guiding your hand lower, down across the solid slope of his shoulder. You trail across the cotton of his shirt until the muscle beneath makes your fingertips tremble. His arm flexes instinctively under your touch, a ripple of strength he doesn’t mean to show.

Your laugh is breathless, shaky. “You really going to give me a lecture on holding hands, Kent?”

The corner of his mouth quirks, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “Every time you try and give me guff,” he says, voice dropping lower, almost a growl, “I think about how easy it would be to shut you up… like this.” Before you can scoff, his hand tugs yours firmly, pulling you flush against his chest. The sudden movement knocks a gasp from you, sharp and surprised. Clark groans softly in response, a sound caught deep in his throat, like he already knew that’s exactly how you’d sound.

Your chest presses to his, the world reduced to the steady thud of his heartbeat under your ear. His hand slides up your spine, big and sure, fingers tracing a path that leaves you shivering.

“See?” he whispers, his nose brushing along your hairline, down toward your temple, barely skimming your skin. “Touch is about more than contact. It’s about intention. The difference between a hand on your arm…” He draws your hand back down, across the thick swell of his bicep, your palm flat against muscle. “And a hand here.” He guides your hand down further, curling your fingers gently around his forearm until you squeeze instinctively.

He exhales sharply, a hiss of breath, as if even that small pressure rattles him. Your head tips back on instinct, exposing your throat to the heat of his breath. His nose skims your jawline, the faintest brush, so light you wonder if you imagined it, until you feel the ghost of his lips, not a kiss but close, grazing the delicate line of your skin.

Your own hands are bolder now, exploring on their own, brushing across his shoulder, the edge of his collarbone, curling tentatively at the nape of his neck. His skin is fever-hot under your touch, and when you tug lightly at the hair there, he lets out a sound so soft, so unguarded, you have to bite back a whimper. Clark’s palm cups your waist, spreading wide over your ribs, thumb stroking just beneath the curve of your side. His other hand slides down your arm, not gripping, not pinning, but steady and insistent, until your fingers are trapped between his own. He threads them together deliberately, like he’s reminding you who’s guiding this.

“You learning yet?” he whispers, lips brushing so close to your skin they graze the shell of your ear.

Your pulse stutters. “I-I think so.”

His chest rumbles with a low, quiet laugh. “You’re shaking.”

You swallow hard, your forehead nearly bumping his. “And you’re warm. Now we’re both stating the obvious.”

His lips hover close, his breathless laugh skimming your mouth, so close, but not touching. Not allowed. His restraint is maddening, your own rule haunting you even as you ache for him to break it. Clark exhales slowly and steadily, like he’s reining himself in with both hands. His nose brushes your cheekbone. His thumb strokes your knuckles in a steady rhythm. His chest expands against yours, and you feel the heat of him, the hunger beneath his composure.

You’re strung tight, held there, every nerve burning with the anticipation of almost.

And then the shrill chirp of his phone slices the moment apart. Clark stiffens instantly, curses under his breath, soft, wholesome, and frustrated. “What the hay.” He fumbles for the device on the coffee table, already rising to his feet, your hand slipping from his skin. The spell shatters as though the connection was never there.

You blink, dazed, the sudden absence of his warmth like being plunged into cold water. A flash of the screen: Guy Gardner.

Clark presses the phone to his ear, his voice snapping taut, professional. “What is it, Guy?” And just like that, he’s somewhere else. His shoulders square, spine straightening, his tone flattening into that cadence you recognize too well; the one he uses when he’s already halfway out the door. Superman’s voice. Not Clark’s.

You sit frozen on the couch, your pulse still rabbit-fast, the phantom of his body clinging to you like static. Your palm tingles with the heat of his neck, your jaw buzzes faintly where his breath had skimmed seconds ago. The intimacy of it lingers, an ache with nowhere to go.

The call stretches on. His voice drops lower, edged with command, clipped and efficient. Every syllable drags him further from you, until the man who had been whispering against your skin moments earlier feels untouchable again; beyond reach, beyond want.

When he finally ends the call, he exhales hard, already moving. He reaches for his jacket, guilt etched plain across his face. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

You swallow down the burn in your chest and force a smile, light, dismissive. “Go. It’s okay.”

He hesitates at the door. His gaze lingers, heavy, like he doesn’t want to leave, like he knows exactly what he’s leaving behind. For a heartbeat, you think he might say something, might undo the distance the phone call carved between you.

But then he turns, slipping into the night. The door clicks shut, the sound too final. The silence afterward is deafening. You sit there, the lamp humming softly, the record still spinning in the corner. Your hand is still buzzing with the ghost of his heat. Your jaw still tingles where he almost kissed you, where he didn’t.

You press your palm to your mouth, like maybe you can hold onto the ghost of him there, but it’s hollow. Empty. Not enough. Not even close. And suddenly you understand what it means to be left wanting by your own best friend, burning, restless, your body humming with echoes of a touch that didn’t go far enough.

You stay frozen on the couch for a long time after he’s gone, staring at the door like it might open again, like he might come back with an apology, with his hands, with his mouth. But the silence stretches, thick and merciless. The record player crackles until the song ends and the needle clicks against the groove, over and over, the sound scraping through your nerves.

Eventually, you peel yourself up, feeling unsteady on your legs, and wander toward his bedroom. You’ve slept here before, late nights after too many drinks, or when he insisted you take the bed and he crash on the couch. But this feels different now. Crossing the threshold feels like trespassing into the shell of him. The room smells like him. Soap and cedar and the faint spice of his aftershave. His flannel is draped across the chair by the dresser, sleeves rumpled like he’d shrugged it off hours ago, and when you brush your fingers against it the fabric is still faintly warm.

You collapse onto his bed, burying your face in his pillow before you can stop yourself. It smells like his shampoo, like the way his hair had brushed your jaw when he whispered against your skin. You inhale deep, shaky, until your chest aches with it. 

Sleep doesn’t come easy. Every time you close your eyes, you replay it: his thumb tracing your knuckles, his nose skimming along your jawline, the way his voice had gone low and ragged when he teased you. You hear him groan again in your memory, soft and unguarded, and your whole body jolts with heat. You roll over, restless, sheets tangling around your legs. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, every nerve keyed up. Your hand lifts on instinct, grazing your collarbone where his breath had warmed you, sliding down to your ribs where his thumb had stroked. You can almost feel him there still, like his touch has imprinted itself into your body. You squeeze your eyes shut, fists clutching at the pillow like it might anchor you. But the ache only sharpens.

The clock ticks on his nightstand. The city murmurs faint through the glass. And you lie in his bed, wide awake, aching with the memory of what almost happened. When sleep finally drags you under, it’s fitful and shallow, full of dreams where he doesn’t pull away.

You wake, disoriented and bleary, and you think maybe it was all a dream. The pact, the near-touch, the way Clark had held your hand and guided you over the solid heat of his body. But then you inhale, and the scent of him is everywhere. The bed is empty, of course. Cold on the other side. He didn’t come back last night. You knew he wouldn’t. Still, it’s jarring, the intimacy of waking in his space with no one there to temper it.

You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling fan that spins lazily above you. The air feels thick with him, every breath a reminder of what you almost had, what you didn’t. 

The faint thud from the living room startles you. The window creaks, and a rush of cool air slips in. You sit up just as Clark steps inside.

He looks wrecked. Hair a mess, suit scuffed and soot-stained in places, cape dragging behind him. The S stretched tight across his chest is dulled with grime and exhaustion. His eyes are shadowed, jaw tense. But the second he sees you still curled in his bed, his whole body softens.

“Hey,” you whisper.

“Hey.” His voice is low, frayed.

“You look…” You hesitate, searching for the right word. Exhausted. Bruised. Beautiful. “...rough.”

He huffs a humorless laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “That bad?”

You pat the space beside you, heart thudding. “Would it be okay if I… held you?”

He freezes in the doorway, like no one’s asked him that before. Like no one’s thought to. Then, slowly, he nods. “Yeah. Please.”

He sheds the cape, but nothing else, and crawls onto the mattress beside you, still in the suit, broad and solid, smelling of wind and smoke. He lowers himself carefully, resting his head on your chest. The weight of him makes your breath hitch, not crushing but grounding, like he’s anchoring himself to you. Your fingers slide into his dark hair, damp with sweat, thick and heavy between your knuckles. He sighs against you, a low, unguarded sound that thrums through your ribs. His big hand splays across your stomach, palm radiating heat through the thin barrier of your shirt.

“Better?” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Better.”

At first it’s still, quiet. Just his breath against your chest, your hand combing slowly through his hair.  But then his other hand moves. It drifts lower, sliding deliberately down your side, over the dip of your waist, his palm so wide it nearly spans you. His fingers settle at your hip, a gentle grip, firm enough to anchor, cautious enough to let you pull away if you wanted. 

He doesn’t ask aloud. He doesn’t say a word. But every shift of his hand is measured, careful, waiting for the flinch that doesn’t come. The brush of his thumb against bare skin where your shirt has ridden up makes your thighs press together instinctively. The air between you feels molten, charged. Heat pools low in your stomach, sharp and insistent.

“Clark…” The whisper scrapes out of you, tremulous, unsure.

He lifts his head slightly, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them, voice pitched lower, rougher. “You can tell me to stop.”

“Don’t,” you breathe. Something flickers across his face at that. Relief, yes, but underneath it a hunger that makes your pulse stutter. It’s raw, unguarded, a look that belongs to a man, not a boy next door. His hands tighten fractionally on you, then slide upward with new certainty. He tugs your shirt up, higher, bunching it slowly above your ribs. His knuckles graze hot trails over your stomach as he pushes the fabric aside. You raise your arms, half-dazed, and he peels the shirt over your head in a rush, tossing it blindly onto the floor.

You’re bare above the waist, the cool air of his bedroom shocking against heated skin. He stays there, drinking in the smooth expanse of your exposed skin. Then Clark exhales like the sight has punched him. His chest rises and falls too fast, his throat working as his eyes roam your skin with reverence that borders on worship. 

“Goodness,” he mutters under his breath, almost like a prayer. His palms find you again, sliding across your stomach, tracing up your ribs, spreading wide to cup the sides of your breasts without fully touching the peaks. His hands are enormous, swallowing you whole, his thumbs ghosting in light, maddening arcs.

You shiver, a tiny gasp escaping before you can swallow it back. Clark bends, unable to hold himself steady anymore. His mouth finds your shoulder first, a warm, soft, wet press of lips. He lingers, then drags lower, to the hollow of your collarbone, teeth grazing lightly before his tongue soothes the mark. He makes a low sound in his chest as he feels you arch toward him, a sound that vibrates through your bones. He follows the curve of your body downward, fumbling, almost clumsy in his desperation, until his mouth finally closes over the swell of your breast.

You gasp, arching involuntarily, your back curving into him. The heat of his mouth is overwhelming. The drag of his lips, the scrape of his teeth against sensitive skin; it’s electric, shocking, impossible. You fist your hand in his hair without meaning to, tugging gently, and he groans against you, the vibration ricocheting through your chest. He’s fixated, consumed. His tongue circles your nipple, hesitant at first, then bolder when your broken moan answers him. He suckles there, wet and rhythmic, one big hand squeezing at your other breast, rolling the peak between his fingers until you’re trembling beneath him.

“Clark,” His name rips from your throat, ragged, high-pitched. He groans again, hungrier now, switching sides, lips and teeth and tongue working you over like he can’t get enough. His hand cups your breast tight, thumb brushing over your nipple in tandem with his mouth, until the twin sensation makes your hips jerk.

You never knew breasts could be this sensitive, never knew the tug of a mouth here could make your thighs clench, your whole body shudder. But Clark seems to know everything; knows exactly where to lick, where to squeeze, how to alternate between gentle suck and sharp nip until your voice breaks.

And then the thought slams into you like ice water. He knows because he’s done this before. Lana, back in college. Lois, not long ago, the stolen glances across the newsroom, the lipstick smudges, the aftermath written in the way his tie always hung just a little off. They taught him this. They showed him what worked. They gave him the knowledge that now has you clutching at his shoulders, moaning his name, desperate for more.

The ache in your chest rises sharp, cutting almost deeper than the ache blooming between your legs. It’s ridiculous. You asked for this: his experience, his steadiness, the safety of someone who already knows. That was the point. And yet the thought curls around your ribs like a blade, cold, cruel: you’re learning to be touched like this because he already touched someone else this way first.

The contradiction nearly breaks you. Your body is still alight, your chest caving with doubt. Clark doesn’t notice the shift yet, too absorbed in you, his mouth moving feverishly from breast to breast, his big hands squeezing, stroking, trying to memorize you. And you let him, torn in two: the soaring heat of being wanted, and the sinking weight of knowing you weren’t the first to ignite it in him.

Before you can drift too far, before the jealousy can root itself deeper, a sharp knock rattles the apartment door. “Clark?” Jimmy’s voice, muffled but too close. “C’mon, man! We’re late! Stakeout!”

The sound crashes through you like cold water. Clark jerks back instantly, eyes wide, lips wet, hair a wreck from where you’d tugged it. His chest rises and falls too fast, the S on his suit stretched tight over his shoulders. He looks wrecked.

Jimmy knocks again, harder this time, rattling the frame. “Kent! You dead in there?”

Clark presses a hand to his face, muttering a soft curse, wholesome but desperate. “Gosh darn it.” His gaze flicks to you, wild and guilty and hungry all at once. Your stomach lurches.

Jimmy’s voice comes again, impatient. “Clark? I can hear you moving around in there, man! Let’s go already, Perry’ll kill us if we lose this lead!” Clark scrambles upright, running a hand through his hair, tugging on a suit like he can erase the evidence of you on him, the damp sheen of his mouth, the flush staining his throat. He stumbles toward the door, still barefoot, then stops short and looks back at you, helpless.

You shake your head quickly, mouthing, Don’t let him in.

He nods once, swallowing hard, then calls back, voice pitched higher than usual. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be right there! Just, uh, got caught up!”

Jimmy snorts. “Caught up? In what?”

Clark closes his eyes, pressing his forehead briefly against the doorframe, visibly collecting himself. “Just give me five minutes!” he shouts back, tone softening. “I’ll meet you downstairs!”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Jimmy sighs. “Fine. But if we miss this guy because you were napping, I’m telling Perry it’s on you!” His footsteps retreat down the hall, fading until only the low hum of the city presses against the glass.

Silence returns, thick and suffocating. Clark stays by the door for a long moment, forehead still resting against the wood as if he can steady himself there. His shoulders are tense, too broad for the frame, his breathing uneven. When he finally turns, his eyes find you again. The way he looks at you, it’s like he wants to say a thousand things but can’t risk letting even one slip.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, voice thick. His gaze flicks away, then drags back, unwilling to leave you completely. “I didn’t… I didn’t want it to stop like that.”

Your throat tightens. You hug your arms around yourself, the phantom of his mouth on your skin still buzzing, tender and raw. “It’s fine. You should go. Jimmy’s waiting.”

He nods, but his jaw clenches, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides. For a heartbeat, he looks like he might cross the room again, might crawl back into bed and finish what he started. But instead he swallows hard and straightens. “I’ll come back,” he murmurs, almost to himself. His eyes linger on you, dim with apology and something darker. “Don’t… don’t leave yet.”

And then he’s gone, slipping out the door with hurried steps, his cape brushing the frame as it vanishes from sight. The apartment is silent again, except for your heartbeat still drumming in your ears. You lie back on his bed, tugging the sheets up over your chest, and stare at the ceiling fan.

He’ll come back. He said he would.

But the place where his mouth touched your skin aches like a bruise, and you know the mark will be there long after the door closes.

-

You know he asked you not to leave, but when Lois’s text lights up your phone (Need you. Luthorcorp scoop. Urgent.) you don’t hesitate. You dress in a rush, tugging your jacket over skin that still tingles faintly where Clark’s mouth had claimed you, and slip out of his apartment while the city is still blue with early morning.

You don’t even leave a note. 

The next few days blur. Lois pulls you into the chase: whispered leads, shadowed meetings, scraps of intel that keep you moving across Metropolis. You bury yourself in it, in deadlines and notepads, in the comfort of being sharp and useful, not just aching. 

But Clark is everywhere. You catch him in the bullpen, glasses sliding down his nose, shirt collar rumpled from another too-long night. His gaze finds you instantly, holds a second too long. You look away first, heart in your throat. 

Another day, your shoulders brush in the copy room. His arm flexes against yours, steady, solid, and your whole body lights up like he touched you everywhere. Neither of you say anything, Jimmy’s voice is echoing down the hall, but Clark’s jaw ticks, his throat bobs, and you know he feels it too.

Once, you pass him a file, your fingers grazing his. The brief contact jolts through you like static. He swallows, murmurs, “Thanks,” low and strained, as though even that one syllable might betray more than he should.

It’s only been days, but it feels like years. The bruise he left on your collarbone has already begun to fade, but the memory of it throbs fresh every time your eyes meet across the newsroom. You don’t speak of what happened, but you can’t stop thinking about it.

-

The next time you see him, he wastes no time. It’s late, his knock faint against your apartment door, but the moment you let him in, you know there’s no pretense tonight.

His hair is a mess, his glasses left behind, his shirt wrinkled from hours of wear. You had wondered if he’d come over tonight during your regular hang out. But now that’s he’s here, looking frayed at the edges but focused, it makes your heart race. When his eyes lock on you, you feel pinned in place.

He doesn’t bother with tea or small talk. His jacket is shrugged off, shoes toed away, and then his hands are on you, big, hot, reverent. He pulls you in, not to kiss, never to kiss, but to touch, to press the full length of his body into yours like he’s been starving for it.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he admits, voice low, dragged out of him like a confession. His palm slides under your shirt, fingers splaying across your waist, covering you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. “About your skin. How you sound.”

The honesty makes your knees weak. Clark must feel it, the way you sway into him, because his grip steadies at your waist, broad hand grounding you. He leans back just enough to search your face, his eyes so achingly earnest even though his voice is rough.

“Are you okay with this?” he asks softly. His thumb brushes the curve of your hip, slow, reassuring. “I don’t want to rush you. Not ever. So tell me, are you really okay with me… touching you like this?”

You swallow hard, your throat tight, but your head bobs before you can even speak. “I’m sure.”

The relief that flickers across his face nearly undoes you. He nods once, sharp, like he’s locked the promise inside himself. “Alright. Then I’ll take care of you.”

The words land low in your stomach, heavier than they should. His hands slide lower, fumbling at the button of your jeans. He pauses again, eyes lifting to yours, before working them loose. The denim drags down your thighs, slow, leaving you in nothing but your underwear.

You flush instantly, heat crawling up your neck. It isn’t just that you’re exposed. It’s that you dressed for this. You’d chosen the softest, prettiest set you owned just in case he came. Delicate lace, a color you knew would make your skin look warm and inviting. You’d worn it under your clothes all day, restless with the knowledge of it, your stomach flipping each time you thought of him seeing. And now he is.

Clark exhales, sharp and shaky, his gaze dragging reverently down your body. His jaw flexes once, like he’s physically biting back the sound that wants to come out. You look away, embarrassed, your hands tugging at the hem of your shirt. You can’t bring yourself to say it out loud that you picked this just for him, that you wanted him to see you pretty. That you’ve never wanted anyone to look at you like this before. But the way his breath stutters, the way his hands tremble slightly where they hover above your skin, tells you he already knows.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, almost too soft to hear. “Honey, you’re beautiful.”

Your stomach flips. And then he lowers himself, his mouth pressing to the soft inside of your knee, a gentle kiss that makes you twitch from how unexpected it feels. His hands brace wide against your thighs, keeping them parted, steady. He doesn’t look at what he’s doing yet, he looks at you, watching your reaction as his lips trail higher. Another kiss, closer to the center this time. Your breath hitches audibly. Clark hums low, the sound vibrating against your skin, and keeps going, leaving a hot, open-mouthed press at the sensitive skin just above your thigh.

You squirm under him, embarrassed by how quickly the heat pools low in your stomach. He lifts his head slightly as you squeak out his name, his nose brushing higher, his mouth hovering just shy of the lace between your thighs. His voice is steady but roughened, like he’s fighting his own restraint.

“Sweetheart, I need you to know,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “I want this. I’ve wanted this. But it’s only if you do. You can tell me to stop at any second, and I will.”

Your mouth goes dry, your pulse hammering. You nod too quickly, then manage, “I don’t want you to stop.”

Something flickers in his gaze; relief, hunger, something deep and fierce. He groans softly, the sound caught in his chest, and his hands spread wider across your thighs, anchoring you.

You feel the tremor in your voice when you add, “But… if you do that, you’re going to see how wet I am.” It’s a confession and a warning all at once. Your instinct is to close your legs, mortified, but Clark’s grip only tightens, firm and sure, keeping you open.

His eyes never leave yours. They burn steady, unflinching, the corners soft with something almost protective.

“No, sweetheart,” he says, voice low, determined. “I’m not going to see it.” His head dips, mouth brushing closer, closer. “I’m going to taste it.”

And before you can breathe, his nose grazes you through the lace, his tongue following in a hot, deliberate stroke across the damp fabric. The shock of it tears a gasp from you, your hips jerking against his hold. He groans at the taste, the sound guttural, like he’s savoring even that little of a taste.

“Clark,” your voice cracks on his name, half a plea, half a warning. He hums low in answer, the vibration rolling through the soaked fabric, right into you. His nose nudges the lace, inhaling softly, and your whole body jolts at the intimacy of it. Then his mouth closes over you again, sucking lightly at the fabric itself, pulling it into his mouth just enough that you feel the tug, pressure and heat combining until your hips buck.

His grip on your thighs tightens immediately, steady, immovable. His hands span wide across your skin, anchoring you open.

“Easy,” he soothes, voice muffled against the lace. “Stay with me.” You whimper, unable to stop yourself, and his lips curve faintly against you as if the sound pleases him.

“Sensitive,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing the damp fabric. “So responsive.” His tone is reverent, almost proud, like he’s cataloging every twitch, every gasp, every place you give yourself away.

Your cheeks burn, heat crawling all the way to your ears. You bite your lip hard, mortified by how wet you already are, how obvious it must be. “Clark, please.”

“Patience,” he says softly, teasing but steady, the rumble of his voice sinking into your bones. He noses at the fabric again, tongue pressing one long stripe against your core, harder this time. “I told you, sweetheart. I’m going to taste you. Really taste you.” The words drag low in your stomach, clenching everything tight.

And then his teeth catch at the edge of the lace, tugging gently, peeling it away from your skin inch by inch. His hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the crease of your hips, bracing you wide. His eyes flick up to yours, checking, but they’re darker now, glazed with hunger he’s barely holding back. The air feels thick as he pulls the fabric aside, his nose brushing bare skin for the first time. The first rush of cool air against you makes you shiver, but then his breath is there, hot and unyielding, and your thighs twitch instinctively.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as though he’s been waiting years for this exact moment. His thumbs stroke gentle circles against your trembling thighs, coaxing you to stay open, to let him see. 

And then his head dips again, his mouth lowering, slower than torture. His nose brushes your bare folds, and his tongue follows, the first slick stroke against you raw and devastating. The lace finally pushed aside, you can feel the first rush of cool air against you, shocking after how hot your skin burns. You shiver, thighs twitching, but Clark’s broad hands keep you steady, thumbs stroking gentle circles at the crease of your hips. His eyes flicker up to yours, dark and intent.

His nose grazes you, just barely, and you gasp at the simple press of heat where no one’s ever touched before. But then his tongue follows again, another slow, deliberate stroke from bottom to top, wet and warm and devastating. The sound you make is sharp, torn from your throat before you can bite it back. Clark groans at it. A low, male sound that vibrates against you, like your voice and your taste are more than he can take. His grip on your thighs tightens, just slightly, not holding you down but grounding himself.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, chest heaving faintly, his eyes glazed. His lips shine with you, and he drags his tongue across them almost unconsciously, like he can’t stand to waste even a trace. “Sweetheart,” he rasps, voice rough with awe. “You taste… better than I imagined.”

Your face burns, the heat crawling down your neck, your chest. “Clark! Don’t say things like that,” you whimper, covering your face with your hands.

But he catches one wrist, presses a kiss to the inside of it, then guides it back down to the bed, gentle but insistent. “Look at me,” he murmurs. “I need you to see how much I want this. How much I want you.” It’s almost too much, his honesty, his hunger, the sight of his mouth wet from you. Your stomach clenches tight, your legs trembling.

And then, without another word, he lowers his head again, his tongue sliding against you, savoring, learning, worshipping. Clark hums low against you, steadying your hips with those enormous hands, but his mouth is patient, unhurried. He maps you carefully, like he’s tracing lines in a book only he gets to read. Long, slow laps from your hole to your clit, the kind that make your thighs quake. Pausing to press open-mouthed kisses against places you didn’t know could make you shudder. His tongue flicks, cautious at first, tasting you in pieces, savoring every reaction.

You try to press your hands to your face again, embarrassed by the noises spilling out of you, but Clark shakes his head faintly against your skin, his voice a rumble. “Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs, words brushing wet and hot over you. “Every sound you make… I want it. It’s perfect.”

The praise makes you keen softly, and he groans in response, tongue circling tighter, more insistent. His restraint slips a little, his mouth closing over you in a firmer suck, and your whole body jerks. Clark exhales sharply through his nose, the sound desperate. His hands spread wider on your thighs, holding you open as if he can’t risk losing an inch of you. He drags his tongue up again, slower this time, pressing harder, savoring the wetness he pulls from you.

Then another stroke, faster. He pulls back to catch his breath, lips slick, chest rising quickly. His eyes flicker up, dark, dazed, and he admits in a rough whisper, “It’s never…” he swallows hard, tongue darting to lick his lips, “never been like this before.”

Your stomach twists, your legs trembling. He doesn’t give you time to answer. He groans, almost pained, and dips again, hungrier this time, tongue pressing, circling, teasing until your hips are straining up against his hold. He’s still gentle, still reverent, but it’s fraying at the edges; the worship tipping toward desperation. Every sound you make pulls another groan from him, every twitch of your thighs answered by the press of his mouth harder, wetter, less restrained. It’s like he can’t help himself. Like every taste is undoing him more than it undoes you.

Clark’s mouth moves slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch of your hot flesh. The flat of his tongue drags up, steady and reverent, before circling in a tighter pass, his lips sealing over you in a gentle suck that sends your back arching. You whimper, thighs trembling, but he only presses closer, holding you steady with hands that could crush steel but treat you like spun glass. His fingers splay wider on your thighs, thumbs stroking little soothing arcs as though reminding you: You’re safe. You’re wanted. 

Your chest is heaving, breath shaky, but the thought is creeping in again. How he learned this. Who he was… 

He lifts his mouth just enough to speak. “Stay with me,” he whispers, voice ragged. “Don’t think about anyone else. Don’t think about before. I want you. I want to know how to make you feel good.” His lips are slick, swollen already, and the sight of him looking up at you from between your legs nearly steals your breath.

Heat floods your cheeks, but the words burrow deep, chasing away the cold stab that had threatened last time. His eyes are steady, dark and unyielding, and you can’t look anywhere else. He dips back down, slower this time, tongue stroking with maddening precision, testing, adjusting with every gasp he pulls from you. The tip flicks experimentally, then softens, broadens, a new rhythm until you cry out, clutching at his hair. He groans low at the sound, the vibration sinking through you like another layer of touch.

“Yeah,” he breathes against you, coaxing, encouraging. “Like that? That’s it. Let me hear you.”

Your thighs quake, trying to close, but he holds you open easily, his hands firm but never harsh. He mouths at you hungrily, reverent in the way he lingers, tongue tracing you over and over, like he’s memorizing every shape, every reaction.

It isn’t just sex. It isn’t just practice. It’s Clark learning you, cataloguing the way your body arches when his nose nudges higher, the way your breath hitches when he flattens his tongue broad against you, the way your voice breaks when he seals his lips and sucks gently, coaxing. He’s hungry, yes, but it’s threaded through with something steadier: the determination to prove that this is how it should feel, how intimacy is supposed to be. Not rushed. Not careless. Not left wondering if you were enough.

His mouth lifts again briefly, wet and shining, his voice wrecked. “Sweetheart, you’re everything. Let me show you that.” And then he’s back at it, hungrier now, tongue moving faster, more deliberate, groaning into you like he can’t stop himself.

Your whole body is trembling, your stomach tightening, the room spinning around the single point of his mouth. And still, through it all, his hands stay steady, his voice breaking between groans, coaxing you back to him, grounding you in the present, in the way he wants you.

Clark’s mouth works you open with an intensity that borders on worship. Every stroke of his tongue feels deliberate, every shift adjusted to the sound of your breathing, the shiver of your thighs, the way your fingers twist tighter in his hair. It’s overwhelming how much he pays attention. How every second feels like he’s learning you, piece by piece, until there’s no part of you that doesn’t ache for him. You can’t think about anything else. Not Lois, not Lana, not the shame that crept in before. Just him. Just the way his mouth is dragging you higher, the way his voice rumbles low against you when you cry his name.

“Clark!” your voice breaks, needy, trembling. He groans in response, and the sound vibrates through your core, sharper than anything your own hands could ever give you. Because that’s the thing; when you touch yourself, it always takes so long. So much coaxing, so much pressure, until maybe finally something sparks. But with Clark? He can barely touch you and you’re already drenched, already shaking apart. You’re so close you could break from nothing more than the sound of him groaning into you.

Your thighs try to close again, overwhelmed, but his big hands hold you steady, spreading you wider, keeping you open for him. “Don’t hide,” he murmurs against you, voice ruined. “I want all of it. I want you.” 

It tears through you, this desperate need to give it to him, to be undone completely, to let Clark Kent be the only one who ever knows you like this. 

Your head tips back, eyes squeezing shut, as the pressure crests sharp and unbearable. Heat coils low, higher, higher, until there’s no air, no thought, just him. “Clark, I’m gonna…”

And then it hits, breaking you open, shattering through your body in waves. You cry out, trembling, clutching his hair like a lifeline as your hips buck against his mouth. He groans at the taste, holding you down, devouring every second of it like he’s starving. It goes on and on, rolling through you, until you’re left limp against the mattress, chest heaving, sweat slicking your skin.

Clark doesn’t move right away. He kisses softly at the inside of your thigh, licks you gently once more, almost tender, like he can’t stop himself. His cheek rests there, heavy and warm, his hands still anchoring you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. When you finally blink down at him, dazed and undone, he’s staring back at you like you’re the only thing in the world. His lips are swollen, wet with you, and the hunger in his eyes is threaded with something deeper, steadier.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers, voice raw, “you have no idea how much I wanted that.”

And all you can think, through the haze, is how badly you want him to know everything. Your body is still trembling when Clark eases his mouth away, but he doesn’t stray far. He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, soft and reverent, then another just above your knee. His hands stroke slow patterns into your skin, broad thumbs smoothing over the marks he’s left from holding you open.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. His cheek rests against your thigh, hot and damp with sweat, his breath cooling the skin there. “You were perfect for me.”

Your chest heaves. The words feel like a balm and a burn at once, too much for a body already wrung out. He kisses higher, just shy of your center, lingering, tasting one last time as if he can’t bear to stop. When you flinch, too sensitive, he chuckles softly against you, easing back to scatter gentler kisses along your hipbone.

“Did so well,” he whispers, every word brushing your skin. “So sweet… you don’t know what you do to me.”

“Clark…” The heat rises in your cheeks again, fresh and overwhelming. 

He lifts his head at last, slow, like he’s reluctant to let go of the place he’s claimed. His hair is mussed from your grip, his lips swollen and glistening, his eyes dark as he looks up at you. You can’t breathe. The sight of him between your thighs, wrecked from you, it’s undoing all over again. Your hand drifts without thinking, fingers brushing along his jaw. You trace lower, brushing over the corner of his mouth, damp with your release. Clark’s breath catches. He leans into the touch instinctively, eyes half-lidded, and for one breathless second the world narrows to a single thought: kiss him.

It would be so easy. Just tilt forward, close that last inch, feel his swollen mouth on yours. You ache for it, more than you should, more than you dare. Your hand lingers there, thumb brushing his lip once more. His gaze flicks down to your mouth, heavy and intent, and your stomach drops. But then the rule roars back in your head. No kissing. Not on the mouth. Too intimate, too dangerous.

Your heart thunders as you pull your hand back quickly, rolling onto your side with a shaky laugh that’s too thin, too brittle. “That was… wow. Um.”

Clark scrubs a hand through his hair, cheeks flushed to the roots, his laugh just as nervous. “Yeah. Golly. Wow.”

The air is too heavy, the silence too weighted. You both laugh again, too loudly, brittle around the edges, trying to shatter it. You don’t mention how close you came to breaking the rule. How badly you wanted to. But you feel it, sharp and undeniable. And it terrifies you.

-

Later that night, after you’ve showered the sweat from your skin and eaten the food he insisted on making, something simple, because his hands wouldn’t stop shaking enough for anything more complicated, you find yourself curled with him on your couch. Your legs are tucked beneath you, his thigh pressed against yours, and your chest is still buzzing with the memory of his mouth between your legs. Every time you shift, the soreness makes you blush, heat flashing through you at how thoroughly he’d undone you.

And every time you look at him you think of how hard he’d been earlier, straining against his slacks while he devoured you. You’d seen it when his hips shifted as he rose from the bed. He hadn’t let you touch him then. His rules. His ridiculous, chivalrous rules about “going slow” and “taking care of you first.” As if going down on you until you screamed his name wasn’t the least gentlemanly thing a man could do. Your face burns at the thought, but your frustration outweighs the embarrassment.

“You know,” you murmur, swirling the last of your wine, “it’s not very fair.”

Clark glances over, brows raised, dimples threatening. “What isn’t?”

“That you…” You wave your hand vaguely, your courage fraying under his gaze. “Did that to me, but didn’t let me,” Your cheeks flame, “help you.”

Color rushes into his face instantly, and he sets his glass down fast, clearing his throat. “Oh gosh. You don’t need to worry about that.”

“I want to,” you say quickly, too quickly. Your fingers twitch in your lap, restless. “Clark, I saw you. You were…” Your words falter, but the image of him hard and aching fills the silence anyway.

He shifts uncomfortably, tugging at the hem of his shirt, his ears pink. “That’s not… I didn’t do this for… repayment.”

“I know.” Your voice softens, your hand finding his arm, squeezing. “But I want to. I don’t want this to just be you taking care of me. I want to take care of you, too.”

Clark’s jaw works, his throat bobbing as though he’s fighting himself. His eyes flick to yours, then away, then back again. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says finally, voice hoarse.

“Yes, I do.” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “Let me.”

For a long moment, neither of you move. His chest rises and falls too fast, his hand flexing against his knee like he’s trying to restrain himself. Then, slowly, he exhales. His gaze locks on yours, glassy and dark, and he nods once. “Alright,” he murmurs. “But only because you asked.”

The tension coils sharp and hot in your stomach. Your hand slides down his arm, over the swell of his bicep, to his wrist. You take his hand, guiding it to your lap, and then you shift onto your knees before him.

Clark swallows hard, watching you with wide, uncertain eyes. “Sweetheart…”

You glance up at him, biting your lip. “It’s my turn, Clark.”

And for the first time, his composure cracks completely. You kneel in front of him, your heart pounding so hard it drowns out the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen. Clark sits stiffly on the couch, his broad frame filling the space, hands gripping his knees like he doesn’t know what to do with them. You swallow, reaching for the hem of his shirt. He catches your wrist lightly, thumb brushing over your pulse.

“Sweetheart, wait.” His voice is soft, frayed.

Your stomach twists. “You don’t want me to?”

His eyes widen, horrified at the suggestion. “No. Gosh, no. I,” He drags a hand through his hair, ears pink, dimples flashing nervously. “I just don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

“I don’t.” Your voice is firmer than you expect. “I want to, Clark. I want… to know what it’s like. To touch you.”

Something flickers across his face, relief, hunger, something deeper, and he leans back slowly, releasing your wrist, letting you decide. Your hands shake as you tug his shirt up, the fabric bunching over his stomach. He helps you, pulling it off in one motion, leaving his chest bare. He’s warm everywhere, heat radiating off his skin, the ridges of muscle shifting as he breathes unevenly.

You trail your fingers down his chest, over the hard plane of his stomach, until you reach his waistband. Your throat tightens. “Clark… this is my first time. Ever. Touching a man like this. I don’t really know what I’m doing. What if I’m… bad at it?” The words tumble out in a rush, embarrassment hot in your chest.

Clark exhales, ragged, and reaches down to tip your chin up with two fingers, forcing your eyes to meet his. His touch is gentle, his gaze steady. “You could never be bad,” he says firmly, low and certain, like it’s a truth he’s swearing by.

His thumb strokes along your jaw, grounding you. “I want you to touch me. That’s what makes it good. Just the fact that it’s you.”

The sincerity of it nearly breaks you. And when your gaze flicks lower, to where he’s already straining achingly against his jeans, the heavy outline of him thick and urgent, you can’t help but believe him. Your hands fumble at the button of his jeans. He sucks in a breath when you pop it open, the zipper dragging slowly down. His cock strains against the thin cotton of his briefs, the head already wet with pre-cum, the sight of it making your mouth go dry.

Clark groans softly when your hand hovers uncertainly above him. “Sweetheart, please,” he whispers, his voice wrecked. “Don’t be afraid. Just touch me.”

Your fingers curl around him tentatively through the cotton. He jolts, hips bucking minutely into your hand, a sharp sound escaping his throat. The power of it stuns you, how easy it is to undo him, how much he feels from so little.

“Yeah,” he groans, eyes squeezing shut, his hand covering yours briefly, guiding the slow stroke. “Just like that. You’re doing so good. Better than good.”

And with every praise, every tremor of his body, your nerves ease and your confidence builds, until the embarrassment fades and all you can think about is how Clark Kent is trembling under your touch.

-

He thinks he’s prepared. He thinks he’ll be able to keep himself steady, guide you through this, talk you gently into confidence the way he always does. But then your small, shaking hands tug the denim down his thighs, and he’s straining against his briefs, leaking, aching, and the sound you make when you see him nearly finishes him on the spot.

His throat goes dry. Your fingers trace the outline of him through the cotton, tentative, almost shy, and the touch rips a groan out of him before he can catch it. His hips jerk into your hand, humiliatingly needy, and his head tips back against the couch with a low, wrecked sound.

God help me, I’m already losing it. 

He tries to cover your hand with his own, to steady you, to guide you through the first slow stroke. “That’s it. Just like that,” he rasps, forcing the words through gritted teeth. “Easy. You’re doing so good.” But when your fingers hook into the waistband of his briefs, tugging them down, he forgets how to breathe. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, the cool air hitting him like ice against fire. And then your bare hand closes around him.

“Oh my,” Clark’s hips buck hard, his thighs trembling as a desperate groan tears out of him. His vision goes white at the edges, every nerve ending screaming at once. His hand flies out, gripping the couch cushion, knuckles whitening, because if he touches you right now he’ll beg, he’ll break. 

His chest heaves, heart pounding like a jackhammer in his ribs. He wants to say something reassuring, something steady, but all that comes out is a strangled, “You…Honey, you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

But the truth is, you do. You hear the raw sound in his throat, you see the way his body shakes under your tentative strokes, and it emboldens you. Your grip tightens slightly, your rhythm steadies, and Clark almost sobs at how good it feels. Your thumb brushes over the head, smearing pre-cum down his shaft, and his whole body jolts, a helpless sound catching in his chest. His thighs quake, sweat beading along his temple.

“Clark,” you whisper, in awe. “You’re shaking.”

“I know,” he gasps, choking on the admission. His hand fists uselessly in the sheets beneath him, his body fighting to hold still, to give you space. “Sweetheart, I can’t…I can’t help it. Been hard since the second you opened that door. And now,” His jaw clenches, his voice breaking. “Now it’s your hands. I can’t.”

Your pace quickens instinctively, guided by the desperate sounds spilling out of him. He wants to slow you, wants to tell you to take your time, but the reality is he’s so close he can barely think straight.

“Please,” he chokes, sweat dripping down his neck, chest heaving. “Don’t stop. Whatever you do, don’t stop.” And for the first time in his life, Clark Kent feels completely, utterly powerless. Undone by your hands.

He tells himself to breathe. To keep steady. To guide you through this. But your hand is warm and tentative and so small around him, stroking from base to tip, smearing more pre-cum down his length, and his thighs are trembling already. He forces the words out anyway, hoarse and broken.

“Good, just like that,” he rasps, hips twitching helplessly into your touch. “Slow at first, sweetheart. Let me…let me last a little longer for you.” But it’s a lie, because he knows he won’t. He’s never felt like this, never been this close this fast. You’re watching him so intently, biting your lip, brows furrowed in concentration as if you’re memorizing every sound he makes. And every sound feels ripped out of him, low groans, breathless gasps, the choked way your name keeps catching in his throat.

“Clark,” you whisper, voice shaky, “am I… doing it right?”

His head falls back against the couch, eyes squeezing shut. “Sweetheart, you’re killing me,” he groans, hips bucking into your fist. His hand fists uselessly at his side, trying not to reach for you, not to push. “You’re more than right. You’re, oh baby, too good.”

You swallow at his words, your pace faltering for a moment before you tighten your grip and stroke him slower, more deliberately. His whole body jolts at the shift, a strangled groan tearing out of him. He thinks he’s braced for anything, thinks he can hold out, until—

The wet heat of your mouth suddenly wraps around the head of his cock. 

Clark’s entire body jerks violently, hips thrusting up into the slick warmth before he can stop himself. His eyes fly open, vision blurring as he looks down and nearly loses his mind. You’re on your knees between his thighs, lips stretched around him, cheeks hollowing as you take him in as far as you can. Your eyes are watering a little with the effort, but they’re locked on his, steady and unflinching.

“Oh, God,” Clark chokes, hand flying to the back of your head before he can think, fingers tangling in your hair. His thighs tremble under you, his chest heaves like he’s fighting for breath. “Sweetheart, wait. You don’t…you don’t have to!” But then your tongue slides along the underside of him, slow and deliberate, and his words dissolve into a guttural moan that echoes off the walls. His head lolls back again, teeth clenched, trying to hold himself together, but it’s useless. Every time you lower yourself further, taking more of him into your mouth, his hips jerk, his throat works around another broken sound.

“Baby, you feel so good,” he gasps, voice strangled. His grip tightens in your hair, not to push, but to anchor himself, to keep from falling apart completely. “I can’t…I can’t believe this is you.” He’s trembling now, whole body shuddering as he watches you, your lips stretched wide around him, your mouth hot and wet and devastating. His thighs quiver with every slow bob of your head, every flick of your tongue. He’s already a mess. His thighs are shaking, sweat dampening his hairline, his grip in your hair trembling as you work him over with tentative but determined strokes of your mouth. He should be the one guiding you, steadying you, but all he can do is groan and try not to come undone too fast.

“Sweetheart,” his voice breaks, deep and hoarse. “I can’t… not much longer if you keep that up.” Your lips slide lower, your tongue flattening under him, and he chokes mid-sentence, hips jerking up helplessly into the wet heat of your mouth. The moan you give around him is what unravels him further, soft and muffled, the vibrations rolling through his cock. His entire body jolts, eyes flying open to stare down at you. Your cheeks hollow, eyes wet, mouth stretched tight around him, and the sight nearly knocks the breath from his lungs.

He pulls lightly at your hair, trying to ease you off, give you a chance to breathe. “Wait, sweetheart.”

You slide off with a wet gasp, spit shining on your lips and his cock glistening in your fist. Your chest heaves as you look up at him, flushed and wrecked, and your voice comes out ragged.

“Clark,” you pant, your hand stroking him slow and firm, “finish in my mouth.”

His whole body seizes at once, a groan tearing out of his chest. “Oh. Oh heavens,” Before he can say more, you sink back down, lips wrapping tight around him again, deeper this time, taking him until your throat flutters and your eyes water.

His hips buck, his head slams back against the couch, and the sound that rips out of him is raw, desperate, nothing close to steady. “God, don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

He’s panting now, chest heaving, hand clutching at your hair but not pulling, just anchoring himself as his thighs tremble under you. You moan again, low and needy around him, and that’s it: he unravels completely. Hot release floods your mouth in pulses, his cock twitching against your tongue. His entire body shudders, helpless, guttural sounds spilling from his throat as he comes harder than he ever has in his life.

You don’t pull away. Even when your throat works around him, even when you gag faintly and tears spill from your eyes, you hold on, swallowing every drop, taking everything he gives you. Clark can barely breathe. His whole body is limp, trembling, his hand still tangled in your hair. He forces his eyes open, dazed, staring down at you, lips wet, mouth still wrapped around him, throat working to swallow him down.

And the sight wrecks him all over again. He’s gasping. That’s all he can manage at first, ragged, uneven breaths as he slumps back into the couch, sweat cooling on his skin, his body still trembling from the force of it. And you’re kneeling there between his thighs, lips swollen, chin wet, throat working as you swallow the last of him down. The sight of you, so careful, so determined to take everything he gave you, it knocks the wind right out of him.

You wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, demure, composed in a way that makes heat lick through him all over again. Then you look up, and there’s pride in your eyes; shy, yes, but also steady, certain. You know what you just did to him. You know how completely you wrecked him. Clark’s heart lurches, then flips violently in his chest, beating fast enough he’s sure you’ll hear it. He hasn’t felt it like this in years; that dizzying rush that isn’t just lust, not just heat, but something sharper, deeper.

He stares at you, still panting, chest heaving, and the thought finally crashes into him with terrifying clarity in a voice that is no longer able to be ignored: you’re more than his best friend. You’re everything he’s been afraid to want.

And he wants more. More than your lessons, more than stolen touches and rules. He wants you in every way there is to want someone. But he can’t say it. Not now. Not when you’re still glowing with shy pride, still flushed from trying something new, still trusting him with all the firsts you’re handing over.

The heat between you lingers, so heavy it feels like the air itself has weight. Clark’s chest rises unevenly beneath you, the thud of his heartbeat loud where your ear rests against him, a frantic rhythm that betrays the words he won’t let himself say. Because they’re right there, pressing up his throat, the dangerous, irreversible truth. That this isn’t just friendship anymore. That maybe it never was.

You didn’t just touch him tonight. You woke him up. He can see it now, with startling clarity: it’s always been you. That tug in his chest every time you teased him through late-night stakeouts, every time you dropped into his apartment like you belonged there, every time you smirked at him across the bullpen with ink-stained fingers. Even back in college with Lana. Even in the newsroom with Lois. He thought what he felt then was real, but it was always leading here. To this. To you.

And now, looking at you flushed and proud, demure but glowing with the satisfaction of what you’d just given him, Clark Kent realizes he’s been completely taken by you for years.

He can’t say it. He won’t risk it. Instead, he gathers you up with arms that feel too strong and too careful all at once, tugging you into his lap until your body molds against his. His chest cages you in, warm and solid, smelling faintly of clean soap and the sharp metallic tang of the city that still clings to him. His lips brush your temple, lingering, reverent, soft enough that your skin tingles long after.

“A real gentleman,” he murmurs, his voice low and frayed, like it costs him something to speak, “will always kiss you after… that.”

Your breath stutters, catches, your eyes flickering instinctively toward his mouth. The rule rises between you like a wall, heavy, unyielding. Too intimate. Too dangerous. He knows it. You know it. So his lips stay tucked safe in your hair, pressed against your temple, against your hairline, anywhere but where they truly want to be.

The silence that follows is unbearable. His breath warms your skin, his chest still heaving beneath you. You shift, and the brush of your thigh across his lap has him swallowing hard, his jaw clenching tight.

He clears his throat, the sound rough, and tries to wrench the moment back into safer territory. “How are you feeling?” he asks, his voice pitched lighter, almost casual, though the strain edges every word. “With… with the lessons?”

You blink up at him, cheeks still flushed, hair mussed from his hands, and for a terrifying heartbeat Clark thinks you’ll call him out. Drag him back into the weight of what just happened. Force the words from his chest. But instead, you smile, shaky, small, but genuine. “Better,” you say softly. “Like I’m actually learning.”

Something twists low in his stomach. His thumb strokes absent circles along your arm, his chest tightening almost painfully. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice quiet, heavy. “That’s… that’s the point, isn’t it? To take it slow. To get you ready for…” He falters, the words catching like barbed wire. His stomach flips, heat surging through him at the thought of being inside you, of finally giving you everything. He swallows hard, forcing the rest out in a whisper. “…the real thing. Not now. But soon.”

You shiver against him. He feels it; the subtle tremor where your body presses into his, the way your breath stutters. He doesn’t know if it’s nerves or anticipation. Doesn’t know which would destroy him more. But then you nod, your head resting against his shoulder. And that’s enough.

He tightens his hold, arms wrapping around you, his chin brushing your hair as if he could fold himself around you completely. The warmth of you sinks into him, grounding him, anchoring him in a way nothing else ever has. It’s all he can allow himself for now.

Inside, though, his heart pounds so hard it feels like the truth might split his chest open and spill out anyway. That you are more than his best friend. That you are everything.

And Clark Kent has never been more afraid of ruining something in his life.

tag list: @xoxovlayla @jujubes888 @chateaubarnes @xenochuguardian @eternalsams @moondustfairies @rogersbarber @icybarness @pinkchampagne444 @marzzficrecs @yourburgerfiend @sanguineterrain @echo-ethe @chasing-fics @978akb14 @sofgrandiary @spidermanluv444 @lemoniceteee @prettysetter707 @clarkssun @leann-black @xserenax-13 @imsoembarrasedplshelp @massivescissorsthingperson @marybeth13 @ushibabie @pparkeramorr @i-wanna-be-your-muse @heyitsmeghann

[kommanders]

bye your blog and your letterboxd are gorg

omg you’re literally my fav blog on here thank you!!!!

[kommanders]

⭑ » ˚₊⋆˚ ࿔ 𝜗𝜚 MDNI 17+ ❝ 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐒𝐅 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐒𝐅 ❞

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: dick grayon x reader x wally west

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’re hanging out with your best friend, wally, and turns out, his best friend is also there! cue your mouth and your pussy being filled up in the best ways possible. (or, you, dick, and wally have a threesome)

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 17+ CONTENT, threesomes, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (wrap it!), oral sex (m! receiving), choking, overstimulation to the max, hair pulling, filthy talk— seriously, this is filthy, cum swallowing, praise kink, they kiss while they eiffel tower you.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: they’re so fucking hot, I just couldn’t resist. I didn’t know if this should’ve been a double penetration oneshot but that one will be soon! trust! sorry if the reader doesn’t really talk this much… when you read what happens, then you’d understand why, lmao.

▄▀▄▀▄ ▄▀▄▀▄

you didn’t know how you ended up in this position; on your back, legs up, jaw open. but here you are, and your brain is too scattered to even think about the full timeline… but you attempt to.

very simply— wally wanted to hang out with you, “spend the night!” he says, and turns out? dick was there too, mainly because wally invited him too (you begin to think he purposely wanted both of you). you didn’t hate that you were attracted to your best friend’s best friend, it just felt weird, but god damn dick is a sexy man.

and what happens when three sexy people are in the same room together? clothes disappear and filth is muttered. and now? you’re here, on your back, brain completely mushed up by these two guys.

wally was standing by your head, dick was in between your legs. wally’s dick was longer but dick’s cock was thicker, and you could feel the difference.

“which one do you want filled first?” wally asks you, his right hand stroking his cock with a few jerks as his left hand reaches down to squeeze your left breast, dick moved your legs onto his shoulders as he lines up with your folds.

you groan, his fingers feeling so good on you as dick’s hands squeezed your thighs. having four different hands on your figure… you could feel your body temperature rise with each touch, each damn finger. “I-I don’t care… just get in me d-damn it.”

dick chuckles, squeezing your thigh a little harsher. you gasp as he squeezes your thigh but also you feel wally twist your nipple. “okay, okay, baby, no need for the attitude.” he shoots back, looking at wally as he tilts his head. “you go first, walls, shut that pretty mouth.”

“don’t tell me to shut—” you begin to say before you get cut off.

not by words, not by a squeeze. but rather by wally’s long cock pushing into your mouth. he doesn’t go all the way with his eight inches, around four inches as you gargle. drool drips down your chin as your head tilts back, looking up at the redhead as he shushes you. his hand on your breast going up to your jaw, stroking your chin.

“there you go.” he coos, pushing in the last four inches, his messy orange happy trail faintly tickling against your chin. you’re forced to breath through your nose as the bulbous tip of his cock hits the back of your throat. “christ baby, didn’t know you could fit all ‘me in your mouth.” he mutters.

dick’s grin never fades, his thumbs stroking up and down your inner thighs as he kisses your ankle. his right hand stroking your thigh as his left hand reaches up to gently caress your right breast. “got a mouth worth millions, baby.” he encourages, his left thumb rubs circles to harden your nipple.

with his left hand on your jaw, wally points to dick. “c’mon man… no fair you’re not having fun.” he somberly says, looking back down at you. “you want dick’s dick in you, baby?” he asks, tapping on the underside of your jaw to make you answer.

it takes you a few moments, swallowing your spit the best you can before you nod. “y-yes! f-fucking hell, please—!” your begs are muffled due to wally’s long cock.

but they hear it anyway.

wally looks back up at dick with a smirk. “well, you heard the lady of the hour.” he insinuated.

the birdboy grins and doesn’t take any other words or moments before he presses his tip against your sobbing pussy, pushing into you. fuck fuck fuck. he’s so thick. shit. if you thought you couldn’t breath (in the best way) because of wally’s dick in your mouth, now you couldn’t with dick’s dick in your pussy.

your eyes roll back the moment his cock begins to push into you, your toes curl as your left set of nails dug deep into whatever section of wally’s left arm your nails could find as your right hand gripped wally’s best sheets. “nghhhh.”

“holy shit, sweet girl.” dick groans, his right hand going onto your abdomen, feeling himself push into you as his left hand held onto your calf. “you feel so damn good… fuck.” he looks up at wally, who’s grinning at the sight. “dude, you gotta get some of this.” he says to him.

why is it so hot when they speak to you like this? it shouldn’t. really. but it just is.

wally shrugs, feeling your nose brush against his balls. “don’t worry, I’ll get her pussy later, this mouth feels too damn good.” he suggests. “this pretty body, my god baby.” he groans, looking at your body with lust in his eyes.

your eyes remained rolled back as your breaths through your nose blows onto the underside of wally’s cock, your pussy fluttering against dick’s as he settles his thick cock into you.

and before you knew it, you could feel both of their hips move, both pulling out of their respective places before thrusting back in, dick was harsher with his thrust— with that thrust, he pushed you upwards, making it easier for wally to push back into your mouth. “w-wally! d-dick!”

it feels so damn good, and pleasure shoots through your veins as both of them begin to move their hips at the same time. dick was a little faster than wally, groaning with each flutter of your pussy as wally caressed your jaw, pushing in and out of your warm throat.

your moans fill the room— or the best they could leave your stuffed mouth. they were high pitched, drool causing a mess as your fingers claws at both of their forearms, one above your head as the other sat on your abdomen.

“seal those lips ‘round me baby.” wally encourages, and you listen to him. it’s so slick in your mouth, your lips sealing around his cock as wally murmurs a praise, seeing you hallow out your cheeks with each time his cock hit the back of your throat.

“you’re such a good girl.” dick praises lowly, his hips rutting with each slow thrust. you love the praises, it makes you feel good inside and your brain melt a little more.

dick moved his left hand, sucking on his thumb before putting it on your clit, stroking up and down. a bigger moan leaves your mouth as your heels dig into dick’s shoulder. “does this pussy want it faster?” he asks.

when you’re so stuffed that you’re unable respond; the redhead does it for you. wally grins as he says a suggestion. “fuck her pussy deeper, I’m sure she can take it, she’s a big girl.”

dick smirks and follows wally’s words, especially after feeling your walls clench around him as he adjusts his posture, pressing both hands into the mattress on each side of you as he angles himself lower, and where he hits? fucking. delicious.

your moans vibrate wally’s cock, mentally grinning to yourself as you see how he’s affected by it. one of the best sensations he’s ever felt, feeling it from his base as he goes a little quicker but not too much, not wanting to hurt you.

the acrobat notices wally’s eyes roll back at your moans making his cock feel like heaven itself, he leans closer, sweat padding down his face. “what’s the matter, lightning bolt? I do something good for once?”

“shut it.” wally mutters, leaning close to dick as they keep eye contact with each other. “keep moaning f’us baby, keep that pretty mouth up.” he blindly praises as he taps your jaw.

you groan as he taps on your jaw, your lips sucking harder on wally’s cock, tongue sliding up and down the underside of him. it feels so good. you’ve never felt so good.

and before either of the former titans could stop, their lips press together, both of their hips going faster in you. wally’s lips are warm while dick’s lips are cold, their tongue pressing together.

wally’s left hand moves off your jaw and down to your clit and in return, dick’s right hand moves out of the sheets and wraps around your throat, feeling wally’s dick in your throat.

“christ dude.” he murmurs against wally’s lips. “knew you were long but not this fucking long. this fits in your suit?”

wally shrugs, hitting the back of your throat constantly with each push of his hips. “it helps that I’m a grower.” he chuckles as he can feel his balls tighten.

dick’s lips go to wally’s jaw, pressing sloppy kisses as he increases his thrusts within your pussy, your moans are too broken and your mouth is too stuffed. you can feel your vision whiten, it’s all so overwhelming— in the best ways you could even imagine.

“look at this pussy, taking him so well, knew this pussy was amazin’.” wally slurs, patting your clit before he rubs tight circles. your hips jerk, your pussy flutters, and you’re so close to cumming. “you close, dick? cause holy shit, ‘m not gonna last in this pretty girl’s mouth.”

dick nods, pressing his thumb into your throat. “yeah— so close… gonna cum… fuck.” he groans.

and somehow, someway, all three of you finished together, as if you all knew each other’s minds too well to argue. and nothing could compare or even warn you to the feeling you felt.

wally pushed back his cock only by a few inches, not wanting to overwhelm the back of your throat as dick thrusted in as deep as he could get, down to the base of his cock to the point his balls rubbed against your pussy. your veins overflowed with pleasure, nails dug deep to the point your hand lost color and you drew blood from both of the boys as you orgasm.

“wally, fuckkkkk—dick…!” you slur as your body strains, knees bending harshly on dick’s shoulders as you feel your body get overwhelmed with so much rapture.

for a few moments, you feel like you’re in heaven, your body feeling so damn good, mind ruined by such a explosive orgasm. you feel limp against them, you feel wally’s hand stop rubbing your clit as you cummed around dick’s cock, slobbering on wally’s cock as your vision finds itself back. “ugh… fuck…”

then, you felt it. your pussy being warmed up with dick’s cum as his semen painted your walls white. you felt sticky, his cum pushing deep within you as he stroked your throat, gently grinding against you to get his semen deeper. “fuckkkk, sweet girl, pussy feels so damn good. take my cum like this… knew you could take it.” he groans, looking at wally as wally pulls out, his cock straining.

you keep your eyes on wally as he looks at you with furrowed eyebrows and needy eyes. “open. open your mouth baby.”

and the damn second you opened your mouth, before your tongue could fully extend, his cum landed in your mouth, eventually spreading onto your tongue. not only your pussy felt warm and sticky, but now your mouth.

wally cums a lot more than dick, because dick finishes harder than wally. ropes and ropes of cum shoots out as you took every single inch, dick’s pupils blown as he watches the sight in front of him, his hand keeping your mouth open.

moments after; you swallow all of wally’s cum, you feel it stick to the back of your throat as dick lets down your legs off his shoulders, your hands leaving their forearms as they fall to the bed.

wally moves his cock once his balls feel empty, his breaths heavy. “and you were hiding your mouth this entire time, baby?”

with your mouth empty, you’re able to respond as you lean up, legs spread as dick’s semen dripped out of your folds. “well you two hid your dicks from me so…”

dick grins and wally smirks and you knew you weren’t getting any sleep that night. not like you wanted any sleep with these guys next to you.

▄▀▄▀▄ ▄▀▄▀▄

this idea has been gnawing at my mind for a while and finally decided to write it. I love them both so much, they’d be so good in bed, I need them both!

✦ comments and reblogs are always appreciated! ✦

@murdock-slvt 2025!

[kommanders]

PERFECT PAIR

pairing - kyle rayner x batsis!reader summary - just late nights, study dates and a whole lotta love based on this ask divider by @cafekitsune

a saturday night was rolling its way round in gotham city, noises of car alarms and loud pedestrians framing the air.

you hummed quietly, letting out a puff of breath in growing exasperation and fatigue.

you had been stuck to your laptop for what felt like hours, doing research for your masters, the process had been hard and long; you could trace all the days down of tim bragging he could complete the degree in half the time, damian looking down on you (lovingly) for doing something as "insubstantial as a degree," cass and steph who made you breakfast when you stayed all night, and, finally dick and jason who seemed to lounge in your apartment, stealing all the good snacks, as you drowned in essays.

if anything, it was perfect, perfectly frustrating too.

another paper was due by the end of the night but it seemed like your brain was frazzled as the words couldn't find their way onto the page. sighing in defeat, you leaned back and gently closed you eyes.

it wasn't easy but somedays you wondered if all of it was even worth it.

"baby?" a soft voice rang out, your eyes gently fluttered opened, turning towards the sound.

in your view, the love your life, kyle rayner, stood against the door with his head tilted and arm resting lazily on the door hinge.

"hey, baby," you tried to muster a smile but it turned into a tired grimace.

he crossed the room and took you into his arms, his hugs were always so tight and sweet and snuggly; it was one of the best things about him. "you're doing so well," he kissed the top of your head and pressed his chin softly on your crown, "i'm so proud of you."

"thank you," you took his large hands into yours, intertwined them, and held them close to your heart, as you took long deep breaths, "it just gets so hard sometimes..."

you faltered slightly, "sometimes what i feel like i do doesn't compare in anyway to you, or dad, to everyone else, i don't know why i'm complaining." you laughed weakly.

"hey, hey, no we're not doing this." he took his hands back and pressed them warmly against the apples of your cheeks, gazing into your eyes with his floppy black hair and lopsided smile.

"never, ever, think what you do is insignificant. on top of being the most beautiful woman in know, you're also the most intelligent and hard-working person, willing to work yourself to depths that i don't even know i could reach myself."

your lip quivered and you let out a watery laugh, pressing a kiss to his right hand, "god you always know what to say."

he knelt slightly pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose and then to your eyelashes, "that's because i know you, baby, and i love you,"

you hugged him tightly, knowing you wanted to spend the rest of your life with the green lantern, "i love you too," you murmured.

changing the subject, you squinted up at him, "what have you been doing in the meantime, anyway? it smells really good and it's not like you to be unusually quiet..."

his hands whipped up in mock surrender, kyle being his awkward self, "guilty as charged milady!" he pulled you out of your chair as you groaned half-heartedly, "you've been working so hard these past couple of months, even whilst i've been away with the corps and i just wanted to show i'm proud of you."

he led you up to the roof by the waist and suddenly you were met with a large green construct as a table, the most gorgeous and delectable foods laid on top; ranging from a bowl of fruit salad, some doughnuts, and even your extra cheesy favourite lasagne - sprinkled perfectly with parsley.

above all that lay green paintings in the air, kyle used his ring to beckon them over to you.

your eyes crinkled in confusion as you looked at the paintings, you thought they would be random constructs that kyle had created, however upon closer viewing you noticed all of them were of you.

they ranged from just now as your tongue stuck out cutely as you read essays over, your beautiful smile as you collected your first bachelor's, even a painting of you giving a mock presentation to your family despite all of them interrupting you during every second.

but what caught your eye was a picture of you and kyle where you were both caught in laughter over something silly, the memory was hazy but it was the thought and consideration. he had put in for you, day in and day out that almost had you bursting into tears.

"kyle, oh god, this is beautiful, i love you, i love you, i love you!" you jumped onto him and kissed him all over, as he giggled childishly, "this is the best thing you've ever made!"

"even better when i drew you dad and clark making out in the watchtower supply closet?" he teased.

you gently whacked his chest, "don't start, you pointed at him accusingly, then chuckled, "yes that was golden, i still remember the look on b's face. priceless."

you both chuckled lightly, the gotham skyline painting your faces in the most breathtaking way, as kyle dragged you over to a blanket, bringing the food along. you hugged him a little tighter, love filling your mood with such a light kiss of life.

you wouldn't change anything for the world.

[kommanders]

hey guys sorry for ghosting!! i’ve had such a rollercoaster of a week basically long story short i didn’t initially get into my dream uni and then today i did! but ive been at work non stop at my family’s cafe so i haven’t had anytime to write😪 i’ll try and get requests done and hopefully will get a wip posted either tmrw night or saturday night🤍

[kommanders]

hell yeah

⌞ tag team ⌝

⫶ mdni , fem! reader, fingering, p in v, threesome, clark is a sweetie

୨ৎ gummys note: no idea tbh. need them bad tho.

“you’re gonna make her tap out bruce,” clarks soft voice cuts through the steady ah, ah, ah’s that spill from your swollen lips, a warm thumb moving to gently wipe the drool that’s leaking. the man behind you only scoffs at his friends reprimand, purposefully driving his cock deeper just to spite the man.

“she’s not gonna tap out kent.” bruce mutters, the billionaire’s tone smug “she can take it. she said it herself didn’t you sweetheart? said you could,” his big hand flattens against your lower belly, gripping your skin as he holds you tight against him “take it easy huh? that it would be a walk in the park?”

you can’t think, let alone speak. so you settle on the easiest option and nod jerkily.

“good girl.” bruce croons and he’s quick to reward you with a slow roll of his hips, cursing as your pussy gets unbelievably tight.

shaking his head clark snorts “you’re terrible wayne. poor girl can’t even think straight.” clark muses, his words directed to his friend. it was a sight seeing a spitfire like yourself all quiet and pliant. not to mention he couldn’t exactly deny how absolutely breathtaking you were. soft tits swaying each time bruce ruts into you, skin flushed and covered in a light sheen of sweat. the way your cunt was swallowing bruce—

the super man leans forward on his knees, your back arching almost immediately at the firm pressure he begins to apply to your throbbing clit, rubbing in a tight circle.

“nnuh..”

“bruce is so mean huh sweetheart? been mean all night with you.” clark murmurs, holding your hazy gaze.

“stretching you on his big cock—can’t even let you breathe huh?” the man hums—lips curving into a gentle smile when he feels you buck. you can’t help but shut your eyes, the mind numbing pleasure of bruce’s cock fucking into you and the sweet touch from clark has your brain melting. it’s too much yet not enough at once, your body on the brink of nothing but sheer pleasure.

“why don’t you cum for us baby,” clark coo’s, sliding his middle fingers lower and gently spreading your folds “cum for us and then i’ll fuck you nice and slow.” his words are a syrupy promise—preparing you for whats to cum come.

“think she likes that idea kent,” bruce mutters, his other hand sliding to grip your tit for support. he’s close too, breathing harshly against your neck and shoulder. balls tight and ready to spill although he’s patient enough to wait for you.

one particular snap of his hips pushes you over the edge and your lips part in a choked gasp as you cum hard. bright spots behind your lids and body trembling in his firm hold. the beefy man behind you follows a few steps later, spilling into your pussy with a hiss.

“messy.” clark comments to himself when bruce finally pulls out and he begins to feel the mans cum drip from your cunt. you whine and squirm when clark slowly begins to fuck bruce’s cum back into you—even bruce pauses for a second. chests heaving and that familiar fire starting back in his stomach.

clark, ever the gentleman though allows you to get your bearings for the most part (despite the slow fingering). letting you come back to earth and the tingles to subside, leaving you in a state of bliss and relaxation. and then he’s maneuvering you into his lap, letting your head rest against his shoulder while he tugs his boxers down just enough to free his own neglected cock.

“ready sweet thing?” the journalist gently slaps his cock against your sticky folds, chuckling when you writhe. he waits for you to say yes before he does finally sink into you with a obscene squelch cause your pussy is so full of cum already.

“so warm.” one of clarks hands go behind your head, holding you close while he slowly begins to rock into you from beneath. it’s absolutely filthy really but clark seems to enjoy it. the way you claw at his shoulders and how you babble about just how deep he is. the faintest outline of his cock visible through your tummy.

even bruce couldn’t help but to watch with intensity—stroking his cock to match the pace clark set while he keeps his eyes trained on where you two are connected. every so often he’d thumb the leaky slit as his semen gushed out of you and down clarks cock.

it doesn’t take very long for you reach your third orgasm of the night (the first had come when bruce and clark had both taken turns eating your pussy until you were close to sobbing), biting onto clarks shoulder to muffle yourself. the action of you cumming sends clark right there behind you, his grip tightening just a little as he cums inside you just as bruce had.

the room grows silent while you each catch your breath (and bruce cleans the cum from his fingers because yes, that was hot) , clark easily pulling you off his cock and turning you around like you weighed nothing.

“think you can handle a little more y/n?” a soft kiss pressed behind your ear as clark situates your jellified legs over his own thighs, spreading you wide open and facing bruce.

“y-yeah.” your voice is shaky but there’s a underlying firmness to it. you wanted this—wanted more of them.

the two men exchange glances, bruce moving between your legs—cock bobbing.

“think you can take us both?” the billionaire murmurs with a questioning head cock.

“at—”

“the same time.” clark supplies warmly, his cock already growing harder against your back.

did you want that? to have your cunt absolutely owned by your two closest friends who you had sorta been pining over for years now?

“yeah,” you lick your lips and spread yourself even wider “i can take it.”

both men look almost surprised and you feel smug for just a fleeting moment. they didn’t think you’d tap out now did they?

-

uhh..yeah.

[kommanders]

hey guys, i just wanna start of by saying thank you so so so much for 100 followers i genuinely can’t belive so many of you like my fics i only started doing this 3 weeks ago so the support is so insane!!

i’m gonna be quite inactive till maybe friday/saturday, i’m trying to get around requests and tmrw i find out my exam results and if i got into my dream uni so im kinda stressed but i will come back swinging out the gate with more fics !!! ily all mwah <3

[kommanders]

you’d literally have to pull me off him

#needthat

[kommanders]

TWO IS BETTER THAN ONE

pairing: bruce wayne x reader x batman

summary - a contraption used by the penguin splits your husband into two separate identities, batman and bruce wayne, igniting a hidden fantasy you're more than happy to indulge in... cw - established relationship, doubles sex/threesome, no self-cest, oral sex fem! and male! receiving, praise kink, hair pulling, minor degradation, marking, biting, unprotected penetrative sex, multiple orgasms

based on this ask a/n: i've always wanted to do a challengers style fic hehe, also tysm guys for 100 followers i've only been doing this for 3 wks that's so insane ily guys <3 divider by @cafekitsune

IT WAS YEAR TWO OF THE BAT as gotham city's protector, as their symbol. two long years of nights. two long years of your husband scouring the streets, and purifying them with the trail of justice. two years of billionaire philanthropist bruce wayne leading a double life.

you had witnessed every enigmatic case that plagued his mind, cleaned his bruised body, kissed every single scar, and held him during the long, dark nights that even he didn't think he could back from. often, it had felt like you had been through everything together and that you could predict anything.

until tonight.

you had been sat at the window ledge in your shared bedroom for the past two hours, silently thinking and waiting for your husband to come home - this was your normal routine.

he normally traipsed into the room at around 2am, bones cracking delicately, lips fixed into a permanent grimace as you patiently waited to hear the extravagant tales that gotham city had to offer.

but when the clock struck 3am you nerves began to rise, manifesting in soft chills around your body, worry forcing a tight crease in your brow.

bruce was rarely late and always a man of his word. even in those rare times where he found himself in a difficult situation, he always sent alfred up sending his regards.

conveniently the butler wasn't in sight either, the only trace of him being the chamomile tea he delivered to your door 5 hours prior.

you lightly hummed to yourself in an inquisitive manner that rivalled bruce's, beginning your journey down to the batcave.

walking down to the grandfather clock that acted as a double entrance down to the wayne family secrets, though, for some strange reason, it was

wide open.

a draft could be felt all the way up in the hallway and it made you shiver slightly.

alfred must have left it open during the night.

you sauntered down the steps and into the cave, nearing closer you heard hushed voices - a heated exchange that seemed like it wasn't going to be solved any time soon.

you assumed it to be bruce and alfred; like any father and son would do, they would bicker.

sometimes away from you as a sign of respect, other times they would spat in front of you as you sat amused by their squabbles.

whilst the situation seemed to create a curve in your lips, you were slightly confused and perhaps even slightly irritated that bruce had not come to bed. but after all, the city never slept - and even you understood that.

you could alfred's plea in a fragmented fashion, "-need to tell her!"

even bruce's tone seemed to stretch, you knew the small skin of his nose would be tightening with controlled anger, "control the situation before she finds out."

find out what? was he injured? was someone dead?

was he...has he cheating on you?

endless possibilities filled your mind and as you moved further, another hushed voice seemed to join the conversation, making you falter slightly. "cobblepot needs to answer for this."

you could account for the aristocratic-like voice, alfred, the confident and stoic voice, bruce; the last one confused you. it was a commanding baritone that you recognised but couldn't quite place.

perhaps a justice league member? though not many of bruce's colleagues that you knew spoke such a discernible way.

stepping from out of the pillars, you perked your head out in curiosity, going out to greet the trio, "bruce, it's 3am, is everything ok?-"

the sight you were met with stopped you dead in your tracks.

they all froze as if they had been caught by their mother. in your eyeline, alfred shook his head and gave a soft glare to the two men. next to him was bruce. your husband. but also batman. also your husband.

you reeled in shock, you were seeing double.

bruce was clad in his designer black slacks, accompanied by his loafers and finely pressed dress shirt, ironically the same attire he had left for work and the same one you had seen him take off to get in the batsuit.

as ominous as ever, the bat stood firmly, brooding in the shadows and clad in the batsuit, firm and thick - just like your husband.

"bruce what's going on you whispered." pointing between the two of the figures, expecting an explanation.

"it's me." he simply offered.

"yes, i know it's you, but who," you pointed to the man in your husband's suit, "is that."

no one said anything. bruce could you hear you lose it by the second.

"it is both bruce wayne and the batman, miss," it seemed alfred was the only one willing to explain the strange situation, he turned to the two of them, "your husband was ambushed by a contraption and came back in a pair."

"alfred," batman and bruce warned to the butler.

he continued in a petty british flair, "we are unsure how mr. cobblepot managed to achieve such a state of affairs," he flicked his hand at his adopted son, well sons, "but justice league records have shown that all effects reverse within twenty four hours."

you opened your mouth. then closed it just as fast.

the batman moved marginally, in a calculated approach, "the penguin's device had intentions to split the intended victim into singular atoms, however, his design as always appears flawed..." he paused and turned to himself, to bruce wayne, giving him a a small glance of apprehension, "...instead he managed to separate our two identities into two separate beings."

"so what you're saying is that there's two of you, i have two husbands?"

"this is what circumstances have come to, yes" the bat addressed you and, honestly, it felt like he had stripped everything away from you and left you bare. you knew how the batman's gaze left his enemies quaking in fear, but for you, it left you horny as fuck.

in that moment it felt like the air had tightened, your mouth parted lightly and your sleep shirt suddenly clung to your skin in a rush of heat.

shit. you weren't supposed to be enjoying this.

bruce noticed every shift. he always did. and he knew you were aroused at the sight of the both of his personas standing in front of you. he cleared his throat and met you, "it's been a long night. for now, we'll retire to bed and solve this puzzle tomorrow with clearer heads."

he held eye contact with you the entire time and your cheeks immediately flushed.

alfred hummed in the corner, already halfway up the stone stairway, "you are correct, good night master wayne, master batman, and goodnight to you, miss." in the darkness you could make out the mischievous glint in his eye, always the one to find situations like this amusing.

the bat passed you with one loaded look and followed the butler, assuming to one the guest rooms. bruce followed, taking your hand and leading you behind him up to your room. you sucked in a breath, anticipating what was to come.

***

"so, darling, what do you make of our guest?"

bruce had now changed out of his work garments and swapped them for some black sweatpants, the ones that deliciously decorated his abs and v-line. he knew exactly what he was doing.

his quip was dry but direct, wanting to work out your thoughts desires in the very moment.

"guest is one way to put it," you said dryly, shuffling on the bed to make more space for him, "he's still you at the end of the day."

"i know, and i know that you know with the way you reacted at the tone of his voice." bruce was teasing you now.

fuck, he was on to you, "is there something you want to tell me my love?" he questioned, placing one chaste kiss at inside of your neck. he now moved to the shell of your ear and whispered, "something that i won't later find out?"

you squeezed you eyes shut and lightly pressed your thighs together, how on wonder woman's earth were you gonna tell your husband that you fantasised fucking both him and his superhero alter ego?

"you want both of us, don't you." he hummed gently, placing his hands on your hips firmly, "you won't say it but your body is."

"you want both of us, don't you?"

you responded with a curt nod and a breathless yes, his lips quirked upwards to a faint smirk, "i thought me using the voice in bed was enough, you're insatiable."

bruce pressed his lips firmly to yours, kissing you boneless and enough to make your heart lurch. your toes curled as he slid his tongue into you mouth, sliding it across yours sensually, bruce's hands moved under the hem of your shirt and ghosted the skin of your middle, when all of a sudden, two firm knocks could be heard from the doorway.

you both parted in a mirrored pant, gazing at each other and then turned to the door. you knew exactly who it was.

you looked at bruce for permission - he sent you an unyielding nod - you rose from the bed and walked to the door, opening it with a feather-like tug.

you were met with a broad chest, littered in scars and deep ridges, faint swirls of raven hair, muscles for days and sharp quads that could snap anyone in half if they looked the wrong way. you looked down, he was clad in black boxers, the wayne staple with gold embroidery at the seams, he looked thick and firm. you looked at the bat, he still had the cowl own.

you scoffed, it seemed like they had their own differentiation system and had even planned this full exchange in their minds.

you walked bag to the bed, next to bruce and patted the space next to you own the bed. you were on edge but bruce was right, you knew exactly what you wanted. and you'd get just that.

the bat moved wordlessly in the room just like the shadow the public had painted him to be. his body pressed down the bed and you felt both of their auras smother your own. they turned to each other with one quick look, and instantly bruce pulled your face to his, kissing you deeply again. your lips meeting made a wet and sexual noise within the room, your tongues hot with your impulses.

a string of saliva connected the two you, when, just as commanding, the bat pulled your chin in his direction. your lips pressed together, however, where bruce was relatively soft and sensual, the batman kissed like he wanted to dominate you, his perversion evident in the way his erection grew in his undergarments, hand palming your breast with aggression. your panties felt restrictive in the moment and you felt your pussy slick with arousal.

you pulled back with a sharp gasp, taking a deep breath, as their mouths placed themselves on either side of your neck. bruce nibbled softly, kissing and licking bruises as a memory. batman bit and sucked marks across the skin like a warning.

you closed you eyes, lazing in the situation, as your desire came to life and was even better than you imagined. you began to palm the both of them through their clothing, wanting to mirror the pleasure they were giving you. you felt them both in your hands, hot and fucking heavy, the idea making you feel the urge to come.

it lasted no longer, as bruce pulled you and picked you up to move the two of you further up the bed, "bruce what are you-"

he kissed away your question and moved you to sin on his lap, you humped his erection, he let out a breathless moan and kissed your neck in caution, "you're going to get what you came for."

he unbuttoned your sleep shirt from you, freeing your breasts and groping them with his large hands, rolling your nipples as you tipped your head back.

the batman shuffled with your movements, ripping your shorts away from your legs and tearing your panties off you; bruce mumbled that he'd buy you ten more, smirking that his darker self had the same idea.

the batman kneeled in front of you and pressed his nose deep into your sex, inhaling you to become high of your scent. with no avail, he began to eat you out with conviction, licking your body out like a man starved, like man who knew there would be no such promise of you tomorrow.

he circled you clit and sucked hard, enough to make tears well in your eyes and you toes to curl deliciously from pleasure. bruce kissed away the tone of your mewls, placing his hands in yours.

"she takes it so well." the bat growled in that deep, raspy voice which sent you eyes rolling into the back of your head, he placed two thick fingers into your pussy, pulling your legs wider apart with one hand when you attempted to close them.

"she does, doesn't she?" bruce replied curtly, one hand travelling down to your clit and rubbing it in fast circles, the added pressure making you whine loudly. "come for us, dirty girl."

with the encouragement, you began to gush, the bat pressed into you licking you deeper as you came. your moans were a badge of honour to him as he moved to press a possessive hand across your stomach.

they both kissed your respective parts as you basked in your orgasm, you didn't notice the bat shift upwards. in an instant, he flipped you over on all fours and pressed kisses on the curve of your ass, palming your cheek and spreading your slick all over.

bruce with his sweatpants on the floor, stroked his cock to the pace of your sweet breaths, he spat on it as gentlemanly as possibly, the added slick making his underside vein shine in the dark light.

"open, my love." you opened your mouth and welcomed his length, swallowing it up to the base, you held the position, looking up as tears filled your eyes. he stroked your cheek with love and gently tugged your hair, beckoning you to please him.

on the other end, the batman also began to palm himself, moving to tap the head of his cock on your clit, sending sharp shocks which made you jolt back onto bruce.

he pressed your back down and your ass arched perfectly for him, in one swift moment he was filling you to the brim, you were so full. you moaned on bruce's cock as the bat fucked into you hard and fast, giving you no time to recover.

you could feel every ridge and curve of the bat, his cock kissing your cervix as his hands gripped your hips, no doubt that it would leave bruises. you licked up bruce's cock, taking his balls in your hand as you kissed and fondled them. "harder." you stated simply. you wanted to remember every single second of this night.

the bat fucked you deeper, rubbing your clit with a hand, your back arched in pleasure, you mewled onto bruce, sucking him with newfound vigour and kissing his tip carnally.

they didn't know, but you were claiming them with every passing touch.

the bat's movements began to falter as bruce began to moan, you knew he was about to come. with one last suck, you looked up at him as he came in hot spurts in your mouth, "good girl," he gently offered to you. his hands traced your face as you swallowed every drop.

the bat fucked onto you harder, you cried out as you came to your second orgasm of the night, you saw white, panting deeply, he pulled out and came heavy on your ass, painting a picture that you would reminisce in the morning.

you lay back on the sheets, spent and satiated as you gently smiled to yourself. your eyes gently closed and you feel deep into a sleep.

***

"this is where you got that fantasy from?" bruce's lip curled, half in disgust, half in attraction.

it had been three weeks since that night and you had now felt comfortable explaining where you'd gotten that fantasy from.

you were both curled up in your room, watching challengers on your laptop as you explained the complicated dynamic that art, tashi and patrick had to the billionaire.

"it's hot, don't you think?" your cheeks burned.

"it's perverted." he snorted at you.

"well you loved it," raising your eyebrow at him, pressing your lips together.

"you're insatiable."

[kommanders]

dreading the fact that first day of classes is tomorrow LMAO (bout to be chained to my books and articles now)

how about Kyle and reader having a study date but the entire time that the reader was locked in (wish it's me) with their books, Kyle was drawing them the entire time with a note that encourages them to keep pursuing what they love even when it's hard ;))

omg enjoy your new school year, i hope it goes really well for you!

love this idea, thank you for requesting my baby kyle!!!

[kommanders]

hi! would love to request something where Bruce is hit by some contraption that splits his identities into 2: Bruce and Batman, and reader shares a secret fantasy about being with both at the same time (established, married) - thanks! I appreciate reading your work.

wait i love this idea omg!! also tysm for reading🫶🏾🫶🏾

[kommanders]

i had a dream about jason todd the other night and he chased me around my city and pushed me off a building - lol.

then he professed his love for me whilst i was on the floor😭

[kommanders]

Hello! Can I request slightly submissive Bruce x reader? Specifically Battinson’s version (like very much praise kink & desperate) - thanks!

omg i lurvvvv this idea , bruce defo leans more sub in my eyes and i love battinson!