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stxrkiss · 9 days ago

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谷 𝁼 𝒈𝒐 ahead ִ and 𝒞𝓇𝓎 𔓕 𝔏𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔊𝔦𝔯𝔩 ᮫ ꒱

そんな無垢な目で見つめるな... 汚したくなるだろう?

# 𝑷𝑨𝑰𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 : 𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝓑𝓻𝓾𝓬𝓮 𝓦𝓪𝔂𝓷𝓮 𝑥 𝐹𝑒𝑚 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 ☆

# 𝑺𝒀𝑵𝑶𝑷𝑺𝑰𝑺 : 𝘏𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥. 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥'𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘏𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘊𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘉𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘦? 𝘏𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧�� 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦. 𝘖𝘩 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦...

# 𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮 : 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘳, 𝘶𝘯𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘺𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘤𝘴, 𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘱𝘴, 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘳. 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳/𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘋𝘕𝘐.

# 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑬 : 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦.

Bruce remembers the first time he met you.

You were five years old. A tiny thing, too small, too delicate, all bright eyes and soft hands, clinging to his leg like a lifeline.

Your father—one of his most trusted business partners—had laughed, shaking his head.

“She’s taken a liking to you,” he had said, ruffling your hair.

And then, with all the confidence of a child, you had beamed up at Bruce and declared,

“I’m gonna marry you one day!”

The room had erupted in laughter. Your father had chuckled, his business partners had teased him. But Bruce—

Bruce had only smiled.

It was harmless. Just childish innocence.

Or at least, that’s what he had told himself.

You grew up fast.

Too fast.

One moment, you were that little girl clutching his hand at charity galas, giggling when he lifted you into his arms. The next, you were nineteen, standing in his home like you belonged there, a young woman too beautiful for her own good. all soft curves and knowing smiles.

Bruce didn’t know when it started—when his affection for you twisted into something ugly.

All he knows is that one day, he looked at you—really looked at you—and something inside him snapped.

Because you were beautiful.

And it was wrong.

So, so wrong.

And Bruce—he was not a good man.

He tried to be. God, he tried.

Bruce tried to ignore it. He told himself it was natural—a fatherly protectiveness over the daughter of his closest friend.

But a father wouldn’t think about you the way he did.

A father wouldn’t ache like this.

A father wouldn’t watch you when you weren’t looking.

Wouldn’t stare when your nightgown slipped off your shoulder.

Wouldn’t feel his throat tighten when you called him “Mr. Wayne”, your voice so sweet, so innocent, so cruel.

You had no idea what you were doing to him.

And that was the worst part.

You make it impossible.

Because you’re thoughtless. Careless.

You touch him too much. Press yourself against him in hugs that last too long, your fingers curling around his arm, your breath warm on his neck.

He told himself it was innocent. That the way he watched you wasn’t wrong. That the thoughts in his head were just passing moments of weakness—nothing more.

It gets worse when you start talking to him about boys.

You sit on the couch in his study, curled up in one of his expensive leather chairs, talking about your boyfriend problems while he nurses a glass of whiskey, fingers tightening around the crystal.

“Ugh, I don’t know,” you sigh. “Liam’s being so... needy.”

Bruce doesn’t answer.

You don’t notice the way his jaw clenches. The way his fingers tighten. The way his thoughts turn ugly.

You just keep talking.

“He wants to have sex, but I don’t think I’m ready.” You stretch your arms above your head, your crop top rising just enough to show a sliver of your stomach. “I mean, I don’t want my first time to be... disappointing, y’know?”

Bruce stares at you.

His blood boils.

Your first time.

With some boy.

Some child who doesn’t know a damn thing about you.

He hates it.

The thought of your soft little body under some clumsy boy, of you making those sweet little sounds for someone who doesn’t deserve them—someone who doesn’t know you like he does—it makes something inside him snap.

He wants to tell you the truth.

That boys don’t know how to take care of a girl like you. That they’ll use you. That you need a man—someone who can be gentle, who knows how to take care of you, how to teach you.

He wants to say all of it.

But instead, he just takes a slow sip of whiskey and says,

“Be careful who you trust.”

You don’t see the way his eyes darken.

You don’t hear the warning in his voice.

And the worst part?

You ask him for advice.

“Mr. Wayne,” you say sweetly, resting your chin on your palm, “why do men always want one thing?”

Bruce��s jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists under the table.

You don’t understand what you’re playing with.

You don’t see the way his eyes darken when you talk about them. The boys who touch you. The ones who don’t deserve to even look at you.

You don’t understand the filthy thoughts he has when he imagines you with them.

You don’t understand that he wants to ruin you.

Bruce stares at you, at your bare skin, at the way your lips part as if waiting for him to take.

And God help him.

He does.

His hands clench against the couch. He leans in, close enough to breathe you in.

Close enough to claim.

Close enough to ruin you.

He doesn’t remember when he started following you.

Not just in the manor. Not just in his home.

Outside. In the city.

You don’t notice.

Or maybe you do.

Maybe you like knowing he’s watching.

Watching as you go on dates with boys your age—pathetic, fumbling boys who don’t know how to take care of you the way a man like him would.

You always seem disappointed after those dates.

And Bruce tells himself it’s because you know.

You know they aren’t enough.

That they’ll never be enough.

That no one will ever love you the way he does.

But then, one night, he looked at you—really looked at you—and something inside him snapped.

Because you weren’t a child anymore.

You were soft curves and bright smiles and whispers of silk.

And it was wrong.

So, so wrong.

He tries to ignore it.

To pretend that nothing has changed. That you’re still just the daughter of his friend—a girl he has known since childhood.

But you make it impossible.

Because you’re cruel.

You don’t even realize it, but you are.

The way you hug him just a little too long. The way you press against him, your body warm, your scent too sweet, too intoxicating. The way you laugh—tilting your head back, exposing the soft skin of your throat.

The way you call him “Mr. Wayne” in that sweet, teasing voice—like you know exactly what it does to him.

But you don’t.

You don’t understand how dangerous it is to tempt a man like him.

But you will.

Soon.

He thinks about it too much.

The way you look at him. The way you look for him at every party, every event. The way you light up when he pays attention to you.

He shouldn’t.

You’re too young. Too innocent.

He should be ashamed of the way his fingers tighten around his glass when he sees you in those short dresses, the way his breath hitches when you cross your legs, letting the hem ride up—just enough.

And he knows, deep down, that you aren’t doing it on purpose.

That you trust him.

That you have no idea how sick he is.

That you have no idea how long he’s been watching you, how long he’s been thinking about you in ways he shouldn’t.

That you have no idea how badly he wants to ruin you.

It happens late one night.

You’re staying at the manor while your father is away, wandering around in nothing but a silk nightgown that barely reaches your thighs.

And Bruce is watching you.

He shouldn’t be.

But God help him, he can’t look away.

You’re sitting on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, scrolling through your phone, completely unaware of the monster lurking in the shadows.

Then, without looking up, you murmur,

“You’re staring, Mr. Wayne.”

His blood runs hot.

You’re doing it again. Pushing him. Testing him.

You don’t even know what you’re playing with.

“What are you doing up?” His voice is calm. Controlled. But there’s an edge to it, a tension that wasn’t there before.

You stretch, your nightgown riding up, exposing too much skin.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. Then, you turn to him, eyes dark, playful. Inviting. “But maybe you could help with that.”

Silence.

A long, dangerous silence.

Then, Bruce is in front of you, his hands gripping the couch on either side of your body, caging you in.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says, voice low, deadly.

But you just smile.

And Bruce?

Bruce finally snaps.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not soft.

He grips your wrist, too tight, dragging you forward until you gasp, your balance thrown off.

You fall against him, your body flush against his, and he hates himself for how good it feels.

For how warm you are. For how easily you fit against him.

His breath is hot against your ear, his hands shaking as they hover over your skin.

He shouldn’t.

He can’t.

But he wants to.

So, so badly.

“You think this is a game?” His voice is hoarse, strained.

Your lips part, confusion flickering across your face.

And for the first time, you see it.

The way he looks at you.

Like a starving man staring at his last meal.

Like a man at war with himself, a man who has spent years trying to fight something that was always meant to consume him.

You blink up at him, lips slightly parted.

His breath shudders. His grip tightens.

Then, he’s kissing you.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s desperate. A collision of heat and teeth and pent-up want that’s been festering inside him for too long.

You gasp against his lips, and he drinks it in, pressing you deeper into the couch, caging you with his body.

And when he finally pulls back, his pupils blown wide, his breath ragged—

And Bruce—Bruce knows he’s going to hell for this.

But maybe he was always meant to burn.

And maybe you were always meant to burn with him.

1K notes · View notes

stxrkiss · 6 days ago

Text

𓈒⠀݁⠀﹙ 𝓢﹚𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹 ☆ ₊⠀ ៸៸៸

君を愛しすぎて、恐ろしいくらいだ。

# 𝑷𝑨𝑰𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 : 𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝒞𝓁𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝒦ℯ𝓃𝓉 𝑥 𝐹𝑒𝑚 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 ☆ ᵖᵃʳᵗ ¹

# 𝑺𝒀𝑵𝑶𝑷𝑺𝑰𝑺 : 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘰 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘉𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘦'𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳... 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘵, 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳.

# 𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮 : 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘵, 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵, 𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘱, 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘦. 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳/𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘦𝘥. 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘋𝘕𝘐 ⚠

# 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑬 : 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦.

The first time he met her, he had smiled—all warm and friendly, kneeling slightly to meet her gaze.

"Hey there, kiddo," he had greeted, holding out a hand for a handshake. "I’m Clark. It’s nice to meet you."

She had looked at his hand. Then at him.

Then she slapped it away.

"Don’t touch me, you giant farm freak," she had huffed, crossing her arms with the most dramatic pout he had ever seen.

Bruce had sighed in the background, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Sweetheart," he muttered, rubbing his temple.

Clark, ever the optimist, had laughed it off. "That’s okay, I get it. You’re shy."

"I’m not shy, I just don’t like you."

Oh.

Well. That was… blunt.

Bruce had sighed again, clearly exhausted.

"She’s a little difficult," he admitted, shooting Clark a look and said, Don’t take it personally. She’s like this with everyone.

But Clark did take it personally.

Because why didn’t she like him?

Every time he visited, she made it her mission to make his life miserable.

She refused to be in the same room as him.

She glared at him when he tried to talk to her.

She scoffed whenever he spoke—literally scoffed, as if the very sound of his voice was offensive to her.

But the worst part?

She hit him.

Not in a playful way, either. No, she slapped him.

Like the time he tried to ruffle her hair and she smacked his hand away so hard he actually had to take a step back.

Or the time he tried to pick her up and fly her around Gotham for fun, thinking maybe she’d like to see the city from above—only for her to kick him in the chest with all the force her tiny body could muster.

It didn’t hurt, obviously.

But emotionally?

It hurt a lot.

"Bruce," Clark sighed one evening, after yet another failed attempt at bonding. "Why does she hate me?"

Bruce, sitting at the Batcomputer, barely looked up. "She hates everyone."

Clark frowned. "No, she doesn’t. She loves Alfred. She loves Dick. Hell, she even tolerates Jason."

Bruce exhaled through his nose. "She’s… selective."

"Selective?" Clark echoed. "Bruce, she tried to bite me yesterday."

A pause.

Bruce rubbed his temple. "She has… behavioral issues."

"No kidding," Clark muttered.

And yet, despite everything, despite all the slaps, the glares, the insults—

Clark still tried.

Because deep down, Clark just wanted to be the cool uncle she could count on.

Even if, right now, she wanted nothing more than to punch him in the face.

She was nineteen now.

Not a bratty little girl anymore—at least, not in the way she used to be. She had grown into her attitude, into her wicked little smirks and sharp, teasing words.

And Clark?

Clark had never stood a chance.

"Come on, Clark," she hummed, tugging on his tie as he stood behind her in the luxury boutique. "Be a good boy and carry my bags."

There was nothing sweet about the way she said it. No hint of genuine affection. Just amusement, like he was some plaything she enjoyed toying with.

Clark exhaled slowly through his nose, the fabric of his tie clutched between her fingers. She smelled expensive—velvet and jasmine, something rich and indulgent.

He shouldn’t be here.

He shouldn’t be doing this.

But he still took the bags from her hands without a word. Because she expected him to.

Because she always expected him to.

And God help him—he never had the strength to say no.

It had started gradually.

One day, she called him to help carry her shopping bags. The next, she was dragging him into dressing rooms to critique her outfits.

She’d smirk at him through the mirror, knowing damn well what she was doing when she turned too slow, when her fingers brushed his as she adjusted a strap.

And he?

He tried—God, he tried—to be good. To be the man he was supposed to be.

But she made it so difficult.

Because she was Bruce’s daughter.

Because she was forbidden.

Because she wasn’t a child anymore—and she wanted him to notice.

And he had noticed.

Every time she crossed her legs just a little too slowly.

Every time she leaned in, speaking so close to his ear.

Every time her lips curled in that smug little smirk, like she knew exactly what kind of thoughts were crawling through his mind.

Clark felt sick.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this way.

He was supposed to be better.

But she… she made it impossible.

And she knew it.

"You’re staring, Clark."

Her voice was smooth, honeyed with amusement. She leaned against the railing of balcony, sipping from a champagne flute like she owned the world.

Clark tore his gaze away, clenching his jaw.

"I wasn’t."

She laughed—soft, teasing, utterly cruel.

"You’re a terrible liar."

And then she turned to him, slow and deliberate, like a cat playing with a mouse.

"I like it, you know."

His breath hitched.

She tilted her head, her smirk widening as she caught the way his hands flexed at his sides.

"Knowing that even you aren’t so perfect."

Clark should have left.

He should have flown away, should have ended this madness before it spiraled even further.

But instead, he stood there. Still. Silent. Waiting.

Because she was right.

He wasn’t perfect.

Not when it came to her.

Never when it came to her.

Clark tried.

God, he tried.

His hands were on his wife, his mouth on her skin, his body moving inside her—fast, hard, like he could pound her out of his head.

Like he could fuck her out of his head.

It didn’t work.

No matter how tight his grip, no matter how deep he buried himself in the warmth of the woman he swore to love, it wasn’t enough.

Because she was there.

Not in the room. Not in his bed.

But in his mind.

"I like it, you know."

Her voice curled around his brain like silk, soft and sweet.

Clark clenched his jaw, his rhythm faltering.

He couldn’t think about her. Not now.

Not with his wife’s nails dragging down his back.

Not with her soft, breathless moans filling the room.

Not with her beneath him, giving him everything, and yet—

Yet it still wasn’t enough.

His fingers dug into the sheets as he thrust harder, desperate, as if he could fuck his way back to sanity. As if he could drown out that voice, that goddamn voice whispering in his skull—

"Knowing that even you aren’t so perfect."

Clark growled, pressing his face against his wife’s shoulder, biting down as he spilled inside her.

He didn’t moan her name.

He barely moaned at all.

Because deep down, in the filthiest, most twisted part of himself—

He knew who he had been fucking in his mind.

Later, when his wife lay naked on his chest, fingers lazily caressing his skin, Clark stared at the ceiling.

What was wrong with him?

She was here. The woman he loved, the woman he married, the woman who had given him her body, her vows, her whole damn heart.

And yet, all he could hear was her voice.

All he could see was her smirk.

All he could feel was the way she had pulled his tie, the way she had toyed with him, knowing damn well she had him by the throat.

Clark squeezed his eyes shut, his breath tight in his chest.

It was wrong.

It was so fucking wrong.

And yet—

When he finally drifted off to sleep, it wasn’t his wife’s warmth he dreamed of.

It was hers.

The clinking of silverware against porcelain filled the quiet space of their dining room.

Clark should have been present—should have been engaged, smiling at his wife, asking his son about his day.

Instead, his thoughts were somewhere else.

Or rather, on someone else.

Her lips.

Soft. Smirking. Painted in that deep, wicked red she loved to wear.

For God’s sake, she could be his daughter.

Clark swallowed, forcing himself to focus on his plate, on the sound of his son talking about his day, on the warmth of Lois sitting across from him.

Then—

Ding-dong.

The doorbell rang.

Lois stood, her brows already furrowed as she moved to open it. Clark exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. Maybe it was Bruce. Maybe it was anyone else.

But when he heard Lois’ voice—tight, cold—he already knew.

"What are you doing here?"

And then—that voice.

"My father wants Clark to take me shopping. He’s the only man he trusts, after all."

Clark’s stomach dropped.

Slowly, he turned in his chair.

And there she was.

A tight black dress that hugged every curve. The hem too short, the neckline too low, her makeup subtle, like a trap waiting to be sprung.

She smirked at him, as if she knew exactly what kind of thoughts were twisting in his mind.

Clark could see the way Lois’ jaw clenched. She didn’t argue, but she didn’t have to. Her silence was enough.

"Give me two minutes," Clark muttered, pushing away from the table.

She only smiled as he brushed past her, heading to grab his coat.

The silence in the car was thick.

Clark kept his hands on the wheel, his knuckles white. He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t.

But she?

She watched him.

Legs crossed, lips curled, one manicured finger tracing patterns on her bare thigh.

He cleared his throat. "So… where are we going?"

A slow, lazy hum. "Oh, nowhere in particular."

He frowned. "I thought Bruce wanted—"

She laughed. Soft. Sweet. Cruel.

"He didn’t say anything, Clark," she admitted, voice syrupy with amusement. "I just thought we should have dinner. A little apology, you know, for my behavior the other day."

Clark finally glanced at her, suspicion in his gaze.

She smiled.

"I was rude. And my father always taught me to respect my elders."

The way she said it made his stomach twist.

Her eyes flickered over him, slow, appraising.

"So let me make it up to you."

Clark swallowed, gripping the steering wheel tighter.

This was a bad idea.

A very bad idea.

And yet—

He didn’t turn the car around.

The restaurant was lavish—gold-trimmed chandeliers, soft candlelight flickering over polished mahogany tables, the air thick with the scent of fine wine and indulgence.

Clark felt out of place.

Not because he wasn’t used to luxury—Lois had dragged him to a fair share of high-end places before—but because of who he was here with.

She sat across from him, poised and elegant, her black dress clinging to her like it had been poured onto her body. Her hair was sleek, her lips painted that same sinful red, her nails tapping against her wine glass as she gazed at him with something dangerous in her eyes.

Like a cat watching a mouse.

Or worse—like a predator watching prey that didn’t know it was already caught.

"Order whatever you want," she murmured, voice light, playful. Too easy.

Clark’s throat was dry. He glanced at the menu, barely able to focus on the words. "This place is expensive," he muttered.

Her smile widened, lazy and amused. "And?"

He sighed, setting the menu down. "I can pay for my own meal."

A small, soft laugh. "I know you can," she mused, tilting her head, studying him like he was a particularly interesting specimen under glass. "But I invited you. That means I pay."

"That’s not necessary," he muttered.

She hummed. "Just let me take care of you, Clark."

He tensed.

Because the way she said it, the way she let his name slip from her lips like silk, was wrong. Too intimate. Too indulgent.

Still, he said nothing as the waiter approached. He ordered something simple, quick, something to get this dinner over with. She, of course, ordered the most expensive wine on the menu, smiling sweetly as the waiter practically tripped over himself in the presence of her beauty.

Clark stared down at the table, willing himself to act normal.

She was Bruce’s daughter. She was half his age. She was off-limits.

And yet—

She made it so damn hard.

Conversation came easy. Too easy.

She asked him about work, about Smallville, about Krypton—things she had no reason to be interested in, and yet she listened, really listened, her chin resting on her palm as she sipped her wine and smiled.

Clark hated how good it felt.

Hated how, for just a moment, he almost forgot that this was dangerous.

And then—

Her fingers brushed against his.

Clark’s breath hitched.

It was soft. Barely there. A fleeting touch as she reached for her glass, her fingertips ghosting over the back of his hand, warm and delicate.

He tried to ignore it.

Tried to pretend it didn’t happen.

But then she did it again.

And this time, she let it linger.

Clark swallowed hard, staring down at the table, at the way her slender fingers curled around his own, as if testing, as if seeing how far she could push before he pulled away.

He should have. He should have yanked his hand back.

But he didn’t.

Because his body—traitorous, weak, craving something he shouldn’t—refused to move.

"You’re so tense," she murmured, voice smooth as silk, as warm as the candlelight flickering between them.

Clark’s jaw clenched. "This is inappropriate."

She laughed—soft, amused, unbothered.

"Inappropriate?" she echoed, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand, slow, deliberate. "Clark, I’m just holding your hand."

He inhaled sharply. "You know what you’re doing."

Her lips curled. "Do I?"

"Yes," he ground out.

She tilted her head, her nails lightly dragging against his skin. "Then tell me to stop."

Clark finally looked at her.

She was waiting.

She knew. She knew damn well.

That he wanted to.

That he should.

That he couldn’t.

And that—

That was what made her smile widen.

The drive was silent.

Not peaceful. Heavy. Suffocating.

Clark kept his hands tight on the wheel, his knuckles white as the city lights blurred past. She sat beside him, her posture relaxed, her scent curling into his lungs—velvet and jasmine, warmth and sin.

He needed to take her home. Now.

His body felt wired, skin too tight, thoughts too loud. He needed to get away from her. Away from the way she made him feel. Away from the things she made him think.

And yet—

“Take me here,” she murmured, tapping a name into his GPS.

Clark’s gaze flickered to the screen. A hotel.

His jaw clenched. “No.”

A soft laugh. “Just drop me off, then.”

Clark should have refused. Should have said no, should have driven straight to Wayne Manor and let Alfred deal with her.

Instead, he turned.

He didn’t know why.

Or maybe he did, and that was the worst part.

The hotel was opulent, grand, the kind of place meant for people who could afford indulgence.

Clark felt wrong being here with her. Felt sick.

And yet, he still walked her inside, following her through marble hallways, past velvet-draped corridors, his mind screaming at him to leave, leave, leave.

But he didn’t.

She stopped in front of her door, swiping the keycard, the soft click of the lock echoing too loud.

Clark took a step back. “Go inside.”

She turned to him, tilting her head. “Walk me in?”

“No.”

A smirk. “Why? Afraid?”

Clark exhaled sharply. “Go inside.”

She didn’t listen.

Instead, she stepped closer—so close he could feel the warmth of her breath against his throat.

And then—

A kiss.

Soft. Feather-light. A touch of silk, a whisper of warmth against his lips—like a butterfly’s wing, there and gone in an instant.

Clark froze.

Wide eyes peered up at him, watching. Waiting.

He could still feel it. The ghost of it. The soft press of her lips, something innocent yet tainted—something so terribly, horribly wrong.

She leaned in again.

And this time, he kissed her back.

God forgive him.

He let her.

For a moment—just a moment—he let himself fall.

And it was wrong. So, so wrong.

But she tasted like everything forbidden. Like something that would ruin him completely.

His hands should have pushed her away. Instead, they lingered at her waist.

Her fingers traced his jaw, trailing down his chest, toying with the hem of his shirt—and he let her.

Clark felt sick.

And yet—

He still didn’t stop her.

Because maybe—deep down—he didn’t want to.

And that?

That was the worst sin of all.

The first thing Clark felt was warmth.

Soft. Smooth. Wrong.

His eyes snapped open.

And there she was.

Curled against his chest, her breath slow and steady, her fingers still faintly gripping his skin. The sheets tangled between them, silk pooling around her bare shoulders like some cruel parody of innocence.

Oh, God.

He sucked in a sharp breath, nausea curling in his stomach.

What have I done?

Slowly, carefully, he untangled himself from her. Every movement felt like a sin. His limbs felt heavy, his body aching in ways he refused to acknowledge. He swung his legs off the bed, planting his feet against the cold floor, trying to breathe.

He needed to leave. Now.

But then—

A sleepy murmur. The rustle of silk.

"Clark...?"

His shoulders tensed. He didn’t turn around.

The bed shifted as she sat up, the sheets sliding against her skin. He could hear the way she clutched the fabric to her chest, could feel the weight of her gaze pressing into his back.

"What are you doing?"

Her voice was soft, uncertain. Almost pleading.

Clark clenched his jaw. His hands trembled as he reached for his shirt. He needed to get dressed. He needed to get out.

"This..." His voice came out raw. Ugly. "This should have never happened."

Silence.

Then—softly—"Clark—"

"No." He snapped, whirling to face her. Her eyes widened at the fury in his voice.

"This was a mistake," he hissed. "A disgusting, unforgivable mistake."

Something flickered in her expression—something fragile, something almost wounded.

Clark didn’t care. He couldn’t afford to care.

He yanked his coat over his shoulders, moving toward the door.

But before he could reach it—