Life of a fangirl fujoshi in letters and images.

It wasn't that you didn't care for Halloween anymore. Quite the contrary, you couldn't wait for Autumn! For the first time in your life, you were about to share this special occasion with a boyfriend.

However, as days grew colder and the leaves on the tree outside your window fell golden to the ground, instead of feeling thrilled, you grew dreadfully insecure.

By October, you snuffed any mention of Halloween away. Fearing Henry would think your fixation was foolish, no decorations were purchased nor hung on your walls. And even when Henry randomly mentioned 'trick or treating', you heard yourself mutter, "who wants to go out on Halloween anyway? That's lame kids' stuff..."

And so... your obsession was buried under heaps of insecurity until the burning wick of your candle dwindled and died.

On the night of Hollows Eve, all you wanted to do was go home and lay snuggled on the sofa with Henry until the night was over. You decided to spend that time together not celebrating Halloween.  

Heading home from work, you kept your eyes vacant, not daring a glimpse at the children and teenagers who ran about in their costumes. You convinced yourself you didn't care for it anymore, when deep inside, you couldn't help but feel a needle in your heart every time you passed through a glowing jack o' lantern who leered at you from a neighbour's doorstep.

"Henry, I am home!" 

You declared as you finally unlocked the door. 

Oddly, the light was off.  

"Umm... Henry where..."

A flash of bright blue light blinded your sight, followed by a rumbling thunder that boomed angrily in your ears.

Confused and unable to see anything, you sought for the light switch in the dark when another lightening painted the house in pale icy shades. This time, the thunder accompanied a low, growly evil laughter with a familiar timbre.

"We've been expecting you..." 

Still in the dark, you heard someone click his fingers. At the little snap, a dozen little glowing tears of light lit your apartment in a dim orange glow.

Still hazy from the abrupt change, you rubbed your eyes and took a better look before a loud gasp of wonder escaped your lips. When you left home for work this morning, your apartment still looked like a mundane IKEA catalogue. The last thing you expected was to return to one of the dungeons hidden in Dracula's castle.  

Instead of naked white walls, you faced pitted bricks of grey stone cloaked by cobwebs and a dozen antique-looking candlesticks holding tall lamps that were made to look like candles. Smoke-wafting caldron stood upon the table, surrounded by plump pumpkins and several trays abundant with an assortment of sweets, including cookies that were made to look like green zombie fingers, bats and evil skulls. 

Astonished, you turned in your spot with your mouth agape, uncertain what to focus on first. Even the once-flat ceiling was remodelled as a blanket of pillowy clouds replaced the surface. Stringed flapping rubber bats hung from the top, and as you peered down, you spotted bloodied footprints all over the floor.  

"I thought the place could use a bit of redecoration..." 

Stepping from the corner, Henry finally appeared, donning a furry werewolf onesie and pointy rubber ears covered with shaggy grey hair. His beard was overgrown, the rounded tip of his nose tinted black, and the piercing sapphires that glanced at you so proudly were rimmed by black as well. 

In a passing thought, you mused that it was unfair that he wore eyeliner better than any other woman you knew!

You opened your mouth to speak, but before you managed a word, Henry pointed a finger in the air, "wait, that's not all!" He chimed, "Kal, to me!" 

Prancing through the corridor, the chunky bear-of-a-dog rapped with a playful greeting bark. Just like his master, the four-legged pal was wearing a matching furry onesie.

The pointy rubber ears covered his own, although there was no need for them. You wanted to laugh at the silliness of the situation, but once you breathed, you sensed the unmistakable sting in your eyes, and soon your sight became blurry. 

As Henry’s noticed your glossy eyes, his brow creased with concern. Rushing towards you, he grasped your forearms and lowered his head to get a better look at your face. 

"My love? What’s wrong?”

Tears kissed your cheeks but only for a moment. The back of your hand swept them away before you sprang a smile between quivering lips. “You did this?” You swayed your gaze across the room to gesture, “all of this for me?”

Henry’s concern faded into a soft grin. Tenderly, he leaned in to kiss your brow, his hands squeezing your forearms slightly firmer, “of course I did.”

Kal barked at his response, which made Henry instantly correct, “well, Kal, the ‘were-bear’ helped too.”

The dog barked again, tapping his paw on the floor in protest. 

“And…. the art department of Netflix,” Henry mumbled quickly.

Cheeks still damp, you giggled and knelt, planting a tender kiss on Kal’s snoot. “Thank you, Kal.”

Henry’s glance warmed your neck, admiration filling his heart as he saw you - his girl, tearing in childlike joy. It had only been six months, though secretly, he already knew; he could spend a lifetime bringing a smile to your face, and just as this thought resonated in his mind, he remembered he hadn’t even finished unveiling all his surprise.

“Hang on. There is more!” He called and rushed to fetch a small bag hidden behind the sofa. 

Smiling with anticipation, you peered inside, pleasantly surprised to find another werewolf onesie to match his and Kal's, so now the three of you can wear matching pyjamas. 

“Only werewolves get to join Halloween celebrations this year…”

“Shouldn’t you bite me first in order to turn me?” You suggested with a quirk of an eyebrow while fishing the outfit from the bag. 

“The night is young…” Henry responded and then leaned in. His breath blew hot against your neck as his lips ghosted over the shell of your ear, and with a growl, he uttered, “I plan to do plenty of biting…”

But as he drew back, all whimsical and wickedness faded. Like the ocean kissed by the sun, his eyes sparked, the gleam of the dozen ‘candlelight’ reflecting in it while he offered a deep glance. 

“Why did you pretend not to care about it? All your friends told me how much time you spent every year getting ready…” His palm reached your nape, thumb grazing the length of your spine affectionately to reassure you. 

You looked away, both ashamed of your pretence but also at what you thought he’d find as a foolish fixation, “I didn’t mean to lie or anything, I was just afraid…”

“Of what?” His thumb further caressed your skin, sensing how the hair stood on the back of your neck.

“I was afraid you’d think I am weird.”

“You are weird,” he exclaimed and shrugged, “that’s why I love you.”

Hearing his words made your heart skip. Once again, the tears tickled your eyes. Inadubly, you mouthed, “thank you” as the words couldn't make their way through your clenching throat.

Henry’s hand moved from your nape to your cheeks and gently so, wiped away your tears. “Now go and change, darling, because like I said, only werewolves can join the celebration.”

Nodding, you snatched the bag from his grasp and hurried to change your outfit. That night and every night since, the 31st of October became the most important date of in the Cavill Household, where each time, both Henry and you sought creative ways to top the last year's celebration.

Standing almost naked before him – a tiny pair of silk panties being your only cover – you move to hide yourself. Despite your growing intimacy towards each other, you feel vulnerable standing so exposed in broad daylight. But then he lifts you up, grabbing you around the waist and places you on the desk. He has moved everything to the side without you noticing, but then again, you were on the floor, busy with other business.

Henry takes your hands in his and guides you up to your feet. He leans forward to kiss your swollen mouth while trailing his fingers down the sides of your body. With the sweep of his hand, he pulls your dress over your head and tosses it aside.

Perched on the desk like a playful kitten, you help to unbutton his shirt, feeling his abs as you release the lower buttons from their respective holes. Your lips meet again while your fingers roam his chest. Everything seems messy and ravenous. Instinctual. Long lost is your embarrassment about being so bare.

Your arms entwine as you taste each other. You wrap your legs around his hips, beckoning his hardening member towards you, making it clear to him that you want him inside.

The table is the perfect level for him to simply stand and enter you, but the man just teases; stroking the head of his dick against the soft, wet silk of your panties. The friction is near driving you insane. Gripping his shoulders and digging your nails into his flesh, you draw him close and whisper in his ear, “Henry, I want you inside me.”

“Babygirl, not yet.” He smirks. What’s he up to, you wonder. His strong hands run slowly down your shoulders, upper arms, chest, waist … then he lowers himself.

From the floor, he looks up at you and licks his lips. The hunger in his eyes is not to be mistaken of.

“Baby, really? I want you so bad!” you plead, your voice thick with self-pity.

“I want to do this for you,” he says, his eyes never leaving yours while he hooks his fingers around the hem of your panties. He kisses the supple skin on your thighs and all you can do is whimper.

Taking your whimpering as a sign to continue, he tugs your underwear down. Instinctively, you squeeze your legs together, not used to having a man’s face level with your core. He chuckles and places both of your ankles on one of his shoulders, then presses wet kisses on your calves as he slides your undergarments further down.

“There we go,” he mutters, lifting them over your feet. Then he gently moves your leg over so he has one on each shoulder. When you struggle to keep your thighs together, he says, “ssssh, darling. Try to relax. I’ll stop if you don’t want me to do this, but… I really want to–”

“Ooh–” you pipe, still suspicious about the situation, “–okay…” Shaking your head, you close your eyes and try to relax.

“–taste you,” he finishes.

“Wait!” you gasp, “this isn’t how it’s supposed to go…”

“Sssh, babe.” His fingers trail along the outer side of your thighs until his strong hands press down on your abdomen. “Lean back, honey,” he whispers between kisses, “deep breaths.”

What is this sorcery? you think to yourself, leaning back on the desk and trying to ease into his touch. He kisses your shins, his lips barely gracing your skin. In your mind's eye, you sense a phantom trail of rose petals where his lips touch as they travel along the slopes of your legs.

“Mmmh, you smell so lovely… roses?” His words are gentle butterflies, fluttering up to your ear, barely noticeable before they are gone again. You sense his lingering gaze on your exposed body before you feel his tender lips on you once more.

When he reaches past your knees, you feel a tingling sensation between your legs. You were soaked, you’d been that for a while, but this was doing something else to you.

As he gets closer to the apex of your thighs, you can’t help but reach for his hair, grasping it between your fingers. Your body is trembling under his touch. Noticing his urge to move further on, you tighten your grip and lock your arms, prohibiting him to continue. He catches your cue and chuckles.

“I know you’re not used to this,” he says between kisses, “but I want to give you a treat, babe.”

You sigh.

“Let me spoil you.”

Next you feel a wet surface slide across your thigh, followed by another kiss. You try to remind yourself that “the only difference between fear and excitement is breath”, then lyrics from a song begins to play in your ear;

“Breathe on me, yeah, oh

Baby just, breathe on me

We don't need to touch, just

Breathe …”

“Baby,” you say, surprised to hear the hoarse sound of your own voice.

“Mhm?” his deep thrum sends a burning wave through your core.

“Breathe on me…”

“Mhmmm.”

As the warm air of his exhale grazes your skin, you can almost feel the smirk take form on his lips.

He presses a wet kiss onto your thigh, then spreads his lips apart against your skin. As his lips part, the heat of a slow breath tickles the tiny hairs on your skin. When it fades, you feel his wet tongue graze over you again. Next, he must have pressed his lips together as if to whistle because you feel cold air striking a confined area of your moist skin. It’s as if he’s painting a secret mark on you. Once the cold air stops, his lips meet your skin again, wiping out the inscription before he does the same series of tricks all over again. After a while, he switches to the opposite thigh, giving it the same treatment.

Finally easing into the pleasure, you somehow manage to synchronize your breath to the rhythm of his… technique. Bliss roams.

Your desire is amplified by the sensation of cold and warmth mingling together. Thunderous surges begin bolting through your core, causing you to tighten the muscles in your thighs again, threatening to squeeze him. Quite oblivious to your own strength, Henry hums with amusement as he digs his fingers into your flesh and spreads your legs apart, seizing control.

“Okay, babe… can I dive in?”

“Uh-huh…” you reply, partially deaf by lust.

“Just promise not to choke me, okay?”

You force your head up and meet his sparking blues.

“Huh? Oh–”

Before you can fully comprehend what he said, you feel his broad tongue slide up between your folds. Overcome by delirium, you arch your back and a guttural moan escapes from your depth.

He chuckles, well aware that he has you in his hollow hand now. Your trembling body is telling him that you still have some resistance, but your feral excitement is clearly taking over.

His tongue slides over your slick folds again, sending shivers through your core. Then he starts licking you in tiny flutters, just at the very tip of your clit.

He squints his eyes open to see your reaction, but he shouldn’t have bothered. You let out a shuddering moan at his deeds. Without thinking, you cross your legs behind his back, at once trapping him and prompting him to continue.

Quite pleased with himself, he delves deeper, making his strokes broader. Brushing his nose against the top of your mound, the slight stubble on his jaw scrapes the delicate skin of your inner thighs.

When he finally pushes his tongue against your slit, entering just slightly, you’re a crazed mess. He proceeds to suckle your clit. Taking a chance to let go of one of your thighs, his free hand wanders up your body and as if awaiting it, you sit up as best you can and take his hand in yours. One by one, you lick and suck hungrily on his fingers, moaning while you explore his digits.

He switches between suckling your bud and slit, then shoves two fingers into your mouth. Still holding the palm of his hand in yours, you encourage his force by pushing his fingers further in, then continue to suck on them with savage commitment.

He lets go of your other leg and moves that hand to your cunt. Still sucking your sensitive bud, there’s just room enough for his fingertips to graze your wetness before he lets them replace his tongue on your clit.

Without removing either hand from your body, he rises to stand between your legs. You’re still sucking his fingers when he says, “you liked that, didn’t you, kitten?”

You purr onto his fingers in agreement and bat your lashes at him. He pushes another digit between your lips and you immediately show your appreciation by embracing it with your tongue.

His other fingers slide across your entrance, collecting your sweet syrup, then glides between your folds, spreading the wetness.

“You’re Daddy’s little slut now, aren’t you?”

You hum again, then he invades your mouth with a fourth finger. You open your eyes wide, meeting his lustrous gaze. Did you hear him correctly? He owns your soul, but you never imagined him to use such a word with you. It triggered something that you couldn’t quite place.

His eyes are sharp and stern, and without dropping his gaze from your face, he slips a long, thick finger into your narrow cave. A deep sigh escapes you, but mid-sigh the fingers in your mouth yank your jaw down with unexpected force. His feral dominance stuns you.

“I need to hear that you mean it, baby.” His voice is dark as char. “You’re Daddy’s little slut … Right?”

You avert his stare for a brief second before he yanks at your jaw again. “Come now, baby,” he says, the velvety smoothness of his voice disarming you.

He slides the finger out of your core.

Looking into his sombre eyes, you see that a mist has surfaced within them. His four fingers retreat slowly from your mouth, dragging your lip down towards your chin. He holds it there, exposing your teeth, making you feel anxious and scrutinized. A moment passes before it strikes you: He’s admiring you, but there is something beast-like in his misty eyes. He has a wicked smile on his lips and a curious energy beams out of him, conquering you. This is an adventure you’re willing to pursue, with him. Whatever he wants, you are his.

He sees the shift in your mindset and tilts his head to the side, then releases your lip.

You smile, feeling mischief reveal itself from within you.

“I’m your little slut, daddy.”

His lips curl up to one side, flashing a fang-like tooth. His hand reaches for your mouth again, pressing hard on your lower lip. His other hand presses against your craving slit.

“That’s it. One more time, kitten. A bit louder for me this time.”

You swallow, then try to summon more confidence to your voice, “I’m daddy’s little–”

Two thick digits interrupt you as they enter your starved cunt. You shudder at the impact.

Henry smiles, his hazy eyes locked on yours. There is something deadly, controlled and collected about him, and it’s sending electric bolts through your entire body.

“You have to say it if you want me to fuck you, darling,” his tone of voice now threateningly mellow.

Two fingers glide in and out of your plush, lower lips at an agonizingly slow pace, making you lose concentration.

Desperate to feel more of him, you try to grind against his fingers. Then he seizes your jaw –your lips burn as they are released from the pressure– and turns your head to the side and licks your cheek. He turns you back to face him, his mysterious blue eyes penetrating your soul as he whispers, “say it.”

Eyes interlocked, you swallow again, trying not to think about his fingers now prodding against your g-spot. Staring into his foggy blues, you say with all the conviction you can muster, “I’m your little slut, Daddy.”

A groan escapes him as he hears these words and he crams his fingers into your mouth again. He rests his forehead against yours while he forces a third digit into your slit, beginning to fuck your cunt with beastly vigor. You moan together until you cum on his hand. He pulls out of your mouth and cunt, and before the wave of your orgasm has subsided, he shoves his massive shaft into you.

His full length enters in one rapid movement, stabbing your cervix and forcing your narrow passage to stretch to accommodate his mass. You wail at the impact and seize his shoulders in exasperation, pulling him into you, arms and legs clutching his bulky figure. While you sob into the crook of his shoulder, he pulls his member out leaving only the head still inside you. Then he thrusts back into you, hitting your cervix once more, making you weep.

You are stumped when you feel his calloused fingers stroke your hair away from your face, gently leading it behind your ear before he goes on to caress your back. His other arm holds you around your shoulders; comforting, yet keeping you in your place. He pulls out a bit, then thrusts back into you. You cry as he hits your cervix again.

“You’ve been such a good girl for me, baby.”

His baritone voice vibrates throughout your body, creating an odd, soothing sensation as it merges with the pain of his immense shaft claiming your cunt.

“Such a good slut for your Daddy.”

He pulls out, then thrusts, but this time he doesn’t go all the way. Pulling out again, he draws his entire body back, the better to look at you.

“I love you, darling,” he says, wiping a tear away from your eyes. The tenderness in his voice mimicked a siren's call; leading you to paradise.

“I love you too, Daddy.” Shivers run down your shoulders and arms as you repeat the still foreign name, “Daddy…”

He hums and thrusts again, injecting a dose of serenity into your core with every stroke. He leans forwards and meets your lips with his. You sense his devotion and feel sucked into his being; at one with his essence. He sinks deeper into you, but not all the way. He’s still stroking your back with comforting affection, and now also stroking your shoulder with his other hand.

Tranquility has settled over you and a desperate longing in your belly has begun to emerge. Digging your nails into his muscles, you kiss him with zeal, letting your lips roam over his gorgeous face. You want him, all of him; this violent, generous being. All the while he continues to thrust with tenderness and compassion, steadily sinking deeper every time.

When you’ve finally adjusted to his girth and length, your lust for him has become a fever.

You lick the skin behind his ear with the tip of your tongue, then gingerly bite his earlobe.

“I want you to fuck me now, Daddy,” you whisper. He growls. You reach a hand around the nape of his neck, squeezing it as you continue, “fuck me like the greedy little whore that I am.” A guttural moan escapes him and he looks into your eyes with gluttony and determination. He strokes your hair as he says, “are you ready, baby?”

“Didn’t you hear me, Daddy?”

The wicked flash of his fang would have been enough to tell you that yes, he had indeed heard you, but then he says, “Oh, so you’re also a little brat?” He kisses you impatiently, hungrily, before you can answer, then he says, “Thankfully you’re my little brat. Hold tight, kitten!”

You manage to lock your legs and arms around him just in time for him to lift you off the table. Quite abruptly, with his hands firm under your ass, he has you bouncing up and down on his shaft like a merry-go-round.

Cries of passion fill the room. You’re living a perfect fantasy.

He carries you over to push your back against the wall, then kisses you as if you’ve been away from him for a lifetime and a day.

Retreating from the wall again, he shifts his hands so one is on the small of your back.

“Lean back, darling.”

Although puzzled, you trust his strength and do as he says, leaning back as much as you can, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Mhm,” he hums, his feral smile appearing again, “now grind, baby.”

Not even sure if you can, you close your eyes as you focus all your muscles to grind against him in the new position.

It is… magnificent.

The way he holds you, his sheer muscles supporting you in that position…

You pause for a moment as your gaze travels over his body; the glistening sheen of sweat on his arms and torso intoxicating you. You shake your head in awe of his majestic, god-like beauty. Then lust returns to your consciousness and you grind again, feeling him fill you completely, exquisitely. The way he supports your lower back and ass allows you to enhance your own efforts. Your clit rubs against his lower abdomen and before long you’re departing; riding into a trance of intense energy.

Just when you’re approaching your next climax Henry hauls you up to him. Startled by the sudden shift, you look around. Then you realize he’s taking you back to the bedroom. He lays you down on the bed and descends over you. He kisses your throat, ears and face with feverish desire. Then he puts your arms above your head and kisses those too. At last, he kisses your lips before beginning to thrust again.

“I love you so much, babe,” he mutters between hungry kisses.

“I love you too, baby,” you reply, struggling to get a chance to even say the words.

When he pushes your legs up, you feel him knocking against your cervix again, making your eyes roll to the back of your head. But you just want all of him now. The only words you can think are, “Fuck, Daddy!”

He proceeds to pound into you with an intensity you haven’t experienced before.

“Oh god, fuck me, Daddy!” you cry, feeling your next orgasm climb.

His moans merge into animalistic roars as he plunges into you with a pace and power that forces all the air out of your lungs, splitting your mind to atoms.

A part of your consciousness that is still somewhat aware of the situation, recognizes the throbbing of his dick just before he growls, “Arh, fuck!”

He clutches you and pounds with all his might, forcing himself as deep as possible while your own climax threatens and your silk walls squeeze around his member.

“Fuck …”

“ … Daddy’s slut …”

“ … Mine …”

These last words are called out in raucous moans as your synchronized climaxes sweep you away from reality.

***

Outside the birds are singing, traffic is bustling and people are scurrying on with their lives, oblivious to the entranced lovers beyond the facade.

The end.

___

You didn’t hear the water cut off 20 minutes later, you were too involved in your show. But nothing could keep you from noticing him walk out of the bathroom into the hallway completely naked. You watched him as he walked into the kitchen. Every sinew in legs flexing as he walked. The way his ass flexed and bounced a little as he stepped.

Michelangelo would have been so lucky to have sculpted Walter. “David eat your heart out.” You mumbled as he leaned into the fridge hunting for a beer. One hand on the top of the door, arm bent making his elbow point upward, the tendons in his back rippled with the movement of his other arm reaching into the back of the refrigerator. He stood, closed the door, then turned around. He popped the tab on his can. You watched the ways his arms responded to his hands. Bringing the can up to his lips he tilted his head back, drinking about half the can in three gulps.

Of course, as any man would, he burped loudly. Take it as a bears thank you, perhaps? He finally noticed you watching him. He stalked over to where you were so warm and cozy on the couch. He pulled back your blanket, looking you up and down, tilting his head. You were wearing an old worn out hoodie and thin pajama pants.

Working his way under the cover, he laid his head down on your chest. He wiggled, grunted grumpily and sat up. “Off.” Was all he said. You compiled, hoping he didn’t mind the thin camisole you were wearing underneath. He looked you over, making a soft, considering ‘hmm’ then lying his head on your chest, cupping your right breast like a security blanket.

Some time later your show went off. You muted the tv so you could listen to his soft breathing. The sounds this fuzzy bear would make in his sleep were like white noise to you. The rest of his noises were like lyrics to your life now. You knew all of his sounds, and their meanings by heart.

“Who’s David?” You startled, but laughed, running your fingers through his hair.

***

Tag list:

Why, oh, why have you left it to the last minute to try and find a costume for a party you’ve known about for at least two weeks! You spent all day looking around town for something to wear. It’s Halloween how hard could it be to find a costume? As you found out, unless you fit in children's costumes... It was very hard. Heading home you finally remembered you had costumes back from your time in college. 

Rummaging at the back of your closet you fished out a plastic storage box that was rammed with old costumes you wore during your party days. Pulling out the costumes. A flapper, a sexy nurse, a sexy nun. Scoffing at your younger self for the costume choices. You sat on the floor humming and ahhing trying to figure out what to wear. Your thought process was interrupted when your phone buzzed. Reaching for your phone a smile forms across your lips as you read the name that popped up. Opening the message, it reads 

‘Hey baby, can’t wait to see you tonight. 🦁’ Seeing his messages always send your butterflies fluttering. You sat there for a good minute holding the phone to your chest. As the feeling fades and your mind comes crashing back down to reality your face is left with a furrowed brow. Looking back at your phone you typed a message back. 

‘Can’t wait to see you Hen-bear. What you wearing tonight??!’ You waited for an answer that would never arrive. Shrugging your shoulders, you grabbed the Witch outfit. It was Halloween after all, can never go wrong with a Witch. 

After showering and getting yourself ready you get a call from Henry. 

“Hey [your f/n], car will be picking you up in about 10 minutes. Then it will come to mine and we’ll arrive together. See you in a bit, baby." He finished his sentence with a roar, which made you chuckle slightly albeit slightly confused and taken back by it. 

“Okay see you then sweetie." The call ended, and you had 10 minutes to make sure you looked good and presentable. Standing in front of the mirror you look over yourself. Making sure the make-up was right and not too clowny. You wanted to look good after all. Your main concern was the outfit that was a couple of years old... It fitted okay when you were standing still and breathing in slightly... In the years since putting on the witch costume you’d become more of a woman to love. You weren’t fat by any means, but your body was softer and there was more to grab. The black lace and crushed velvet dress hugged your body in all the right places, looking more like Morticia, from the Addams family, than the wicked witch of the west. 

Hearing the car pull up, you make a quick dash for your small handbag. “Housekeys? Check. Lipstick? Check. Aaannndddd... Phone. Three for three.” You gave yourself a small victory cheer before shutting the door and getting in the car. While sitting in the car you do the most English thing anyone does in a taxi or an Uber. “Are you having a nice evening? On for long? Have you got many jobs after this one?" You and the driver small talked for about 30 minutes by the time it took you to get to Henry’s place. While Henry walked down the driver to the car, you were able to ogle at him. He wore a crocheted lion hat that had a tasselled mane that came down to his broad shoulders. A tight Muscletech tee that hugged his muscular frame. The tee looked stretched over his bloated biceps and stuck tightly to his pecs, almost giving the illusion of support. Could his shorts be any shorter, you thought to yourself. A slutty 4-inch seam on the inside showing off his powerful legs. 

As he got in the car, he filled most of the back seat with his mass and might. His legs spread out in different area-codes. “Hey babe." He leaned over pressing his lips to your cheek for a quick kiss before putting his seat belt on. “Looking great." He winked at you, making your toes curl and your fanny to flutter. He then spoke in the voice he uses for when he’s being Geralt of Rivia. “Hmm. Fuck. I do like sorceresses." He then laughed, lightly slapping his massive hand down on your thigh to comfort you. Either your face must have been embarrassed or looking like you’ll pounce on him in the car. Not that the two of you have fooled around in a car before... 

“What’s with the costume?" You ask him, casting your eyes over him once more. Taking in all the mountain of man beside you. Your eyes fell on the large mound at his crotch. Henry was a big guy all over, and sometimes had a hard time hiding his bulge. You quickly butt in before he answers your first question. “Shorts so short, your boxer briefs are sticking out passed them." You chuckle, playfully nudging him with a hand of yours only for said hand to be engulfed by his mitts as he held yours. Using his thumb to stroke over the back of your soft hands. 

“First of all... I’m a football mascot for England. One of the three Lions." With his free hand he pointed to the Lion hat. “Lion. And football gear." Using his index finger and thumb he plucked at the tight fabric, letting it snap back into place against his body. “Secondly... I’m not wearing boxer briefs. Just briefs... Which." He looked at you with a knowing look. “There’s a lot to fit in them. Can’t wait to take them off." With the same breath he leaned into you again to whisper. “I hope you’re not wearing –any-.” Feeling his stubble tickle the side of your face made you squirm in your seat. The warmth of his breath in your ear. Heavens. You sat there hoping you hadn’t left a wet spot on the seat. Henry’s wish wouldn’t have been hard as you didn’t wear any. The undies you had created the line around your waist and butt cheeks. 

“I didn’t realize football mascots were for Halloween.” You smirked over at him, your eyes drinking in the sight of your lover. Henry’s eyes widened in realization. 

“Fuck!” He threw his head back into the headrest and covered his eyes with his free hand. “I forgot to tell you... It’s not a Halloween party. Derek’s Birthday is close to Halloween and he’s ended up hating it. So when he has a party, it’s things other than Halloween." You started to panic. The last thing you wanted to do was to look out of place. It would be like the scene in Mean Girls where Lindsay Lohan turns up as a ghoul and everyone else looks hot. Cavill laughed to put your mind at ease. “Just say you’re Morticia. That’s from a movie, doesn’t need to be Halloween." He let go of your hand and slipped it behind the small of your back to hold you from a seat away.

Once the both of you get to the location of the party, you toss aside the witches hat you were going to wear. Aren’t a witch no more! Joined at Henry’s hip, due to his hand on your ass, the two of you do the rounds greeting the people and his friends. Usually, your head came to Henry’s chest, something you loved; those furry pillows to rest your head against when he was shirtless. With the heels you wore, you came up to his shoulder. Admittedly both of you liked the size difference. 

After a while you let Henry do his thing. You’ve met his friends a few times, but you weren’t in with the crowd. You find yourself at the bar, just chit chatting to the other girlfriends, all while doing shots and drinking vodka lemonades. Henry comes up to the bar to get a refill on his pint of lager, stealing a kiss every time. Which makes everyone ‘aww’ and giggle at you. 

As the night continued and the more drunk you got, the music started to sound better and better. Plus the kids had all gone to bed, so the real dance floor fillers were coming on. Being drunk enough you wandered on over to Henry when he was speaking to his friends. You grabbed his hand and another gripped his bicep. “’Cuse me, I’m going to steal my boyfriend." Playfully you tugged on Henry’s arm. “I wanna dance with you." You felt Henry’s disapproval. Henry never danced unless he was getting paid to and had choreographed the dance beforehand like his fight scenes. “Please?" You begged, looking up and him with doe eyes. Pleading to him. He scoffed. 

“Fine." He groaned. “But on the way home we’re stopping off for a kebab!" Both of you laughed while making your way over to the floor where people were dancing. Henry mostly stood on the spot, tapping a foot on the ground and throwing a hand up in the air to pump it. Sensing his awkwardness you grabbed both of his hands and then began to dance with him... For him. Feeling flirty, your hands trailed along his torso, every now and then groping his pec muscles to give them a squeeze. It’s only fair, he comes up behind you and reaches around and puts his hands all over yours. Your hands glide down his torso while you lower yourself in front of him, your face now greeting by his crotch as you were crouched in front of him. He simply shook his head while chuckling at your antics. To stand back up, you slowly rose pushing your hips back to make your ass stick out. You then turn around to have your back to him. With your back resting against his front, you slide down his body until you’re crouching again, you turn your head to the side to be knocked by Henry’s bulge in his shorts. How his shorts managed to hold back the mammoth of a cock he had between his legs was a miracle. The fabric was stronger than your mental health. 

You hummed with a smirk across your lips while looking up at him. His eyes filled with lust. If you weren’t surrounded by people, he could have pulled his cock out to slap it against your face. You felt a hand grip your armpit and with his assistance you were standing up straight. “I love how big you are." You whispered loudly due to the music, all while chewing on your bottom lip. 

“I’m glad I wore underwear, otherwise my cock would be sticking out of the bottom of my shorts. And you’ll have to deal with the consequences.” He stared you down; unsure if he was angry with you or trying to keep cool. You shrugged his grip off; you were too drunk to really care about the consequences. Turning back around to face him. The song then called for a ‘drop low’ which you were more than happy to oblige to. Hoping your knees wouldn’t give out as you quickly dropped to the floor in the sophisticated dance move called the ‘Slut Drop’. Over the music you heard this loud ripping noise. Shooting straight back up to stand, your hands reached around behind your back. 

" I think my dress ripped. How bad is it?" You asked Henry to look. He shook his head while laughing. 

“That’s karma." His eyes then fell onto your rather large split. “...”His eyes widened. “It’s barely noticeable." His voice raised an octave. You knew he was lying and it must have been bad! In a panic you rushed off to the toilets, luckily this place had individual unisex toilets that the door could be locked. Once inside you look in the mirror, having your back facing it and your head peering over your shoulder. Henry’s words rung in your ears. ‘It’s barely noticeable...’Your bare ass was on show!!! You cursed yourself! Why did you go to commando? Foolish! The rip started at the midpoint of your lower back and went down all the way to your thighs. Someone tried to open the door. “Honey you in here?" Henry asked. You unlocked the door only to swing it open. Grabbing Henry with both hands to pull him in with you; only to relock it. 

“It’s barely noticeable?! BARELY?!” You confronted him. Henry raised his hands defensively. 

“It’s dark out there... Plus I had strobe lights in my eyes." He deflected. “And here’s you thinking my shorts would be the ones to rip." He tilted his head back to laugh. While you stood at the mirror trying to see how you could salvage the outfit. While your ass was out in the open Henry took the opportunity to slap his hand against your cheek. Leaving a red handprint on it. You let out a yelp as it stung and took you by surprise. "I should sign it like the Walk of Fame." He moved to stand behind you, his hands now on your hips. His grip pulled your hips back so the top of your ass was pressed against his crotch. “Think you can tease me in front of my friends?" He growled in your ear. “Should have fucked you there and then on the floor. Show everyone how much of a slut you are for me.” He lowered his head, feeling his breath against the nape of your neck. “Show ‘em how well you take my big cock.” His stubble rubbed against your soft skin before feeling his lips press against your skin in lust filled kisses. 

You couldn’t help but moan softly at his touch and kisses. His words made your legs go weak. You felt Henry’s mouth at the beginning of the rip, his lips peppering your skin. His beard tickled against your lower back which sent shivers up your spin. Just as you were in the moment of heaven you felt Henry sink his teeth into your butt cheek. You turned your head over your shoulder to look down at him, you playfully swatted at his head. “Oi." Henry looked up at you with a smirk, his hands reaching for the rip and extending it, so it reached the end hem of the dress making it one big split in the back. He stood back up, his hands on your shoulders to force you to lean over the sink. Using a foot, he kicked your legs to spread them further. His hand moved to his face, licking his three middle fingers to get them wet. You soon felt his fingers rubbing against your labia and his middle finger dipping inside of you. His finger felt so good inside of you. When you first started dating, one finger was enough to send you over the edge. Now you’re more accustomed to Henry and his size, you’ve upgraded to 2 fingers. 

Henry laughed. “Someone’s eager. Fucking wet already." He brought his hand up to his mouth to taste you. He hummed. “If only my cock wasn’t begging for a release, could eat you out. But someone wanted to tease the kraken." Keeping one hand on your shoulder to keep you in place, leaning over the sink. Your hands gripping the sides of the basin. His free hand wiggled his shorts and briefs down far enough for his cock to spring forth. Due to the size and weight of it, even when Henry was hard his cock fought a hard game with gravity, making his member bow down to the ground. His hand gripped his cock at the base of his shaft, his little finger sinking into his ball sac, to position himself. At first he glided his cock between your lower lips, getting his dick all greased up using your juices. Soon you felt his tip push against your body. You look back at Henry in shock. 

“We usually use lube." You pointed out to Henry. “You’ve never gone in dry before." Henry raised the left side of his brow at you. 

“With how wet you are, there’s nothing dry here.” He retorted only to pull his hips back to see his own cock. He drew spit from his mouth to aim it at his member, then used a hand to massage the spit into the head of his cock. Realigning his cock with your pussy, his hand and hips aided his dick to enter. Both of you let out a moan as your body finally accepted his appendage. “You feel great." He reassured you. The hand that helped his cock moved to join his other hand around your waist. His thumbs dig into the dimples on your back. Slowly he begins to grind his hips back in forth, allowing you to adjust to his size. Doesn’t matter how many times you have sex, he always felt huge and your felt tight to him. 

Sensual moans escaped your mouth, you were trying to be quiet knowing you were in a bathroom and on the other side of the door there were people who could listen. “Your cock is huge." Henry chuckled at your quip. His grind turned evolved more into a thrust. Forcing more of his fat inches into your body. 

“Get ready." Henry warned you as his thrusts become stronger and faster, feeding your body more of his member. His balls swung back and forth slapping at your labia, and clit while swinging back to hit his thighs as his hip crashed into the cushions of your ass. With ever thrust you felt yourself colliding with the ceramics of the sink. Moving your hands from the basin you reached out and planted your palms against the mirror. Your moans got louder and more uncontrollable. “That’s it...” He growled into your ear. “Make everyone hear you being fucked by me.” With every forceful move of his, you felt your legs get weaker at the knees and joints. You feel his hands move from the sides of your hips to the front, giving you support. All your weight was lifted by his strength. Your feet dangled in the air, even with heels on. Henry was lost in lust. Your moans and cries did nothing but spear him on. His cock acted as a piston, steaming in and out of your stretched cunt. You were at the mercy of him, nothing but a toy for his cock to erupt in.  

You felt tears roll down your cheek as Henry ploughed into you from behind. His grunts echoed around the room, along with your moans. Your body felt a mixture of pleasure and pain. His cock was scratching at all your points due to its size, driving you crazy. The girth stretched out your velvet tunnel while the length of it always pressed against your cervix. You often thank the gods for making you hardy. With how powerful his thrusts were, the tip of his cock slammed and knocked against your cervix, causing you pain and the reason why your face was wet with tears. 

Henry’s grip around your waist tightened and you felt his fingers dig deeper into your skin. With one more forceful slam, his hips buried his cock deep inside of you. Your pussy felt his cock throb, pushing against your already stretched walls. He tilted his head back while his cock unloaded its load. At first it oozed out before gaining momentum and shooting forth a powerful shot. It felt like minutes for Henry, standing in bliss while his balls unloaded his cum deep inside of you. He cummed a lot. Which made sense with the size of his family jewels. You swore it felt like he made you bloated whenever he came. As his climax weakened, as did he. Letting go of your hips, his torso laid on top of yours. “...Fuck.” He huffed out, only for his cock to slip out, while it softened, from your gaping pussy. 

“Alright, so we’re here with the hottest selling romance novelist right now. How are you doing today?,” the interviewer asks you. “I’m doing great, and you?,” you reply. “Good, good! Thanks!,” she said cheerily. 

“So you’ve been in the game a few years now, doing well for yourself, but this new book has absolutely skyrocketed. Congratulations!,” she said to you. “Thank you so much! It’s all really, very exciting. I’m glad to be here,” you told her. “And we’re glad to have you. Now the premise of your new novel loosely is  woman with quite a sad past, finds a new love and in turn learning how to love again after many years, and we, as fans, are just eating it up! Where did you get the idea?,” she asked you. 

“Uh, well I hate to be “that person” but it really was an idea that just came over me one day. I’m not a planner when it comes to my stories, I kind of just start writing and whatever comes out, comes out, so that’s what happened here, and fortunately people are enjoying it,” you replied. “Very much so. The main male character has really just won people over. I think he’s a man that everyone would love to have in their lives,” she said. “That’s what I was aiming for so I’m glad I met the mark,” you replied humbly. 

The interview went on. She asked more questions about the book, some things about you personally, and then wanted to ask a few fan questions. “Sure,” you told her. “Okay so first and foremost the people want to know who your celebrity crush is,” she said. “Oh my God,” you laughed, “Is it too late to back out of this question?”

“I don’t know about that. It was our most asked question, girl. They are dying to know,” she said. “This is about to open an entire can of worms,” you said. “Probably so because your fans have already been noticing some physical similarities between your character and a certain leading man,” she said sheepishly. 

“Well, I might as well own up to it and clear the air… They’re one hundred percent correct. I can’t even be sorry at this point or hide it,” you replied. “Ah, so it is then,” she said nearly squealing. “It’s Henry Cavill, yeah,” you told her with a giggle. “What do you like about Henry?,” she asked. You were past the point of return now and figured fuck it, he’d likely never see this interview anyway. 

“So many things,” you started. “Well?,” she said expectantly with a smile. “There’s the glaringly obvious fact that he’s an absolute beautiful specimen of a man. The hair, the eyes, the jawline, how he carries himself. Then, him being big and hairy just-,” you stopped. “That does something for you?,” she says with a laugh. At this point you were like two school girls. 

“Girl, yes. I’m sorry. I like big bear men. I don’t even need like the jacked, Superman, level of big but if a man can’t lift me, that’s a dealbreaker. I want to be swept off my feet, thrown around a little, pressed against a wall somewhere,” you laughed. “Whew. No wonder your novels are so spicy. But what else, please continue,” she replied. 

“Well physical traits aside, he just seems like a big sweetheart, you know? It’s just something in his eyes and when he smiles. You can just tell he’s a caring person by that and by the way he loves his family and treats others. He seems smart and interesting too. Lots of hobbies. As a novelist, the fact he likes to read is a definite plus. God, feel like I’m gushing at this point. Next question, next question,” you told her with a chuckle. 

The interview continued without a hitch and subsequently sent your fans into an absolute frenzy, comments and shares pouring in like crazy. It was the most interaction you’d ever got online and was honestly hard to keep up with it all. 

Before long you didn’t have much time to think about it with your book tour starting up. One day you were helping your people set up everything for a signing when your assistant came up to you quickly. “Hey, I know it’s not time for the signing, but there’s this guy at the front that really wants to see you before everyone else comes in,” she told you. “Who is it?,” you asked confusedly. “He wants it to be a surprise,” she said, grinning coyly. 

“I guess as long as you don’t think he’s a psychopath, let him in?,” you said still unsure of what was going on. You continued stacking books as you sat in a chair when you heard him approaching with your assistant. 

You looked up and there she stood, with Henry Cavill, single rose in hand. You mouth hung agape as looked up at him. Your assistant stood there smiling harder than ever. “Hello, darling,” he said, handing you the rose. You had to blink a couple times before your brain could catch up with what was happening. 

“Um. Hi. Hello,” you stammered, standing up and taking the rose. Your fingers brushed his slightly, causing them to tingle with warmth. “I’m sorry for catching you off guard like this, but I saw your interview and was honestly quite enamored by you. I read your book as well, and have to say, though we never met before you seem to know me quite well. I really wanted to come meet you. I’d like to get to know you,” he said shyly. 

You could feel your face becoming hot and just knew you were red as a beet. You’d never imagined in a million years he’d see that interview, but even if he did you most definitely didn’t expect him to show up, wanting to get to know you. “Okay,” you breathed finally. He released a breath with your response, shoulders relaxing. 

“Yeah?,” he asked again, to be sure. “Yes, I’d love that,” you replied with a smile. He returned your smile and took you by your hands before saying, “How about I take you to dinner after your signing?” “Dinner sounds great,” you told him. He pulled you closer slightly, kissing you on the cheek. “It’s a date,” he said, looking into your eyes before releasing your hands and leaving you to your previous actions. 

“Did that really just happen?,” you blurted after he left. “It did!,” you assistant all but shouted. “Oh my god!,” you squealed. Your entire book signing it was as if you were floating on air, and when it was over, as promised Henry returned to take you to dinner. 

He was a complete gentleman. Opening doors for you, pulling out your chair, giving you his full attention. Your heart could barely stand it. He asked so many questions about you. You felt like you were talking about yourself too much but he continued. Seeming to want to know every single detail. 

“What about you?,” you asked him. “Like I said, darling, you seem to know me already. It was one of the things that drew me to you so, along with your wit, your intellect, and beauty,” he said. “I’d still like to hear it from you, if that’s alright. I feel like I’ve been talking forever,” you said. He appeased your request, telling you all about himself. 

“Oh here,” he said suddenly handing you his phone, “put your number in darling.” You smiled softly while entering your number. When you handed it back he began typing quickly before your phone dinged. “Henry,” the text read simply. 

He held your hand as you left the restaurant, guiding you to his car. On the drive back to your hotel the two of you sat in comfortable silence. After parking he walked around to open your door for you. He took you by the hand again and walked you inside. 

When you got on the elevator, you pressed your floor, as Henry put his arm around you. You leaned into him, wrapping your arm around him as well, enjoying the feeling of being held by him.  

When you reached your door you stood there before him suddenly feeling shy. “I had a really wonderful time with you tonight, darling,” he said, softly tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I enjoyed our time together as well,” you told him as his thumb stroked your cheek. He was looking at you so intensely you could hardly breathe. 

“Can I see you again?,” he asked, inching closer as he wound his arm around you. “Yes, definitely,” you said breathily as your foreheads met. His fingers carded into the hairs at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back before kissing you softly. 

It was a simple and sweet kiss but it left you breathless. He smiled at you affectionally as he pulled away. “Goodnight, darling,” he said. “Goodnight Henry,” you said. 

General summary: You're in a fresh relationship with Henry Cavill, and throughout this morning your passion blossoms.

Pairing: Henry Cavill x Female Reader (I think it's inclusive for POC, but do correct me if I'm wrong; then I'll remove the statement)

Warnings: Smut in various degrees, but nothing violent or fully non-con. Fluff too. More detailed warnings are attached on each post.

Part One Summary: Henry sleeps in after a night at your place and later surprises you while you're catching up on work.

Part Two Summary: The morning takes form with some grinding and soft words.

Part Three, Version 1 Summary: BJ in high res.

Part Three, Version 2 Summary: Fellatio accompanied with heartache.

"succ his dick with ur heart and soul ladies" - @ henchry

Standing almost naked before him – a tiny pair of silk panties being your only cover – you move to hide yourself. Despite your growing intimacy towards each other, you feel vulnerable standing so exposed in broad daylight. But then he lifts you up, grabbing you around the waist and places you on the desk. He has moved everything to the side without you noticing, but then again, you were on the floor, busy with other business.

Henry takes your hands in his and guides you up to your feet. He leans forward to kiss your swollen mouth while trailing his fingers down the sides of your body. With the sweep of his hand, he pulls your dress over your head and tosses it aside.

Perched on the desk like a playful kitten, you help to unbutton his shirt, feeling his abs as you release the lower buttons from their respective holes. Your lips meet again while your fingers roam his chest. Everything seems messy and ravenous. Instinctual. Long lost is your embarrassment about being so bare.

Your arms entwine as you taste each other. You wrap your legs around his hips, beckoning his hardening member towards you, making it clear to him that you want him inside.

The table is the perfect level for him to simply stand and enter you, but the man just teases; stroking the head of his dick against the soft, wet silk of your panties. The friction is near driving you insane. Gripping his shoulders and digging your nails into his flesh, you draw him close and whisper in his ear, “Henry, I want you inside me.”

“Babygirl, not yet.” He smirks. What’s he up to, you wonder. His strong hands run slowly down your shoulders, upper arms, chest, waist … then he lowers himself.

From the floor, he looks up at you and licks his lips. The hunger in his eyes is not to be mistaken of.

“Baby, really? I want you so bad!” you plead, your voice thick with self-pity.

“I want to do this for you,” he says, his eyes never leaving yours while he hooks his fingers around the hem of your panties. He kisses the supple skin on your thighs and all you can do is whimper.

Taking your whimpering as a sign to continue, he tugs your underwear down. Instinctively, you squeeze your legs together, not used to having a man’s face level with your core. He chuckles and places both of your ankles on one of his shoulders, then presses wet kisses on your calves as he slides your undergarments further down.

“There we go,” he mutters, lifting them over your feet. Then he gently moves your leg over so he has one on each shoulder. When you struggle to keep your thighs together, he says, “ssssh, darling. Try to relax. I’ll stop if you don’t want me to do this, but… I really want to–”

“Ooh–” you pipe, still suspicious about the situation, “–okay…” Shaking your head, you close your eyes and try to relax.

“–taste you,” he finishes.

“Wait!” you gasp, “this isn’t how it’s supposed to go…”

“Sssh, babe.” His fingers trail along the outer side of your thighs until his strong hands press down on your abdomen. “Lean back, honey,” he whispers between kisses, “deep breaths.”

What is this sorcery? you think to yourself, leaning back on the desk and trying to ease into his touch. He kisses your shins, his lips barely gracing your skin. In your mind's eye, you sense a phantom trail of rose petals where his lips touch as they travel along the slopes of your legs.

“Mmmh, you smell so lovely… roses?” His words are gentle butterflies, fluttering up to your ear, barely noticeable before they are gone again. You sense his lingering gaze on your exposed body before you feel his tender lips on you once more.

When he reaches past your knees, you feel a tingling sensation between your legs. You were soaked, you’d been that for a while, but this was doing something else to you.

As he gets closer to the apex of your thighs, you can’t help but reach for his hair, grasping it between your fingers. Your body is trembling under his touch. Noticing his urge to move further on, you tighten your grip and lock your arms, prohibiting him to continue. He catches your cue and chuckles.

“I know you’re not used to this,” he says between kisses, “but I want to give you a treat, babe.”

You sigh.

“Let me spoil you.”

Next you feel a wet surface slide across your thigh, followed by another kiss. You try to remind yourself that “the only difference between fear and excitement is breath”, then lyrics from a song begins to play in your ear;

“Breathe on me, yeah, oh

Baby just, breathe on me

We don't need to touch, just

Breathe …”

“Baby,” you say, surprised to hear the hoarse sound of your own voice.

“Mhm?” his deep thrum sends a burning wave through your core.

“Breathe on me…”

“Mhmmm.”

As the warm air of his exhale grazes your skin, you can almost feel the smirk take form on his lips.

He presses a wet kiss onto your thigh, then spreads his lips apart against your skin. As his lips part, the heat of a slow breath tickles the tiny hairs on your skin. When it fades, you feel his wet tongue graze over you again. Next, he must have pressed his lips together as if to whistle because you feel cold air striking a confined area of your moist skin. It’s as if he’s painting a secret mark on you. Once the cold air stops, his lips meet your skin again, wiping out the inscription before he does the same series of tricks all over again. After a while, he switches to the opposite thigh, giving it the same treatment.

Finally easing into the pleasure, you somehow manage to synchronize your breath to the rhythm of his… technique. Bliss roams.

Your desire is amplified by the sensation of cold and warmth mingling together. Thunderous surges begin bolting through your core, causing you to tighten the muscles in your thighs again, threatening to squeeze him. Quite oblivious to your own strength, Henry hums with amusement as he digs his fingers into your flesh and spreads your legs apart, seizing control.

“Okay, babe… can I dive in?”

“Uh-huh…” you reply, partially deaf by lust.

“Just promise not to choke me, okay?”

You force your head up and meet his sparking blues.

“Huh? Oh–”

Before you can fully comprehend what he said, you feel his broad tongue slide up between your folds. Overcome by delirium, you arch your back and a guttural moan escapes from your depth.

He chuckles, well aware that he has you in his hollow hand now. Your trembling body is telling him that you still have some resistance, but your feral excitement is clearly taking over.

His tongue slides over your slick folds again, sending shivers through your core. Then he starts licking you in tiny flutters, just at the very tip of your clit.

He squints his eyes open to see your reaction, but he shouldn’t have bothered. You let out a shuddering moan at his deeds. Without thinking, you cross your legs behind his back, at once trapping him and prompting him to continue.

Quite pleased with himself, he delves deeper, making his strokes broader. Brushing his nose against the top of your mound, the slight stubble on his jaw scrapes the delicate skin of your inner thighs.

When he finally pushes his tongue against your slit, entering just slightly, you’re a crazed mess. He proceeds to suckle your clit. Taking a chance to let go of one of your thighs, his free hand wanders up your body and as if awaiting it, you sit up as best you can and take his hand in yours. One by one, you lick and suck hungrily on his fingers, moaning while you explore his digits.

He switches between suckling your bud and slit, then shoves two fingers into your mouth. Still holding the palm of his hand in yours, you encourage his force by pushing his fingers further in, then continue to suck on them with savage commitment.

He lets go of your other leg and moves that hand to your cunt. Still sucking your sensitive bud, there’s just room enough for his fingertips to graze your wetness before he lets them replace his tongue on your clit.

Without removing either hand from your body, he rises to stand between your legs. You’re still sucking his fingers when he says, “you liked that, didn’t you, kitten?”

You purr onto his fingers in agreement and bat your lashes at him. He pushes another digit between your lips and you immediately show your appreciation by embracing it with your tongue.

His other fingers slide across your entrance, collecting your sweet syrup, then glides between your folds, spreading the wetness.

“You’re Daddy’s little slut now, aren’t you?”

You hum again, then he invades your mouth with a fourth finger. You open your eyes wide, meeting his lustrous gaze. Did you hear him correctly? He owns your soul, but you never imagined him to use such a word with you. It triggered something that you couldn’t quite place.

His eyes are sharp and stern, and without dropping his gaze from your face, he slips a long, thick finger into your narrow cave. A deep sigh escapes you, but mid-sigh the fingers in your mouth yank your jaw down with unexpected force. His feral dominance stuns you.

“I need to hear that you mean it, baby.” His voice is dark as char. “You’re Daddy’s little slut … Right?”

You avert his stare for a brief second before he yanks at your jaw again. “Come now, baby,” he says, the velvety smoothness of his voice disarming you.

He slides the finger out of your core.

Looking into his sombre eyes, you see that a mist has surfaced within them. His four fingers retreat slowly from your mouth, dragging your lip down towards your chin. He holds it there, exposing your teeth, making you feel anxious and scrutinized. A moment passes before it strikes you: He’s admiring you, but there is something beast-like in his misty eyes. He has a wicked smile on his lips and a curious energy beams out of him, conquering you. This is an adventure you’re willing to pursue, with him. Whatever he wants, you are his.

He sees the shift in your mindset and tilts his head to the side, then releases your lip.

You smile, feeling mischief reveal itself from within you.

“I’m your little slut, daddy.”

His lips curl up to one side, flashing a fang-like tooth. His hand reaches for your mouth again, pressing hard on your lower lip. His other hand presses against your craving slit.

“That’s it. One more time, kitten. A bit louder for me this time.”

You swallow, then try to summon more confidence to your voice, “I’m daddy’s little–”

Two thick digits interrupt you as they enter your starved cunt. You shudder at the impact.

Henry smiles, his hazy eyes locked on yours. There is something deadly, controlled and collected about him, and it’s sending electric bolts through your entire body.

“You have to say it if you want me to fuck you, darling,” his tone of voice now threateningly mellow.

Two fingers glide in and out of your plush, lower lips at an agonizingly slow pace, making you lose concentration.

Desperate to feel more of him, you try to grind against his fingers. Then he seizes your jaw –your lips burn as they are released from the pressure– and turns your head to the side and licks your cheek. He turns you back to face him, his mysterious blue eyes penetrating your soul as he whispers, “say it.”

Eyes interlocked, you swallow again, trying not to think about his fingers now prodding against your g-spot. Staring into his foggy blues, you say with all the conviction you can muster, “I’m your little slut, Daddy.”

A groan escapes him as he hears these words and he crams his fingers into your mouth again. He rests his forehead against yours while he forces a third digit into your slit, beginning to fuck your cunt with beastly vigor. You moan together until you cum on his hand. He pulls out of your mouth and cunt, and before the wave of your orgasm has subsided, he shoves his massive shaft into you.

His full length enters in one rapid movement, stabbing your cervix and forcing your narrow passage to stretch to accommodate his mass. You wail at the impact and seize his shoulders in exasperation, pulling him into you, arms and legs clutching his bulky figure. While you sob into the crook of his shoulder, he pulls his member out leaving only the head still inside you. Then he thrusts back into you, hitting your cervix once more, making you weep.

You are stumped when you feel his calloused fingers stroke your hair away from your face, gently leading it behind your ear before he goes on to caress your back. His other arm holds you around your shoulders; comforting, yet keeping you in your place. He pulls out a bit, then thrusts back into you. You cry as he hits your cervix again.

“You’ve been such a good girl for me, baby.”

His baritone voice vibrates throughout your body, creating an odd, soothing sensation as it merges with the pain of his immense shaft claiming your cunt.

“Such a good slut for your Daddy.”

He pulls out, then thrusts, but this time he doesn’t go all the way. Pulling out again, he draws his entire body back, the better to look at you.

“I love you, darling,” he says, wiping a tear away from your eyes. The tenderness in his voice mimicked a siren's call; leading you to paradise.

“I love you too, Daddy.” Shivers run down your shoulders and arms as you repeat the still foreign name, “Daddy…”

He hums and thrusts again, injecting a dose of serenity into your core with every stroke. He leans forwards and meets your lips with his. You sense his devotion and feel sucked into his being; at one with his essence. He sinks deeper into you, but not all the way. He’s still stroking your back with comforting affection, and now also stroking your shoulder with his other hand.

Tranquility has settled over you and a desperate longing in your belly has begun to emerge. Digging your nails into his muscles, you kiss him with zeal, letting your lips roam over his gorgeous face. You want him, all of him; this violent, generous being. All the while he continues to thrust with tenderness and compassion, steadily sinking deeper every time.

When you’ve finally adjusted to his girth and length, your lust for him has become a fever.

You lick the skin behind his ear with the tip of your tongue, then gingerly bite his earlobe.

“I want you to fuck me now, Daddy,” you whisper. He growls. You reach a hand around the nape of his neck, squeezing it as you continue, “fuck me like the greedy little whore that I am.” A guttural moan escapes him and he looks into your eyes with gluttony and determination. He strokes your hair as he says, “are you ready, baby?”

“Didn’t you hear me, Daddy?”

The wicked flash of his fang would have been enough to tell you that yes, he had indeed heard you, but then he says, “Oh, so you’re also a little brat?” He kisses you impatiently, hungrily, before you can answer, then he says, “Thankfully you’re my little brat. Hold tight, kitten!”

You manage to lock your legs and arms around him just in time for him to lift you off the table. Quite abruptly, with his hands firm under your ass, he has you bouncing up and down on his shaft like a merry-go-round.

Cries of passion fill the room. You’re living a perfect fantasy.

He carries you over to push your back against the wall, then kisses you as if you’ve been away from him for a lifetime and a day.

Retreating from the wall again, he shifts his hands so one is on the small of your back.

“Lean back, darling.”

Although puzzled, you trust his strength and do as he says, leaning back as much as you can, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Mhm,” he hums, his feral smile appearing again, “now grind, baby.”

Not even sure if you can, you close your eyes as you focus all your muscles to grind against him in the new position.

It is… magnificent.

The way he holds you, his sheer muscles supporting you in that position…

You pause for a moment as your gaze travels over his body; the glistening sheen of sweat on his arms and torso intoxicating you. You shake your head in awe of his majestic, god-like beauty. Then lust returns to your consciousness and you grind again, feeling him fill you completely, exquisitely. The way he supports your lower back and ass allows you to enhance your own efforts. Your clit rubs against his lower abdomen and before long you’re departing; riding into a trance of intense energy.

Just when you’re approaching your next climax Henry hauls you up to him. Startled by the sudden shift, you look around. Then you realize he’s taking you back to the bedroom. He lays you down on the bed and descends over you. He kisses your throat, ears and face with feverish desire. Then he puts your arms above your head and kisses those too. At last, he kisses your lips before beginning to thrust again.

“I love you so much, babe,” he mutters between hungry kisses.

“I love you too, baby,” you reply, struggling to get a chance to even say the words.

When he pushes your legs up, you feel him knocking against your cervix again, making your eyes roll to the back of your head. But you just want all of him now. The only words you can think are, “Fuck, Daddy!”

He proceeds to pound into you with an intensity you haven’t experienced before.

“Oh god, fuck me, Daddy!” you cry, feeling your next orgasm climb.

His moans merge into animalistic roars as he plunges into you with a pace and power that forces all the air out of your lungs, splitting your mind to atoms.

A part of your consciousness that is still somewhat aware of the situation, recognizes the throbbing of his dick just before he growls, “Arh, fuck!”

He clutches you and pounds with all his might, forcing himself as deep as possible while your own climax threatens and your silk walls squeeze around his member.

“Fuck …”

“ … Daddy’s slut …”

“ … Mine …”

These last words are called out in raucous moans as your synchronized climaxes sweep you away from reality.

***

Outside the birds are singing, traffic is bustling and people are scurrying on with their lives, oblivious to the entranced lovers beyond the facade.

The end.

___

You didn’t hear the water cut off 20 minutes later, you were too involved in your show. But nothing could keep you from noticing him walk out of the bathroom into the hallway completely naked. You watched him as he walked into the kitchen. Every sinew in legs flexing as he walked. The way his ass flexed and bounced a little as he stepped.

Michelangelo would have been so lucky to have sculpted Walter. “David eat your heart out.” You mumbled as he leaned into the fridge hunting for a beer. One hand on the top of the door, arm bent making his elbow point upward, the tendons in his back rippled with the movement of his other arm reaching into the back of the refrigerator. He stood, closed the door, then turned around. He popped the tab on his can. You watched the ways his arms responded to his hands. Bringing the can up to his lips he tilted his head back, drinking about half the can in three gulps.

Of course, as any man would, he burped loudly. Take it as a bears thank you, perhaps? He finally noticed you watching him. He stalked over to where you were so warm and cozy on the couch. He pulled back your blanket, looking you up and down, tilting his head. You were wearing an old worn out hoodie and thin pajama pants.

Working his way under the cover, he laid his head down on your chest. He wiggled, grunted grumpily and sat up. “Off.” Was all he said. You compiled, hoping he didn’t mind the thin camisole you were wearing underneath. He looked you over, making a soft, considering ‘hmm’ then lying his head on your chest, cupping your right breast like a security blanket.

Some time later your show went off. You muted the tv so you could listen to his soft breathing. The sounds this fuzzy bear would make in his sleep were like white noise to you. The rest of his noises were like lyrics to your life now. You knew all of his sounds, and their meanings by heart.

“Who’s David?” You startled, but laughed, running your fingers through his hair.

***

Tag list:

“How are you feeling, Bear?” You asked, helping him navigate the step down off the curb.

“Humph.” Sy grunted, leaning his shoulder against yours as the bright sun shined into his blue eyes.

Chuckling, You let go of his arm to pull your car keys out of your back pocket and press the unlock button. “In we go, Bear.” You cooed, opening the passenger door and before you could stop him, Sy flopped his beefy, six-two frame into his seat. “Easy.” You gently scolded him, then closed the door and hustled around to the driver’s seat.

You glanced over at Sy, starting the car, and found him looking at you with a million mile stare, since his anesthesia still hadn’t completely worn off yet. “Hi.” You smirked at him. “Are you hungry?” You asked, cocking your head.

Sy slowly shook his head. “Maybe.” He mumbled, blinking rapidly for a moment, before blankly staring again.

“All right.” You laughed, amused by the vulnerable state he was in. “Are you sleepy?”

“Yeah.” He sighed, nodding.

“Yeah, I’m sure you are.” You nodded back. “We’ll go home and take a nap.”

Sy’s brow twitched and a slight look of confusion filled his Aegean eyes. “You know where I live?”

“I do.” You answered, biting back a grin and giggle.

“Does my wife know, that you know?”

You closed your eyes and pressed your lips together, the giggle sounding in your throat before composing yourself. “I do know where you live. I live there with you.” You informed him, lightly. “And I’m your smexy wife, Austin.”

Sy’s eyes grew at your words, lips parting in a soft ‘oh’. “I got to marry you?”

“Yeah.” You replied, nodding slowly. “We are married and have three kiddos.”

“You’re…” His wide unblinking eyes scanned you. “You’re so beautiful. How did I get you?”

“Well, my dear Bear, it was a Sunday night in San Antonio and I was trying to enjoy a night out with a few friends, when this Southern boy, dressed in his Army fatigues, came up to me and asked if I ever tried the best BBQ Texas ever produced.” You told him, with a fond upturned corner of your mouth. “Obviously, I had not, and he insisted on taking me to get some. I couldn’t resist that handsome smile and mischievous blue eyes. So, a rack of ribs and a couple drinks later, we were almost inseparable. If you don’t count five deployments in six years, with a proposal in our fourth year together.”

Sy’s numbed brain processed your words. “Thank you.” He said, his features softening.

“For what, Sy?” You frowned, shaking your head.

“For putting up with me. Loving me. Waiting for me and marrying me.” He told you, his expression faltering.

Your heart skipped and you leaned over, hugging your arms around his shoulders. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Bear.” You whispered against his bearded cheek. “Now,” You pulled back, giving his forehead a peck. “Let’s get you home and rested up.” You said, turning towards the steering wheel and pulling out of the parking space.

“Yeah, home.” Sy agreed, his eyes still adoringly on you, feeling like the luckiest man.

For Bruce, that meant a simple promise written beneath his skin.

When it reached zero, he would meet the person destined for him.

As a boy, he had imagined it the same way every child did.

His soulmate would appear one day. They would laugh together. Grow old together. Build a life together.

A future.

The sort of future his parents had possessed.

The sort of future that had died alongside them in an alley behind the Monarch Theater.

After that night, the timer became little more than background noise.

The glowing numbers continued their steady descent while Bruce attended funerals, inherited a fortune he never wanted, and watched Gotham consume itself one crime at a time. They ticked downward while Alfred patiently pieced together the shattered remains of a grieving child. They ticked downward while Bruce buried himself in studies, martial arts, criminology, forensics, and every discipline that might one day help him wage war against the city that had taken everything from him.

Years passed.

The timer remained a constant. Unchanging. Always moving. Always counting.

Sometimes he caught himself staring at it during long flights between countries. During sleepless nights spent training until his knuckles split. During lonely evenings in unfamiliar cities where he could almost pretend he was just another wealthy young man wandering the world in search of purpose.

The numbers never stopped.

And despite everything, a small part of him still wondered.

Who were they?

Who was waiting at the end of that countdown?

The thought felt dangerous.

Hope always did.

By the time he returned to Gotham and donned the cowl for the first time, Bruce had long since convinced himself that soulmates were a luxury he could not afford.

Batman had no place for dreams. No room for futures. And he certainly had no room for someone he might one day love.

The city came first.

It always would.

Gotham demanded sacrifice, and Bruce had made his choice years ago.

If his soulmate existed, then they deserved better than what remained of him.

So he stopped thinking about it.

Or at least he tried to.

The timer continued to count.

Days.

Months.

Years.

Seconds.

Its steady descent accompanied him through every chapter of his life.

It was there when Dick Grayson crashed into his world beneath a circus tent, a furious and heartbroken child whose pain mirrored Bruce’s own in ways neither of them fully understood. It remained when Dick became Robin, when he became family, and when Bruce made the selfish decision to love someone enough to let them stay.

The numbers continued falling.

They were there when Jason Todd stole the tires off the Batmobile, and somehow stole a place in Bruce’s heart soon afterward. They ticked downward through every argument, every proud moment, every hard-earned smile.

And they’d kept counting when Jason died.

Bruce remembered that night with painful clarity.

The rage. The guilt. Helplessness. The suffocating certainty that he had failed.

Even then, amidst grief so profound it threatened to hollow him out completely, the timer continued. As though fate cared little for the tragedies of ordinary men.

Years later came Tim.

Then Damian.

A family assembled from broken pieces and impossible odds. One that Bruce never intended to build and could not imagine living without.

The countdown remained through it all. A quiet presence beneath his skin. Easy to ignore, impossible to forget. Even whilst hidden from sight beneath the bulky steel of his jaeger-lecoultre reverso.

Sometimes, on particularly difficult nights, he found himself fiddling with the watch strap just enough to see the edges of it.

Not because he expected anything or believed he deserved whatever waited at the end, but because the idea lingered. A tiny, stubborn thing buried beneath decades of grief and responsibility.

The possibility that somewhere out there existed a person uniquely his.

Someone who might understand. Who might see every ugly, fractured piece of him and choose to stay.

Someone who might look beyond Batman.

Beyond the billionaire mask. Beyond the failures. And simply see Bruce.

It was a foolish thought. An indulgent one, really. The sort of fantasy he rarely allowed himself to entertain.

Yet it persisted all the same.

Perhaps because he had spent so much of his life alone. Not physically. Never physically. The Manor was full. The Batcave was full. His life overflowed with people he loved.

But loneliness and solitude were not the same thing.

Bruce had learned that lesson long ago.

For most of his life, every meaningful relationship had begun with loss.

Dick had lost his parents. Jason had lost everything. Tim had nearly lost himself trying to save Batman from his own grief. Damian had been raised as a weapon before he was ever allowed to be a child.

Every person Bruce ever loved carried scars.

All because they had stepped into his world.

And if fate truly intended to place another person in his life… What then? What kind of future could he possibly offer them?

Late nights spent waiting for him to return home alive? Hospital visits? Funerals? The constant threat of becoming a target simply because they mattered to Bruce Wayne?

No.

His soulmate deserved better.

Deserved normal.

Far away from Gotham and everything it touched.

A sensible conclusion. A logical conclusion. One he repeated to himself countless times.

The problem was that logic had never succeeded in silencing the small traitorous part of him that still watched the countdown.

Nobody truly knew him. Not completely. Not the way a soulmate supposedly could. The way destiny promised.

So the timer remained tucked away in the back of his mind.

A breath caught before it could fully form. A dream he never allowed himself to finish imagining.

And still it counted.

Drawing closer with every passing day to a future Bruce Wayne had stopped believing would ever matter.

Until the day it finally reached zero.

The countdown on your wrist had never inspired the same fascination it seemed to in everyone else.

As a child, you remembered classmates comparing bruises during recess, eagerly conspiring about how old they’d be when they finally met the person fate had chosen for them. Entire conversations revolved around it. Predictions. Theories. Daydreams.

You had participated, of course.

Mostly because everyone else did.

But even then, you never quite understood the obsession.

Perhaps it was because your bond felt so distant.

Unlike those who shared pain with their soulmates or dreamed through another person’s eyes, your countdown offered nothing tangible. No connection. No glimpses into another life. No indication of who your soulmate might be beyond the vague promise that one day, eventually, you would meet them.

It was difficult to become attached to someone who felt entirely theoretical.

The numbers counted downward. Life continued.

School became university. University became work. Friendships came and went. Apartments changed. Jobs changed. Entire years disappeared before you even noticed them passing.

The timer remained, steadily ticking away in the background.

Yet strangely unimportant.

Not because you disliked the idea of soulmates. Quite the opposite.

You supposed it was comforting to think there was someone out there destined specifically for you. Someone whose life would one day intersect with your own in a way no one else’s ever could.

But you had never been particularly fond of building your future around things you couldn’t control.

If your soulmate appeared tomorrow, wonderful. If they appeared twenty years from now, that was fine too.

Either way, life would continue.

You had plans. Goals. Responsibilities. A future that existed independently of whoever happened to be waiting at the end of that countdown.

Which was probably why you never developed the habit of checking it.

Weeks sometimes passed without you looking at the numbers.

Months, if life became particularly busy.

Your friends found that strange.

Most people tracked their bonds religiously.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had cared enough to calculate how much time remained.

Not that it mattered. Fate would arrive whether you watched the clock or not.

The thought made you smile slightly as you adjusted the sleeve of your outfit.

The invitation resting on your kitchen counter immediately drew your attention once more. Embossed gold lettering gleamed beneath the overhead light.

You had considered declining several times already.

Charity galas were not your thing.

Neither were crowds of wealthy socialites, politicians, celebrities, and Gotham’s elite pretending to enjoy one another’s company while discussing donations over champagne.

Unfortunately, declining wasn’t really an option. Your company had spent the past month preparing for the event.

Attendance was expected. Mandatory, according to your supervisor.

The memory earned a quiet sigh.

Tomorrow evening.

Wayne Foundation Annual Renewal Gala.

You stared at the familiar name printed across the card. Wayne.

One of the most recognisable names in the country. Perhaps even the world.

Bruce Wayne’s name seemed to exist everywhere in Gotham. On buildings, hospitals, scholarships, charities.

A billionaire philanthropist.

A notorious playboy.

A man whose face appeared so frequently in magazines that most of Gotham could probably identify him from memory.

You had never met him. Never expected to. Tomorrow would likely be no different.

You would attend the gala, smile politely, make small talk, and stay for the required amount of time.

Then return home and forget the entire evening ever happened.

The gala was exactly as exhausting as you had expected.

By the end of the first hour, your cheeks already ached from smiling.

The grand ballroom of Wayne Tower glittered beneath enormous crystal chandeliers, every surface polished to a shine so perfect it almost felt artificial. Waiters drifted through the crowd carrying silver trays loaded with champagne flutes and carefully arranged hors d’oeuvres. Laughter rose and fell throughout the room, blending into the soft music drifting from somewhere near the stage.

The entire event felt less like a fundraiser and more like a carefully choreographed performance.

Not that anyone seemed to mind.

Around you, Gotham’s elite mingled effortlessly. Politicians exchanged handshakes. Business executives traded stories. Reporters circulated like sharks scenting blood in the water.

You had spent most of the evening attached to a cluster of coworkers, nodding politely through conversations that ranged from quarterly profits to real estate investments and subjects you suspected nobody genuinely cared about.

You smiled. Shook hands. Made pleasant conversation. Repeated the process.

By the time you escaped toward the refreshment table, you were fairly certain your social battery had died an hour ago.

“Not enjoying yourself?”

You glanced toward the voice. One of your coworkers smirked knowingly.

You laughed. “I think I’ve had enough networking to last the rest of my life.”

“Careful. That’s practically blasphemy at events like this.”

“Then pretend I said something about synergy and market growth.”

The resulting laugh eased some of the tension in your shoulders.

Around you, the crowd continued to swell as more guests arrived. And inevitably, conversation shifted toward the man hosting the event.

Bruce Wayne.

The name surfaced repeatedly throughout the evening. Sometimes with admiration. Sometimes amusement. Occasionally frustration.

Everyone seemed to have a story.

A charitable donation. An embarrassing tabloid headline. A disastrous date. A surprise act of generosity.

The more stories you heard, the more curious you became. You had never met Bruce Wayne before.

Nobody in your social circles had.

People like him existed in an entirely different world.

The sort of world most people only glimpsed through magazine covers and news broadcasts.

Yet somehow, despite his wealth, despite his status, despite his reputation for arriving late and disappearing early, people genuinely seemed to like him.

It was strange. Most billionaires inspired resentment. Bruce Wayne inspired affection.

You found yourself wondering what he was actually like. The real version. Not the carefully polished public image. Not the headlines. Just the man.

Your gaze drifted toward the entrance more than once throughout the evening.

The subtle change spread through the crowd like a ripple through water. Conversations paused. Heads turned. Attention redirected.

You didn’t need anyone to tell you why.

Bruce Wayne had arrived.

The realisation swept through the ballroom almost instantly.

You found yourself looking too. Just like everyone else.

Oh. For a moment, you understood the fascination.

Photos had never quite captured him properly. Perhaps because photographs couldn’t capture presence.

Bruce moved through the crowd with effortless confidence, greeting donors and board members with easy smiles. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Impossibly handsome in a way that felt almost unfair.

The sort of face people built careers around. One that belonged on magazine covers. Yet none of that was what held your attention.

It was the way he carried himself. Comfortable. Natural. As though the attention of hundreds of people barely registered.

You felt oddly nervous.

Which was ridiculous. You weren’t even planning on speaking to him.

You simply found yourself watching from across the room.

Then your hand drifted unconsciously toward your wrist. Your thumb brushed the skin hidden beneath your sleeve. The countdown.

A habit more than anything.

You weren’t even sure why you checked.

Maybe because events like this always sparked conversations about soulmates. Or because seeing Gotham’s most famous bachelor had stirred old childhood fantasies you’d long since outgrown.

Whatever the reason, your fingers lingered there.

Tracing the familiar shape beneath the fabric. Feeling the steady pulse of your own heartbeat.

You smiled faintly to yourself. Foolish.

Then Bruce Wayne turned, and looked directly at you.

Everything stopped.

Your breath caught. Heart stumbled. Because beneath your fingertips.. The countdown had reached its end. 00:00:00:00.

The familiar sensation disappeared so suddenly that for a terrifying second you thought you had imagined it.

Your eyes widened.

Across the ballroom, Bruce Wayne was still looking in your direction.

No. Not your direction.

At you.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The countdown had stopped.

Your fingers remained pressed against your wrist, your pulse hammering so violently that you could barely feel the skin beneath them.

And for one impossible, terrifying second, the rest of the gala disappeared.

The music faded. The conversations blurred. Everything narrowed to those blue eyes. To the man standing twenty feet away. To the realization crashing through your chest with enough force to steal the air from your lungs.

Him.

Every second. Every minute. Every year. All of it had led here.

You couldn’t stop smiling.

A laugh escaped before you could catch it.

You felt ridiculous.

You felt ecstatic.

You felt fourteen years old again, lying awake at night and wondering who waited at the end of your countdown.

Your soulmate.

Bruce Wayne was your soulmate.

The thought was absurd.

Wonderful.

Terrifying.

And before you could think better of it, your feet were already carrying you forward.

You barely remembered crossing the ballroom. Only that one moment he was across the room.

The next you were standing in front of him. Close enough to speak. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Close enough to finally meet the person fate had spent your entire life leading you toward.

“Mr Wayne-” You stopped yourself. God, that sounded stupid.

You laughed nervously. “Sorry. Bruce. I just-”

The words tangled together. There were too many of them. How exactly were you supposed to tell someone they’d just become the most important person in your life?

How did anyone start a conversation like this?

“Hi. We belong together.”

“Hi. Fate says you’re mine.”

“Hi. I’ve waited my entire life to meet you.”

The absurdity almost made you laugh again. Instead, you found yourself smiling. A genuine one. The kind that slipped free before you could stop it.

“I think-”

Bruce looked at you. His eyes flickering over your face, your clothes, the event badge hanging around your neck.

Recognition never appeared.

Nothing softened.

Nothing changed.

It was the look people gave strangers who had interrupted them in public. Nothing more.

His gaze shifted immediately beyond your shoulder. Toward someone else.

Someone important.

Someone he actually wanted to speak to.

“I’m sorry.” The words were automatic. Polite. The sort of apology people gave when they weren’t sorry at all.

“I don’t have time right now.”

For a second you simply stared.

Still smiling.

Still trying to catch up.

“Oh.”

Bruce nodded once. Already moving.

Already done.

“If you’ll excuse me.” And then he brushed past you.

There was no cruelty. No emotion whatsoever. You hadn’t mattered enough for that.

The crowd swallowed him almost immediately.

One moment he was there and the next he was gone. Laughing with donors. Shaking hands. Moving through the room as though nothing had happened.

As though you had never existed.

As though the most important moment of your life had been a forgettable inconvenience in his evening.

You remained where you were. Frozen. The smile slowly slipping from your face.

Around you, the gala continued.

A waiter passed carrying champagne. Someone laughed nearby. Music drifted through the ballroom. Normal. Everything was painfully, horribly normal.

Your stomach twisted.

The excitement that had filled your chest moments ago curdled into something ugly. Something embarrassing.

Heat crept up your neck.

God. How stupid. How unbelievably fucking stupid.

Your hand rose to your wrist again. To the skin where the countdown had sat for your entire life.

Where it no longer moved.

You stared at it, waiting for the joy to return. For the excitement. For the certainty that this meant something.

Instead you felt sick. Because for one awful moment, you’d believed it.

You had looked at Bruce Wayne and allowed yourself to hope. Allowed yourself to think fate had chosen you.

That maybe all those stories people told were true.

Instead you’d received the same polite dismissal he would have given any stranger who got in his way.

Your throat tightened. Fuck, you felt like you were about to cry.

The hurt wasn’t coming from Bruce. Not really.

It was coming from yourself.

From the realisation that some small part of you had still believed after all these years, after all your indifference, all your insistence that fate didn’t matter, a part of you had still secretly hoped there would be magic in this moment. Something special. Worth waiting for.

And now that part of you was dying. Right there in the middle of a crowded ballroom.

The countdown had reached zero.

And for the first time in your life, you wished it hadn’t.

Two and a half months later.

The night had offered nothing unusual.

The Batcave settled into its familiar rhythm as everyone returned. Dick had claimed a corner of Tim's workstation and was ignoring increasingly pointed requests to move. Jason, having appeared midway through patrol without warning or invitation, was drinking Alfred's coffee. Damian sat nearby with a stack of reports, making notes in the margins.

Bruce stood near the medical station, removing the Batsuit piece by piece. The cowl came first, then the cape. He set the gauntlets aside and reached for the fastening at his wrist.

"Father."

Bruce glanced up.

Damian was looking at him with a faint frown. “You never informed us that your countdown had ended.”

He’d barely reacted. “What are you talking about?”

Damian looked mildly annoyed, like Bruce had forgotten something obvious.

“Your soulmate.”

Dick straightened immediately. Tim turned away from his monitor. Jason gave a short laugh.

"Wait. Seriously? You found them?”

Their Dad frowned. “What?”

Damian pointed.

Bruce followed the gesture to the inside of his wrist. The timer had stopped.

For a second, he simply stared.

Beside him, Dick grinned. “So that’s why you’ve been weirdly private.”

Jason scoffed. “Please. Like he’d tell us.”

“I assumed you were waiting until the relationship became serious,” Damian said matter-of-factly.

Tim nodded. “I figured you already had a file on them.”

A few years ago, Bruce might have responded. Might have denied it. Instead, he continued staring at his wrist.

00:00:00:00

The timer wasn’t moving.

It should have been.

For as long as he could remember, it had always been moving. Always counting. Now it sat completely still.

A strange feeling settled low in his stomach.

“When did this happen?” The words escaped before he could stop them.

The cave went silent.

Bruce looked up. Every member of his family was staring at him.

Dick’s smile vanished first.

Tim slowly lowered his tablet.

Jason blinked.

Damian narrowed his eyes.

A long moment passed. Then, “what do you mean, when did it happen?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. His gaze dropped back to the timer. “When did it reach zero?”

Nobody answered immediately. Because the question itself was wrong.

Dick stared at him blankly. “…You don’t know?”

Tim sat up, picking at the cuticles on his hands. “When was the last time you checked it?”

Bruce opened his mouth. The answer should have come easily.

Instead, nothing.

Weeks? Months? Years?

A knot formed in his stomach. He couldn’t remember. At some point, the countdown had become part of the scenery. Like a scar. Like an old piece of furniture. Something so familiar that he no longer saw it.

Damian rose from his chair. "How is that possible?"

There wasn’t accusation in the question. Only bewilderment.

Bruce understood it.

If anyone else had presented him with a mystery this significant and admitted they had ignored it for years, he would have found it equally incomprehensible.

A soulmate was information.

Information mattered.

Yet somehow he had allowed this particular fact to drift past unnoticed.

Dick dragged a hand through his hair. "Okay. So if it's been at zero for a while..." He trailed off.

Nobody finished the thought. Bruce didn't need them to.

The timer had stopped.

Which meant they had already met.

Somewhere, buried beneath years of galas, investigations, crime scenes, interviews, witnesses, victims, allies, and strangers, there was a person connected to him in a way he had never bothered to investigate.

The thought irritated him immediately. Annoyed by his own oversight.

Bruce Wayne missed very little. Batman missed even less.

And yet he had apparently overlooked something that had been written on his own skin.

His gaze returned to the frozen digits.

Who?

The question settled into place with uncomfortable ease.

Who had it been?

A civilian? A witness? Someone from a charity board? A doctor? A journalist? A stranger he had passed on the street and forgotten by the next morning?

His mind was already moving through possibilities, assembling timelines, searching for patterns.

The investigation had begun before he consciously decided to start it.

And long after the others had gone upstairs, long after the cave had emptied, he’d remained alone before the Batcomputer.

His wrist rested against the desk, the countdown sat motionless beneath the glow of the monitor.

For decades, he had convinced himself the timer didn’t matter. That soulmates were irrelevant. That whatever waited at the end of the countdown belonged to a future he would never allow himself to have.

Now, for the first time in his life, the future wasn’t theoretical. It was real. It had been real for years. And somehow, impossibly, he’d missed it.

He stared at the timer, jaw clenched. Then opened a new search window and began looking.

Bruce had always believed that every mystery possessed an answer.

The answer might be buried beneath layers of deception. It might require months of investigation, thousands of hours of work, or sacrifices most people would never willingly make. But it existed.

Every crime scene told a story.

Every missing person left traces.

Every lie fractured under enough pressure.

Answers existed. The challenge was finding them.

Which was why the frozen numbers on the inside of his wrist irritated him more than they should have.

A lifetime reduced to eight zeroes.

For decades it had been counting.

Now it wasn’t.

Entire criminal organisations had collapsed because of details other people overlooked. Murders had been solved because Bruce noticed a footprint half a millimeter deeper than it should have been. He built contingency plans for gods.

And yet somehow he had allowed this to happen.

Somewhere, at some point, his soulmate had entered his life. And he had failed to notice.

The oversight bothered him in a way he struggled to articulate. Not because he had spent years longing for his soulmate. He hadn’t. Or because he suddenly believed fate held some profound importance. He didn’t.

But because he had missed something.

Something connected to him. That should have been obvious.

His gaze drifted back toward the timer. A person.

For most of his life, the soulmate waiting at the end of the countdown had existed as an abstraction. A hypothetical future. A distant possibility.

Now they existed beyond the realm of his mind on particularly needy nights.

Living somewhere in Gotham. Or perhaps outside it. Going to work. Paying bills. Existing. Breathing.

Perhaps completely unaware that Bruce Wayne had finally noticed them.

The idea settled heavily in his chest.

Because that wasn’t entirely true, was it?

If the countdown had stopped, then they already knew.

The moment one timer reached zero, so did the other. Meaning somewhere out there was a person who had already experienced that moment. A person who had looked at their wrist and realised they had found the person fate intended for them.

Bruce’s fingers stilled against the keyboard. A strange feeling moved through him. Difficult to define.

Because unlike him, that person would have noticed.

Normal people would have probably watched their countdowns. Would have known exactly how much time remained. Anticipated the day it would finally happen.

He imagined someone checking their wrist. Watching the final seconds disappear. Feeling the weight of a lifetime’s anticipation finally come to an end. And then what?

Had they looked around for him?

Had they searched the crowd?

Had they recognised him immediately?

The questions arrived uninvited. More troublingly, they refused to leave.

Bruce leaned back in his chair. The cave hummed softly around him. Banks of monitors cast pale light across the stone walls.

Above him, thousands of tons of earth separated the cave from the sleeping Manor. None of it held his attention.

For perhaps the first time since Damian had pointed out the frozen timer, Bruce found himself thinking not about the investigation. But about the person.

Who were they? What kind of life did they live? What had they thought when they realised? Had they been happy? Afraid? Disappointed?

The last possibility lingered.

Bruce frowned. Disappointed. The word shouldn’t have bothered him. Yet it did.

Because he knew exactly what the public thought of Bruce Wayne. The billionaire. The celebrity. The perpetual tabloid fixture.

To some people, finding out Bruce was their soulmate would be exciting. To others it would be a nightmare.

A lifetime of reporters. Paparazzi. Public scrutiny. Danger. Every enemy Batman had ever made.

Bruce knew better than anyone that proximity to him carried consequences.

The evidence sat framed across the Manor.

The thought darkened his expression. Whoever they were, they deserved better than that.

And then Bruce paused. His eyes slowly narrowed. Because that thought implied something else. Something he hadn’t consciously acknowledged until now.

It didn't matter.

That lie was what kept you going after the gala. It wasn’t grief. Grief implied loss, implied that you had possessed something to begin with.

You hadn't. Bruce Wayne had never been yours.

And yet, something inside of you had still died that night.

You still went to work. Still paid your bills. Still answered texts. Still laughed when friends made jokes.

From the outside, nothing had changed.

Inside, however, there was a deep hole where something important used to live.

Hope, perhaps.

Or whatever foolish thing had survived all those years beneath your indifference.

You had spent your entire life insisting that the countdown didn't matter. That fate didn't matter. That your soulmate was merely a possibility waiting somewhere in the distance and not the center of your universe.

Then the timer reached zero.

And you discovered exactly how much you had been lying to yourself.

Because if it truly hadn't mattered, then seeing Bruce Wayne across that ballroom wouldn't have hurt the way it did.

If it truly hadn't mattered, then his face wouldn't still appear in your nightmares. The sight of his name wouldn't make your stomach twist like someone had reached into your chest and grabbed hold of your ribs.

Yet it did. Every time, without fail.

Three days after the gala, you stopped in front of a coffee shop on your way to work.

A newspaper sat in the display window.

BRUCE WAYNE ANNOUNCES THE EXPANSION OF FOUNDATION PROGRAMMES.

The headline wasn't even particularly large, just another article among dozens. A perfectly ordinary thing.

Yet the moment your eyes landed on it, nausea rolled through you so violently that you nearly turned aroun and walked home.

You stood frozen on the sidewalk, just staring blankly. You hated yourself for pausing.

Because there he was.

Photographed beneath bright camera flashes. Smiling. Beautiful.

Shit, he was beautiful.

It would have been easier if he wasn't. Easier if fate had chosen some ordinary man. Someone forgettable, whose face wouldn't follow you everywhere.

But Bruce looked like something sculpted rather than born.

Like whoever had created him had started with every impossible standard of beauty and decided they still weren't enough.

Even frozen in grainy newsprint, he seemed unreal.

Dark hair falling perfectly despite the cameras. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, those impossible blue eyes. The kind of watercolour people wrote poetry about. The kind that belonged to summer skies and oceans and things too beautiful to touch.

You remembered looking into those eyes across the ballroom. Remembered your heart stopping. Thinking, absurdly, that of course fate had chosen someone beautiful.

Soulmates were supposed to be extraordinary. And Bruce Wayne was sure as hell extraordinary.

Broad shoulders beneath perfectly tailored suits. Strong hands. Easy smiles. A laugh that seemed capable of convincing entire rooms to laugh with him. Not merely attractive. Handsome. Beautiful in the way ancient gods were described. The sort of beauty that made people stare before they realised they were staring.

He carried himself with the effortless confidence of someone who had spent his entire life being admired. Someone who had never needed to wonder if people found him desirable because the answer had always been obvious.

And somehow fate had looked at him, then looked at you, and declared that you belonged together.

You left the coffee shop without buying anything.

After that, you started noticing him everywhere.

It felt cruel. As though the universe had developed a sense of humor specifically to torment you.

Wayne Enterprises logos decorated entire buildings. Wayne Foundation advertisements appeared on buses. Charity campaigns featured his photograph. Magazine covers displayed his face near checkout counters. Televisions in waiting rooms played interviews. Articles appeared online. Photographs surfaced endlessly. Everywhere you looked, Bruce Wayne existed.

You couldn't escape him. Couldn't erase him.

The worst part was that everyone else saw those images and reacted normally.

Nobody understood what you saw. Nobody knew what it felt like.

Your coworkers saw Gotham's favourite billionaire. Your friends saw a celebrity. Strangers saw a philanthropist. You saw your soulmate.

You saw the man whose timer had stopped when yours did. The man who had looked directly at you, then dismissed you.

Sometimes you found yourself staring at the pics longer than you meant to.

Your eyes refused to look away. Despite everything, some awful traitorous primal part of you still recognise d him. Still instinctually saw him as yours.

The slight curve of his smile. The shadows beneath his eyes. The way his expensive suits felt designed to emphasise the width of his shoulders. The way his presence somehow dominated photographs even when surrounded by dozens of other people.

You hated that you noticed. Hated that your heart still reacted. That attraction remained long after hope had died.

Because Bruce Wayne was beautiful. Painfully, unfairly, devastatingly beautiful.

The kind that made the stinging rejection feel worse.

If he had been cruel, you could have hated him. If he had mocked you, anger could have replaced the hurt. But he hadn't done either.

He’d made living unbearable.

Bruce hadn't rejected you because he disliked you. He hadn't rejected you because you were unworthy. He hadn't even rejected you at all.

To reject someone required acknowledgment.

Bruce Wayne simply hadn't cared enough to notice. You had been forgettable. An interruption. A stranger in a crowded room.

It was fucking humiliating.

To everyone else, your countdown had finally reached zero. A happy occasion. A miracle. A dream-come-true.

People congratulated you. Asked questions. Smiled knowingly.

You learned to lie.

"Oh, I haven't met them yet." "Maybe we crossed paths without realizing." "I'm not really focused on it."

Easy answers. No one ever suspected the truth.

Didn’t know that every mention of soulmates felt like someone digging a knife into an already sore bruise.

That fate itself had started feeling so incredibly cruel.

No one knew that your countdown had ended beside crystal chandeliers and champagne glasses and the most beautiful man you'd ever seen.

Hw could you explain to anyone that he had walked away?

How could you describe the experience of finding the person the universe created specifically for you, only to discover that your existence wasn’t even important enough to remember?

There weren't words for that.

Every morning you woke up, and every day Bruce Wayne's name appeared somewhere.

On buildings. Headlines. TVscreens. Charity banners. A constant reminder. A monument to something you desperately wished you could forget.

You never admitted how much it affected you. Not even to yourself.

Instead you learned to look away. To change channels. To scroll past articles. To cross the street rather than walk beneath buildings bearing his name.

Small, pathetic things.

Yet necessary.

Because every glimpse felt like reopening a wound that refused to heal.

And somewhere deep down, beneath the humiliation and hurt and anger and disappointment, existed a truth you hated even more.

You still thought he was so disgustingly beautiful. Remembered the moment he looked at you. Could still feel the countdown reaching zero.

And no matter how hard you tried, some part of you still mourned the future that had died before it ever had the chance to begin.

Finding you should have taken longer.

Bruce expected months. Years, maybe. The list of possibilities was absurd.

A countdown bond narrowed the search considerably compared to shared pain or dreams, but it was still thousands of people. Tens of thousands, depending on the timeframe. Every person he'd spoken to. Every person he'd stood beside. Every handshake. Every conversation. Every fleeting interaction that had seemed insignificant at the time.

Ordinarily, that would have made the investigation difficult.

Instead, it became embarrassingly simple.

Because unlike other soul bonds, a countdown created a very specific moment. A beginning.

Bruce only needed to determine when his timer had stopped. Then identify everyone he'd interacted with during that period. The rest was elimination.

He discovered quickly that he had a significant advantage.

Over the past five months, Bruce had only personally interacted with nine people who possessed countdown bonds.

Nine.

One was a long-time business partner whose timer still had three years remaining.

Two were married.

Another had met their soulmate publicly several weeks prior.

The remaining names disappeared one by one beneath scrutiny.

Until only one remained.

You.

The file sat open on the Batcomputer. Bruce stared at it for a long time.

Name.

Age.

Employment history.

Education.

Address.

Nothing remarkable. Nothing that should have caused his pulse to stumble the way it did. Yet it did.

Because beside your photograph sat a timestamp. Wayne Foundation Annual Renewal Gala.

Two and a half months ago.

Bruce went still. The gala.

He couldn’t remember you at all.

He remembered the event. The schedule. The donor meetings. The practiced speeches. The endless boring conversations. The uncomfortable sensation that accompanied the recollection made his stomach tighten.

Because if the countdown had ended that night, then you had been there. Somewhere inside that ballroom.

His soulmate had stood within arm's reach, and he hadn't known.

Bruce leaned back slowly.

The photograph remained illuminated on the monitor.

You looked ordinary. Not in a bad way. Just real. A person.

His person.

The thought appeared uninvited.

His gaze lingered longer than necessary. Memorising details.

The shape of your smile in the employee photograph attached to the company website. The slight tilt of your head. The way your eyes seemed brighter in candid images than posed ones.

Ridiculous, meaningless observations.

Yet he continued looking.

Eventually, Bruce opened the gala guest registry. Cross-referenced attendance records.

Security footage. Photographs. Anything.

Everything.

He found you four hours later.

Camera seventeen. Ballroom east entrance. Timestamped twelve minutes before the countdown likely reached zero.

The footage was silent.

You stood speaking with coworkers. Laughing at something. So… bright.

Unaware that he even existed beyond headlines and magazine covers.

He watched the clip so many times that domething uncomfortable settled beneath his ribs.

He knew what was about to happen.

Your timer was about to reach zero. His timer was about to reach zero.

You found him.

You’d crossed the room.

And he walked away.

Hell, he hadn’t even properly looked at you.

Bruce stared at the paused frame.

For the first time since beginning the investigation, a deep nausea rolled through him.

He remembered that interaction vaguely now.

A stranger approaching. A voice trying to get his attention. A laugh. An interruption between meetings.

Nothing important or memorable. Nothing-

His jaw clenenched.

No.

Not nothing.

You.

It had been you.

His soulmate.

The person fate had spent decades leading toward him.

The person whose existence he had secretly imagined during sleepless nights and lonely flights and moments of weakness he never admitted to anyone.

Bruce rose from his chair.

The cave remained silent around him. Cold. Empty without his boys.

The monitor focused on your face. He couldn’t pull his eyes away.

For two and a half months, you had known.

You'd known exactly who he was.

And if Bruce understood people half as well as he believed he did, then you had probably interpreted that encounter exactly the way anyone would.

You thought he'd rejected you.

Bruce found himself imagining it despite having no desire to.

You walking across that ballroom. Excited. Hopeful. Nervous. Only to be brushed aside.

His stomach twisted.

You had spent your entire life moving toward him. And he'd made you feel unwanted.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. No. Unacceptable.

You belonged to him.

Bruce had spent most of his life convincing himself he could survive without a soulmate.

Now he found himself staring at your photograph at three in the morning, unable to look away. Unable to stop imagining your reaction when you learned the truth. To stop thinking about the hurt he had unknowingly caused. And most concerning of all, unable to stop wanting.

Not merely to meet you.

To keep you close.

Safe.

Where nothing could take you away before he had the chance to make this right.

You were halfway through answering emails when your manager appeared beside your desk.

"Got a minute?"

You looked up. "Sure."

"We've had a request come through."

That wasn't unusual. The company received requests constantly.

You nodded for them to continue.

"They specifically asked for you."

That was unusual.

Your brow furrowed. "Me?"

"Apparently." Your manager sounded just as confused.

You accepted the folder they handed over, then immediately wished you hadn't. The logo printed across the front was impossible to miss.

Wayne Foundation.

Your stomach dropped.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Your manager misread your expression immediately. "Good news, actually."

Good. Right.

You’d almost forgotten that normal people didn't feel like they were on the verge of breaking down every time they saw that name.

You forced a smile. "What's the project?"

"A community outreach initiative. They've been reviewing applicants from several companies."

It was like the name seemed determined to follow you everywhere.

"Apparently someone on their end requested you specifically."

The confusion in your manager's voice mirrored your own.

"Have you worked with them before?"

"No." The answer came too quickly. You cleared your throat. "Not personally."

Your manager nodded. "Well, whoever reviewed your profile liked something."

Maybe. Or maybe fate simply wasn't finished laughing at you yet.

You waited until they left before opening the folder.

The proposal itself looked normal. Professional. Routine. Yet a strange feeling settled low in your stomach.

Because your name appeared throughout the documentation.

You stared at the pages for several seconds then shook your head. Paranoia. Nothing more.

Bruce Wayne didn't know who you were. The Wayne Foundation employed thousands of people. This was coincidence. It had to be.

Yet later that evening, as you prepared to leave work, you found yourself looking at the folder again.

Reading your name.

And wondering why the uneasy feeling refused to disappear.

←↓→↑

The project itself was harmless. Boring, even.

Several meetings. A handful of planning sessions. Far too many emails. Just.. normal stuff.

And yet you found yourself running into the same problem repeatedly.

People always seemed to know who you were.

Not coworkers or clients, it would probably hurt your feelings if they didn’t know your name.

But Wayne employees.

The first time it happened, you ignored it. The second time, you thought about it for a bit before shaking it off. The third time, it became impossible not to think about.

A woman stood beside the refreshments table wearing a Wayne Foundation identification badge, smiling like she knew you as she called out your name.

You glanced up from your coffee, offering a polite smile. "Yeah?"

Her expression brightened immediately. "Oh good."

Good?

You waited.

Instead, she simply smiled. "Sorry. I've heard nice things."

Before you could ask from whom, someone called her name from across the room.

The conversation ended there. Leaving you standing alone holding a paper cup and feeling vaguely unsettled.

She'd heard nice things.

From who?

About what?

Then you’d received an email. Then another. And another.

Nothing inappropriate or personal. Just opportunities. Projects. Invitations. Networking events. Requests.

All connected to Wayne Enterprises or one of its countless subsidiaries.

The attention made no sense. You weren't exceptionally qualified. You weren't particularly influential. There were hundreds of people with better resumes. Thousands.

Yet somehow your name kept appearing.

Each coincidence felt harmless on its own.

Together, they felt deliberate.

There was only one explanation your brain kept returning to, and it was ridiculous.

Bruce Wayne didn't know who you were.

Bruce Wayne had never known who you were.

The memory still hurt. Less than before, but enough.

You shoved the thought away and focused on work. Unfortunately, work wasn't cooperating.

"There's a gala next month."

You nearly choked on your drink.

Your coworker blinked. "...You okay?"

"No."

You set the glass down.

"Sorry. What?"

"A gala."

Absolutely not.

The immediate response rose so quickly that you nearly said it aloud.

Your coworker laughed.

"That's about the reaction I expected."

"No."

"That's not even what I asked."

"No anyway."

The laugh grew louder. "It's mandatory."

Of course it was. You dropped your forehead onto the table.

Somewhere above you, your coworker continued speaking.

Words blurred together.

You caught Wayne Foundation. Charity initiative. Attendance expected.

Absolutely wonderful.

You closed your eyes. The universe hated you. That was the only reasonable explanation.

Because apparently surviving one Wayne gala hadn't been enough.

Now fate had scheduled a sequel.

That should have been funny. Instead, dread settled heavily in your chest.

Bruce Wayne probably wouldn't even be there.

And if he was?

He wouldn't recognise you. Wouldn't remember you. You would simply become another face in another crowd. Again.

The familiar ache returned. Duller now. Older, but still present.

You hated that even after everything, some pathetic part of you still cared.

Wondering about what could have happened if things had gone differently.

If he had looked at you. If he'd smiled. If he'd given fate even a single chance.

The thought followed you all the way home. Followed you into the shower. Followed you into bed.

And somewhere across Gotham, entirely unaware of the damage he was causing, Bruce Wayne was doing exactly the same thing.

Thinking about you.

Constantly.

Obsessively.

Unable to stop.

While you lay awake staring at the ceiling, Bruce sat alone in his study surrounded by photographs, reports, schedules, and information he absolutely should not possess.

The file on his desk had grown significantly over the past two weeks.

The silence of the study was suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic, heavy thrum of Bruce’s own heartbeat. It was a sound he usually controlled with meditative precision, but tonight, his pulse was erratic, driven by a hunger that felt less like desire and more like a fever.

His fingers, scarred and calloused from years of a life lived in the shadows, trembled slightly as they hovered over the glossy surface of the most recebt photograph.

In the light of the single desk lamp, your laughter looked almost tactile. He wanted to reach through the paper, to catch the warmth of your skin, to feel the vibration of that laugh against his own chest.

He didn't just want to see you. He wanted to own the air you breathed.

A low, jagged exhale escaped his throat as he reached for the fastening of his trousers. The silk of his shirt felt abrasive against his skin. He wasn't a man of whims, he was a man of purpose.

As he freed himself, his gaze never left your eyes in the photo.

He began to move, his hand wrapping around his length with a grip almost a little too tight, a little too desperate. He wasn't looking for a gentle release, he was looking for a way to drown out the ache of your absence. He hadn’t even met you properly yet.

Every slide of his palm was a silent prayer, a demand whispered into the empty room.

You, he thought, his eyes darkening until the blue was almost black. Only you.

He closed his eyes for a second, and the darkness behind his eyelids was filled with the phantom sensation of you. He imagined your hands replacing his own.

He imagined the way you would look at him if you knew. If you knew that he had mapped out your entire existence, that he knew the number of alarms you needed to wake up, the drinks you preferred, the way your eyes crinkled when you were truly happy.

A groan, deep and primal, tore from his throat as he increased the pace. The friction was intense, bordering on a delicious sort of pain. He pictured you in this very room, stripped of your defences, looking at him with that same devastating smile. He imagined pinning you to this very desk, marking you so thoroughly that the world would know you belonged to the Batman, to Bruce, to him.

"Mine," he rasped, the word a vow and a command. "You have to be mine."

He was spiraling, losing his composure to the sheer, unadulterated need to possess the person in the photograph.

As the tension coiled in his gut, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the edge of the desk, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. He wasn't just chasing a climax, he was chasing the ghost of you. And as he finally broke, his body shuddering with a violent, lonely release, the only thing he could think about was how much longer he could stand being a stranger to the only person outside of his family who truly mattered.

He stared at the splotches of his own mess, his eyes settling back on your frozen, laughing face.

His patience was running out. And soon, he wouldn't just be looking at pictures. He would be looking at you.

The morning of the gala arrived faster than expected.

You spent most of it trying not to think about where you were going later. Work helped.

Emails needed answering. Reports needed reviewing. Deadlines continued existing regardless of personal problems.

By six o'clock, however, distractions became harder to find.

The Foundation building stood illuminated against Gotham's skyline when your taxi pulled up outside.

For a moment you remained seated. Watching people enter through the front doors. Watching security direct arrivals. Watching expensive cars arrive one after another.

The driver glanced at you through the mirror.

"You getting out?"

You sighed. "Unfortunately."

The lobby was already busy.

Employees moved through the space carrying folders, tablets, and the sort of purposeful expressions people adopted when responsible for coordinating large events.

You followed the signs toward registration.

The man at the desk smiled immediately.

"Good evening."

"Hi."

You offered your name.

Something flickered across his expression. "There you are." The words slipped out so naturally that he didn't seem to realise he'd said them.

Your brow furrowed. "What?"

His smile widened. "Nothing. Sorry."

He handed over your badge.

"Conference hall B. Someone will show you where to go."

The interaction lingered in your mind as you crossed the lobby.

There wasn't anything strange about it.

You reached the elevators just as a man wearing a Foundation lanyard stepped out.

His eyes landed on your badge. Muttering your name under his breath.

You stopped. "Yeah?"

His expression brightened. "Right this way."

You stared at him.

The conference hall was directly ahead. Visible from where you stood. So was the sign. So was every other person entering without assistance. Apparently, you were the only one receiving a personal escort. The thought made you irrationally suspicious.

"Thanks."

The man spent the walk making polite conversation.

The conference hall occupied most of the floor.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked downtown Gotham. Round tables filled the space beneath hanging lights. Staff moved between displays making final adjustments while attendees gradually filtered inside.

You recognise d a few people from previous meetings and wandered over.

Conversation came easily enough.

Work topics. Office gossip. Complaints about deadlines. The familiar rhythm settled some of your nerves.

Eventually, someone handed you a drink. Someone else told a story about the mate documentary they were watching the night before. Laughter spread around the table.

For the first time all evening, you found yourself relaxing.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

You could survive a few hours, shake a few hands, then disappear before anything unpleasant happened.

A movement near the entrance drew your attention.

The change happened gradually. A few heads turned. Then a few more.

You knew who it was before you looked.

For a brief moment, you considered keeping your eyes fixed firmly on the table.

But curiosity won.

It always did.

Bruce Wayne stood near the entrance speaking with several board members.

The sight of him harder than expected.

Four months had passed, yet he remained exactly as you remembered.

Tall. Confident. Effortlessly composed. The kind of person who never seemed out of place regardless of where he happened to be standing.

You watched him laugh at something one of the board members said. Watched him rest a hand briefly against someone's shoulder. Watched him move through the crowd with practiced ease.

The memory arrived before you could stop it.

Crystal chandeliers. Champagne glasses. The countdown reaching zero beneath your fingertips.

Your gaze dropped immediately. Heat crawled uncomfortably up the back of your neck.

This had been a mistake.

All you could think about was how little had changed for him.

Somewhere between the gala and now, Bruce Wayne had probably attended dozens of events just like this one.

Met hundreds of people.

Forgotten hundreds more.

Meanwhile, you still couldn't walk into a Foundation building without remembering the worst conversation of your life.

The thought was embarrassing enough to make you take a long drink.

Across the room, entirely unaware that you had already looked away, Bruce Wayne finally spotted you.

↑→↓←

You forced yourself to look anywhere else.

The city beyond the windows. The drink in your hand. The conversation happening beside you. Anything except him.

It felt childish.

Embarrassing, honestly.

You were an adult. Bruce Wayne wasn't some ex you were desperately trying to avoid at a party. He was a stranger.

A stranger who happened to be your soulmate.

Someone who happened to have accidentally shattered every stupid childhood fantasy you'd ever had about fate.

"So then the guy spends hours explaining how the patterns along his wrist connected-"

"What?"

Your coworker laughed. "The documentary."

"Oh." You blinked.

Right. The documentary.

Apparently the conversation had continued without you.

You offered what you hoped looked like a convincing smile.

No one seemed to notice.

People drifted between groups. More guests arrived. Staff circulated carrying trays of drinks and appetizers.

The event settled into a comfortable rhythm.

Exactly the sort of evening you'd expected.

Which was probably why it took you a moment to notice something was wrong.

The conversation around your table had started stuttering. Small pauses appearing where they hadn't before. People glancing toward something behind you.

You ignored it initially.

Then someone stopped speaking halfway through a sentence.

"...Oh."

You frowned. "What?"

Nobody answered immediately. Slowly, unease crept up your spine.

You knew that feeling.

The awful certainty that something embarrassing was happening and you simply hadn't caught up yet.

Your grip tightened around the glass.

Please don't be me.

Please don't somehow be me.

Carefully, you turned. And nearly dropped your drink.

Bruce Wayne was walking toward your table.

The room seemed to tilt.

No. That wasn't right. There were other people here. Important people. Board members. Executives. Foundation staff.

Bruce Wayne had absolutely no reason to be approaching you.

Yet each step brought him closer, your pulse hammered painfully. Maybe he wasn't.. Maybe-

Then Bruce smiled. Carefully. Almost hesitant.

"Hi."

→←↑↓

Your pulse thundered traitorously.

After spotting him near the entrance, you had gone out of your way to avoid him. And apparently, he'd made no effort to stop you.

He talked briefly with the accountant at your table before passing.

You felt stupid all over again.

You knew better than to expect anything.

No shit he wasn’t coming over to talk to you.

By the time the evening finally began winding down, your social battery had been thoroughly exhausted. Guests filtered toward the exits in small groups while staff quietly began dismantling displays around the edges of the room.

You offered your goodbyes, accepted a few last-minute business cards you would probably never use, and escaped.

Or tried to.

Halfway down the hallway toward the elevators, you changed direction.

Bathroom first.

Then home.

The corridor was blissfully empty compared to the crowded ballroom behind you. Soft lighting reflected off polished marble floors. The distant murmur of conversation faded with every step.

You were almost done. Almost free.

"Leaving already?"

You stopped so abruptly your feet nearly slipped against the floor.

The voice came from behind you. Low and warm.

Dangerously familiar.

Your stomach dropped.

Slowly, you turned.

Bruce Wayne stood at the opposite end of the hallway. Alone.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Gone was the effortless social charm he'd worn all evening. Without the crowd surrounding him, he seemed larger somehow. Broader. More imposing.

His eyes were fixed entirely on you. Watching. Like he'd finally found something he'd been searching for.

A strange tension settled between your shoulders.

"Mr. Wayne."

His expression tightened immediately.

"Bruce," he corrected softly.

The familiarity felt inappropriate.

You swallowed. "Bruce."

Something in his gaze darkened at the sound of his name on your lips.

Satisfaction.

The hallway suddenly felt much smaller.

You forced a polite smile. "I didn't realise you were still here."

"I was looking for someone."

Your heart stumbled. The answer came too quickly. Too directly. And for one awful second, hope tried to rear its ugly head again.

You crushed it immediately. "You found them then?"

The words were meant as a joke.

Bruce didn't laugh. Instead, his gaze softened.

"Yes."

The answer landed with uncomfortable weight.

The air felt thick.

You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of every inch separating you. Or rather, how little distance there actually was.

"You wanted something?" you asked carefully.

Bruce stared at you.

It was unnerving. Most people glanced away eventually. They blinked. Looked around. Got distracted.

Bruce seemed incapable of doing any of those things.

His eyes moved slowly across your face as if committing every detail to memory.

Four months ago, he couldn't spare you two seconds. Now he was looking at you like he couldn't bear to look away. It didn't make sense.

Nothing about this made sense.

"I owe you an apology." The words caught you completely off guard.

You blinked. "What?"

"The first gala."

Your breath stopped. Every muscle in your body locked.

Bruce's jaw tightened. "You approached me."

The memory flashed through your mind with brutal clarity.

The countdown.

The humiliation.

"I remember." It was a lie.

You knew it was a lie. You could hear it. He hadn't remembered. You'd seen his face that night. Seen the complete absence of recognition.

But he looked genuinely upset now.

"I handled it badly."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. Small. Bitter.

Bruce's eyes narrowed.

"You don't need to apologize."

"Yes." His answer was immediate. "I do."

Something sharp flickered across his expression. Self-directed anger. Regret. Maybe even guilt.

You didn't understand it at all.

"You didn't know me." Your voice came out quieter than intended. The admission hurt. Even now.

"You didn't owe me anything."

Bruce went completely still. The silence that followed felt wrong. Dangerous.

His gaze dropped briefly to your wrist before returning to your face. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

Then he took a step forward.

Yet your pulse reacted like he'd crossed the entire hallway.

"I should have known you." The words came out rough. Almost painful.

Something shifted beneath the surface of his composure. You could feel it. Like cracks forming beneath ice.

And for the first time all evening, genuine unease curled through your stomach.

Because suddenly it felt less like Bruce Wayne had happened to stop you in a hallway. And more like Bruce Wayne had been waiting there. Waiting specifically for you. Waiting for the moment you would be alone. When there would be no audience. No escape.

A shiver ran down your spine.

Bruce's eyes immediately tracked the movement.

His expression softened. Like even that tiny movement meant something precious to him.

And somehow that frightened you far more than if he'd looked angry.

"Can I walk you to your car?" he asked quietly.

The question sounded harmless. Polite.

But there was something underneath it. Something hungry. Something that made it feel less like a request and more like a man trying very, very hard not to demand.

When you hesitated, Bruce's gaze darkened harshly.

You got the overwhelming impression that Bruce Wayne was not accustomed to hearing no.

And that whatever was looking at you from behind those impossibly blue eyes had already decided how this interaction would end.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You looked at him, searching for the playboy you had seen on the news, but he wasn't there. In his place stood a man whose very presence felt like a gravitational pull, heavy and inescapable.

Your heart was a frantic thing in your chest, caught between the instinct to run and the soulmate bond that hummed under your skin, screaming that this was where you were supposed to be.

"I... I can manage, Bruce," you said, trying to inject a note of independence into your voice. You didn't want to be another person he was simply 'handling' or 'managing.' You wanted to be seen as an equal, not a charity project or a fleeting interest.

"It’s a long walk to the valet, and you have guests to attend to."

You made a move to step around him, but you didn't get far.

Before you could even clear his shadow, Bruce’s hand shot out. He didn't grab you roughly, but his fingers curled around your upper arm with a terrifying, singular purpose. It wasn't a casual touch, it was a tether. His palm was hot, even through the fabric of your clothes, and the sheer strength in his grip made your breath hitch.

"The guests are gone," he said. His voice had lost its social lilt. It was now a low, gravelly command that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of your bones.

"They don't matter. Nothing in that room matters but this."

He stepped into your space, forcing you to tilt your head to maintain eye contact. The hallway felt like it was shrinking, the walls closing in until the only thing left in the universe was the scent of him, like the coming of a storm.

"You think you can just walk away?" he murmured, his eyes searching yours with a desperation that bordered on the frantic.

You frowned, your confusion overriding your unease. "After everything? Bruce, we haven't even spoken for more than five minutes.”

You let out a quiet broken laugh. “You don't even know me."

A dark, humorless sound escaped his throat, one that sounded more like a growl. "That is where you are wrong."

His grip tightened, making it clear he wasn't letting go.

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, his pupils blown wide until the blue was just a thin, electric ring.

"I know the way you tilt your head when you're thinking," he whispered, leaning so his breath fanned across your cheek.

"I know the exact shade your eyes turn when you're startled. I know the schedule of your life better than you do. I have spent every waking moment since that night trying to find a way to apologise for a sin I didn't even know I had committed."

Your heart hammered against your ribs.

How? How could he know these things? The sheer impossibility of his words should have made you laugh, or call for security, but the soulmate bond was reacting to his intensity, pulling you toward him like a moth to a flame.

It was a terrifying, beautiful pull.

A part of you wanted to demand answers, to push him away for his madness, but another part, the part that had been lonely and aching for months, wanted to collapse into him and let him devour you.

"You... you're obsessed," you breathed, the words slipping out before you could think them through.

Bruce didn't flinch. He didn't deny it. Instead, he leaned closer, his forehead touching yours, his expression one of raw, unadulterated devotion.

"I am," he confessed, the admission sounding like a vow.

"I am completely, utterly undone by you. And if you walk out of this hallway tonight without letting me make it right, I think the world might actually end."

He looked at you then, not as a billionaire looking at a guest, but as a man looking at his entire world, his eyes burning with a terrifying, beautiful hunger.

"Please," he pleaded, the word a jagged edge of vulnerability.

"Don't make me watch you walk away again. Let me take you home. Let me show you that you were never just a face in a crowd. You are the only thing that has ever been real."

He wasn't asking anymore. He was begging, and as he stood there, looming against you with a possessiveness that felt like a honeyed trap, you realised with a jolt of both fear and exhilaration that you didn't want to say no.

In the months that followed that night at the gala, the "coincidences" had stopped being coincidences and had become a reality.

You no longer had to wonder why a certain restaurant always had your favourite table reserved, or why your career seemed to accelerate with a sudden, inexplicable momentum.

You knew. You knew that every promotion, every unexpected gift, and every "chance" encounter was a thread in the web Bruce had woven around you.

And the most frightening part was how easily you had let yourself be caught.

The initial shock of his obsession, the way he looked at you as if you were a miracle he was afraid might vanish if he blinked hard enough, had slowly melted into a deep, intoxicating security. You were no longer a face in the crowd. You were the center of his universe.

You sat on the edge of the massive, silk draped bed in the master suite of Wayne Manor, watching the moonlight spill across the floor.

The room was silent, save for the distant, rhythmic sound of the Gotham rain against the glass.

A door clicked shut. Heavy, purposeful footsteps crossed the rug.

You didn't need to turn around to know it was him. You could feel him. The soulmate bond, once a source of lonely longing, was now a constant, thrumming connection that acted like a second pulse.

Bruce stepped into the light. He had shed the armor of his tuxedo, wearing only a dark shirt left partially unbuttoned.

He looked less like a billionaire and more like the man you had met in the hallway.

He approached you, his presence filling the room until there was no air left that didn't belong to him.

He sank onto the bed behind you, his large, warm hands sliding around your waist to pull you back against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. A low, contented sound vibrating against your skin.

"You're thinking again," he murmured, his voice a deep, velvet caress. "I can feel it."

"Just thinking about how much has changed," you whispered, leaning your head back against his shoulder.

You reached up, lacing your fingers with his. "How much you've changed."

Bruce tightened his hold, his arms circling you like a fortress. "I haven't changed. I've simply finally found the right reason to exist."

He turned you in his arms, forcing you to face him. His eyes were dark, swirling with that familiar, beautiful madness. Devotion so absolute it felt like a physical weight.

"Do you still feel like you're in a trap?"

You looked up at him, searching the face of the man who had studied your every breath, the man who had turned his entire life into a pursuit of you.

You thought of the fear you had felt, the unease at his intensity, and the way he had practically begged for a chance to belong to you.

Then, you thought of the way he held you now as if you were the most precious thing in existence, as if your very survival depended on his touch.

A slow, knowing smile touched your lips. You reached up, cupping his jaw, your thumb tracing the line of his lip.

"No," you admitted softly, the truth settling comfortably in your chest. "It feels like home."

Bruce’s expression broke, a flash of pure, unadulterated relief crossing his features before it was replaced by a hunger that made your breath hitch.

He leaned in, his lips hovering just a fraction from yours.

"Good," he rasped, his gaze dropping to your mouth. "Because there is no going back. You are mine. And I am never, ever letting you go again."

As he pulled you into a kiss that tasted of desperation and promise, you realised that the universe hadn't hated you after all.

It had simply been waiting for the moment that you finally stopped running and let the storm claim you.

Please comment and reblog! :)

11K+ Words, 69K+ Characters, 1K+ Sentences, 900+ Paragraphs, 42 Minute average reading time, 1 hour and 6 minute average speaking time.

Read Dick Grayson’s part here.

it’s quarter past two in the morning, and bruce is meant to be tired—he should be asleep… not effortlessly lifting you up onto the kitchen counter and sinking to his knees before you. he hooks his fingers into the fabric of your pyjama bottoms and tears them off your body.

“hey!” you whine, already slightly breathless. “they were expensive.”

“i’ll buy you five new pairs,” bruce mutters, sliding your underwear down your legs.

his mouth leaves a blazing path up your thighs, nipping the soft flesh every so often. he takes his time making his way up. its a languid, unhurried journey, his large hands urge your knees apart, exposing you to him fully. 

the moment he gets a look at your cunt it’s already glistening, dripping onto the counter beneath you. he drags the pad of his thumb through your folds, spreading your lips open so he could get a full view.

you’re already trembling with need, your cunt clenching around nothing like it’s begging for his mouth. he bows his head in a silent prayer, and gently guides your leg over his shoulder before diving in. 

his tongue darts out to give you one long, antagonisingly slow lick from your hole all the way up to your clit, the flat of it dragging through your folds. his lips wrap around your clit as he sucks, tongue flicking over the sensitive bud.

its mortifying how quickly the pleasure builds in your stomach, your back arches as bruce dips his tongue lower, fucking into you. you snake your hands into his hair, tangling through the strands and tug at them roughly.  

your voice breaks as you moan his name, hips jerking up into his face. your slick drips down to his chin but bruce pays it no mind. he continues his ministrations before attaching his lips back onto your clit and sliding one thick finger inside your cunt. 

it stretches you open and with every moan, every whimper, every curse or breathless gasp you let out, bruce feels it in his cock. it strains against his boxers, soaking the fabric. the ache is almost unbearable, but bruce doesn’t care how hard he is, his only priority is making you fall apart under his fingers and tongue.

and that’s exactly what he does.

your legs are shaking, heels digging into his scarred back. then, without warning, he slides another finger inside you, curling them in tandem with each pump. your hips start to move on their own accord, grinding against his face.

you’re desperate for more, and bruce is more than happy to oblige. your walls flutter around his fingers as he hits that spongy spot inside you. your moans get louder with every passing second. 

the sensation of bruce’s fingers and tongue is too much—you can barely breathe, hardly think. you’re right on the edge, your whole body strung tight as your orgasm approaches. bruce glances up, his eyes drinking in every reaction your body gives him. 

wet sounds echo in the kitchen, each thrust of his fingers squelching as your arousal drips down to his palm. your head thumps back against the cupboard behind you as a sob slips past your lips.

“c’mon, baby,” he murmurs against you. “wanna see you come…”

your eyes squeeze shut as your orgasm crashes through you. you moan his name as you come, thighs clamping around his head as your body convulses. your hips rock against his face, chasing every last ounce of pleasure.

“fuck, bruce—” you gasp, thighs trembling around his head.

he slowly slips his fingers out of you and your whole body shudders. just when you think he’s going to stand up, bruce leans forward and licks you clean. his tongue drags through your folds, lapping up every last drop of your release. 

“delicious,” he mutters, pulling back with the lower half of his face covered in your slick.

note — post #4 for my 1k celebration!