jason's child catching hips

Bruce sulking during the outside time you require of him

Screenshot, sent to Bruce < WHAT is this??

Catching Bruce's eye across the room at a fundraising gala

Testing lipstick

Sleepy Bat

Screenshot of a text from Bruce

A photo of one of your favorite outfits of his

The photo that comes from Alfred, who has no shame in taking photos when they both of you are happy

Photographic proof that Bruce can cook

The photo you take when you have neither of you have shame in flaunting your relationship in public

The photo you send to the groupchat < you'll never guess where I am

Attached to a text to Bruce < just saw you, B

The video cuts to both you and Bruce sitting next to one another. Both of your hands are clasp on the table while Bruce's are hidden under. One of them of which is on your thigh though the camera doesn't see it. A female crew member from Vanity Fair sits just off camera on the other side of the table.

"Y/N, Bruce, you were both brought here today to take a lie detector test. One of you will be hooked up onto the machine and the other will interview. Then you switch." She tells you. Both you and Bruce nod in understatement. "This is Judd, our polygraph operator." she introduce the man sitting off to the side.

You and Bruce both turn to him. Bruce gave him a greeting nod, you smiled and gave a small 'hello.'

"Who wants to be in the hot seat first?" the crew member asked.

You laugh nervously and turn to look at your husband and he looks at you.

"Is the hot seat the lying seat or the other one?" Bruce asked.

"This side is the test and also it's the truth seat." you tell him.

"Well then ladies first." Bruce says, which you gasp in shock.

You are getting hooked to the machine and are suddenly getting nervous. Judd, the lie detector operator, places your right arm on the table.

"Try not to move this arm too much." he told you.

A montage of setting up the lie detector starts to roll before the camera is on Bruce, now sitting opposite of you.

"My love…to calibrate the machine, I'm going to ask you some straight forward questions. Please answer honestly. Is your full name Y/N M/N Wayne?"

"Yes." you say.

"Are you 39 years old?"

Once again your eyes widen, "Didn't anyone tell you it was rude to ask a women her age?" Bruce just gives you a smug smile. "Yes." you finally answer with an eye roll.

"Are you about to take a polygraph exam?"

"Yes…everything I say feels like is a lie." you say then looked over at Judd. "Is it registering than I am?"

Judd shakes his head, "No, you're doing fine."

Bruce raised an eyebrow at you, "Are you nervous?"

"Well I wasn't before we arrived, but now being hooked up, I am. I guess I never realize how much I lie in life. Now I'm actively trying not to and it just feels wrong." you say.

"You lie more times than you think you do." Bruce stated.

Y/N Wayne Tells The Truth

Bruce reads off the first prompt, "You once told the Gotham Gazette that you feel like everyone hates you." you nod your head. "Do you still believe that?"

You nod your head again, "Yeah."

The camera switches back to Bruce, whose face had nothing but concern written on it.

"Why?" he said so quietly that it also didn't get picked up by audio.

"Um…I mean I don't know why anyone wouldn't have like some resentment towards me. You are like Gotham's baby, the prince of Gotham City. The city loved your parents and by extension you. Then here I come, a low-middle class girl from Star City, somehow got the playboy to settle down. I was living most Gotham girls fantasy and different from everyone else. So yeah I knew people hated me and I think some still do."

"I wouldn't trade you for anyone." Bruce stated.

"Awe you sap."

"Is the real reason you took the job to be my assistant because you secretly wanted to date me?"

"Really? That's the next question, even after what I just said?" you rolled your eyes, "No."

"She's telling the truth." Judd said.

"I truly had no idea who you were. I'm from the west coast, we didn't care about what was happening in the east. Which also if we are being honest…I think Alfred was looking for someone who didn't care who you were."

Judd nods, "Truth."

"Am I a good husband?" Bruce ask with a straight face.

You take a moment to answer, "Yes."

Judd shakes his head and Bruce tilts his head at you.

"What? No! You are you're a great husband…I will say though that you weren't a very good boyfriend, but I've had worst."

"That's the truth." Judd says.

"Okay so then follow up, what made me not that good of a boyfriend?"

"Well, there are two big things, but for legal reason…I can't say." you say.

"You went to the same high school as this person." Bruce slides over a picture of Oliver Queen.

You knit your eyebrows in confusion before realizing who it was, "Oh Ollie."

"Don't like how you said that…" Bruce mumble. "You dated during your senior year. Would you say that he was one of your worst that you were talking about?"

Your mouth twist as you looked at the picture, thinking hard. You opened your mouth to speak, but then retracted it.

"No." you finally say.

"That's a lie." spoke Judd.

Your jaw dropped as Bruce laughs a little, "What? I didn't lie. Sure he wasn't the best and he owns up to that…now at least. The ones in college though…" You make a face.

"Ones? Plural?"

"Oh, don't act like that…you practically had a new girlfriend every month according to Alfred."

"I already know the answer to this one," Bruce says and you give an offended look, "Do you look at fan accounts dedicated to you?"

You laugh, "I look at fan accounts dedicated to all of us. Especially ones about Dami."

Judd nods, "She's telling the truth."

You look into the camera, "I gotta make sure everyone is being respectful and appropriate about my baby."

"We see it all." Bruce comments.

"You make me watch a lot of reality TV." Bruce says.

"I don't make you, you enjoy it."

"Do you think we should have our own reality TV?"

You shake your head, "God no. We are kind of public enough, I don't need the world seeing into our home life."

"Truthful."

"If I asked to with hold information from a super villain to cover for me, would you?" Bruce makes a face.

"No." you say equally making the same face.

"I would never ask you to do that."

"I don't even think our kids would cover for you." you and Bruce both laugh. "Also, I've done that before…wouldn't recommend."

"Did you lie at any point of this interview and we didn't catch you?" Bruce asked.

"I think I was pretty truthful consider that fact that I felt what I was saying was all lies."

"My turn I guess." Bruce said tossing what he was reading off of behind him.

The camera cuts to now Bruce getting hooked up to the polygraph machine.

"Bruce, to calibrate the machine, I'm going to ask you some straight forward questions. Please answer honestly." you read off of a note pad. Bruce nods. "Is your full name Bruce Thomas Wayne?" you asked.

Bruce nods, "Yes."

"Are you from Gotham, New Jersey?"

"Yes."

"Are you about to take a lie detector test?"

Bruce smiles at you, "I suppose that I am. Yes."

You look toward Judd, the lie detector operator, "Good?"

"All good." Judd says back to you, and you turn your attention back to your husband.

Bruce Wayne Tells The Truth

"I feel like this is going to be boring because you generally don't really lie." you say.

"What? I lie to the press all the time…and our children." Bruce states.

"He's telling the truth." Judd says.

You look at him with wide eyes, "Honey, you can't say that."

Bruce shrugs, clearly not caring.

You look down at the paper the crew gave you. Pre-reading the first one, it makes you laugh.

"I'm already not liking this." Bruce admits.

"How often are you faking that you remember people at Galas from when you were a kid?" you ask.

Bruce doesn't hesitate to answer, "Oh, all the time."

"That's so bad." you say, "You're horrible."

Bruce shrugs again.

"The family group chat often talks about how hot this person is " you slide a picture of Clark Kent in front of Bruce.

"Oh no…" Bruce says already knowing where this was going.

"There is a part of the internet that is very dedicated on shipping you two together..,"

"Shipping?"

You gave your husband a deadpan look, "Don't try to act like you don't know what that is. I know Stephanie's explained it to you before."

Bruce chuckles.

"The two of you are seen pretty close with each other. So the question is would you leave me if Clark Kent declared his love for you?"

Bruce draws his lips into a thin line. Staring a the photo of Clark on the table, contemplating. Five minutes go by and you, on the other side of the table, look at your so call lover with with shock.

"Bruce this is a long time, goodness!"

Bruce shakes his head, "No, no I wouldn't leave you." You turn your head to Judd.

"Truth." said Judd, but you shake your head.

"I don't believe you. Would you leave me for Clark Kent?" you ask again.

"No." He said it clear with a stern voice.

You are narrowing your eyes at him as Judd tells you that Bruce was telling the truth.

"Before dropping out of Gotham University, you were dorm mates with Former District Attorney, Harvey Dent. Was he a good roommate?"

"I think we were both equally bad roommates…" Bruce said.

"Would you say that you are or were more successful than him?"

"Ohhh." Bruce made a face like that question psychically hurt him. You laugh at his reaction, "No absolutely not."

"Deceptive." Judd said, causing both you and Bruce to laugh.

"Oh well I already know the answer to this, but when was the last time you made a dinner reservation?" you laugh. Bruce makes a face that you couldn't describe. "Never." you said as you shook your head. "I don't think you ever have, Alfred does it for you."

"If I did and this was before you, I would just call and pretend to be my own assistant…" Bruce revealed.

"Well, you didn't have to," you told him laughing, "It was just something you chose to do."

"You're quite well know for your physique. What's your secret for staying so fit and or hydrated?"

Bruce thinks on how to answer, "I get wet when I…"

The camera cuts back to you. You are slightly shaking your head, trying not to laugh.

"No…say something else." you say. Bruce breaks into silent laughter. "Please say something else."

"What was the question again?" Bruce asked.

"What's your secret to staying so hydrated or fit?"

"I get wet when I-"

"NO!" you yell, "Bruce say it another way…" you tell him.

"I drink water? I work out almost everyday?" Bruce responds.

"There you go. Oh my god, Bruce." you say.

Bruce laughs at your panic expression.

"Moving on from whatever that was-"

"What I was trying to say-" Bruce began, cutting you off.

"NO! Honey, we're done." you say.

"We have a lot of kids." You state reading of the card, "Out of all of them, who is your favorite?"

"Are you trying to start a war?" Bruce ask.

"Not me, Vanity Fair."

"I don't have a favorite." Bruce claims.

"That's a lie." Judd tells you. You burst into laughter

"It varies week to week. Who ever runs my patients the least that week the is favorite."

"Truth." Judd says.

"So then who gets on your nerves the least?" Jason's voice said from somewhere off camera.

"Cassandra…and Duke."

Judd nods, "Truth."

"Are you the crime fighting vigilante known as Batman?"

Bruce sighs, "Am I going to get asked this every interview we do?"

"Answer the question, honey."

"No." Bruce declared.

Judd's face twitch a little, "Ask him again."

You let out a little surprise noise, "Did it not pick up?"

You lean forward looking into your husband's eyes. He was staring back at you, with a shit eating grin on his face.

"Are you Batman?" you ask again.

Bruce leans forward too, leaning into your eyes. You're enjoying this, he could tell.

"No." Bruce answered.

"He's telling the truth." Judd announced.

You fell back into the chairs, "We almost had him guys." you say referring to the people of the internet.

"Okay that was all the question. Did you lie at any point during this interview and we didn't catch you?"

Bruce nods, "Yes."

"True." Judd said.

You looked wide eye at your husband, "Are you serious?" Bruce smiles and nods. Mouth open with shock, "When?"

"I'm not going to say."

"Can I say what I think you lied about?" you smiled.

"What?"

"Leaving me for Clark Kent." you laughed.

1,1010 Comments

@ shootingforthestars

Bruce knew exactly what he was saying

@ littleotter13

"Is that the lying seat' bruce for you every seat is the lying seat

@ FemboyJackie1

She looks at the camera like she's in The Office

@ noname-kA17

the concept of the industry's biggest pathological liar taking a lie detector test.

@ DCalc12

Y/N Wayne taking about Blark was not on my checklist for 2026

@ harleendefender09

Whose out here hating on our queen???

more notes: can you guys guess what three lie detector test videos inspire this??

Then the woman in 3C cleared her throat.

It was not an ordinary throat clear. It was a declaration of war wearing pearls, the sort of sound produced by someone who had been storing disapproval in her chest since boarding and had finally decided the cabin deserved access to it. You looked up and found her turned just enough in her seat to face you without fully committing to the indignity of twisting around.

 She was elderly, elegant, and stiff-backed, with a silver bob sprayed into submission, coral lipstick, a cream cardigan buttoned over a pale blouse, and a handbag resting in her lap like a judgmental pet. Her eyes swept across Damian’s sketchbook, Jason’s jacket, Tim’s half-dead posture, Cass’s stillness, Duke’s watchful amusement, Dick’s easy charm, and finally settled on you with the hard little satisfaction of a woman who had found the person she intended to make responsible for her discomfort.

You knew that look. You had seen versions of it in school offices, charity events, grocery stores, hospital waiting rooms, and once in a museum where Damian had been accused of “lurking with intent” beside a Monet. It was the look people gave when they saw your family and decided love had exceeded the legal occupancy limit.

You gave her your politest smile. “Can I help you?”

“I certainly hope so,” she said.

Damian’s pencil paused against the page.

Dick leaned slightly into the aisle with that bright, well-meaning expression that made strangers believe diplomacy might survive the century. “Is something wrong, ma’am?”

The woman glanced at him, seemed briefly inconvenienced by the power of his face, then recovered. “I was speaking to the mother.”

Jason turned a page without looking up. “Which one? We rotate emotional support adults.”

“Jason,” you murmured.

The woman’s lips pinched. “That is exactly what I mean.”

You folded your hands in your lap because if you gave them nothing respectable to do, one might drift toward Damian’s wrist in warning or Jason’s shoulder in preemptive damage control. “What do you mean?”

“The noise,” she said. “The whispering, the constant shifting, the atmosphere.”

Duke blinked. “The atmosphere?”

“Yes,” she said, as if he had personally released a weather system into first class.

The bleakest part is that no one had been loud. The Wayne children in public could be many things, but when they needed to, they went quiet. Not normal quiet. Dangerous quiet. Rooftop quiet. The kind of quiet that makes sensible people check the exits and wonder why their instincts have started ringing little silver bells.

“I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable,” you said. “We’ll be mindful.”

“Mindful would have been arranging yourselves properly before boarding,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Children should not be scattered across the cabin like loose change.”

Jason’s eyes lifted over the top of his book.

The air changed almost imperceptibly, and a silk thread pulled tight. Dick’s smile stayed in place, but the warmth thinned at the edges. Cass’s gaze moved to the woman with calm precision. Duke straightened a little. Damian lowered his pencil, his mouth flattening into the expression he wore when deciding whether a person deserved mercy or a footnote.

“They’re in assigned seats,” you said.

“They’re practically surrounding people.”

“We do that,” Tim mumbled, still half-asleep. “Family tradition.”

Cass gently shut his laptop the rest of the way.

The woman stared at him. “Is he ill?”

“Sleep deprived,” Duke said. “Very tragic. Very Gotham.”

“Then perhaps he shouldn’t travel.”

Tim opened one eye. “I suggested cargo. Nobody listened.”

“Tim,” you said softly.

The woman seized on that tiny crack of chaos with visible satisfaction. “You see? Disrespectful. Dramatic. And that one looks as if he is about to start a fight.”

She pointed at Jason.

Jason looked down at himself, then around the cabin, as if searching for whatever violent criminal she could possibly mean. “Me?”

“You know it’s you,” Dick said quietly.

Jason placed one hand over his heart. “I’m reading Austen.”

“That does not comfort people the way you think it does,” Duke murmured.

The woman turned toward Damian next, apparently determined to catalog every offense by row and blood pressure. “And that one has been staring at me.”

Damian looked up slowly, and the temperature of the cabin seemed to drop by several degrees. “I have not. I have been drawing my dog.”

“You looked at me twice.”

“You were in my line of sight.”

“Damian,” you said.

His jaw tightened, but he looked back down. “Apologies.”

It sounded less like an apology and more like a royal pardon delivered under protest.

The woman clearly mistook your restraint for permission. Some people did that. They saw courtesy and decided it was an unlocked door; they saw motherhood and mistook softness for a public utility. “Large families like this always think the world should accommodate them,” she said, loudly enough now for the nearest passengers to hear, but not quite loudly enough to admit she wanted an audience.

“We paid for our seats too,” you replied.

“Yes, but you chose to bring this entire… assembly.”

Dick’s smile vanished.

It did not vanish dramatically. It simply left his face like a light being switched off.

“Assembly?” he repeated.

“Dick,” you murmured.

“I’m just checking the vocabulary.”

The woman looked at him, perhaps sensing for half a second that she had stepped onto a floorboard with teeth beneath it, but then her attention returned to you. You were always the safer battlefield. Bruce was too imposing, Jason too visibly unpleasant when provoked, Damian too sharp, Cass too unreadable, Tim too dangerous in proximity to electronics, Duke too watchful, and Dick too charming until he was suddenly not charming at all. 

But you looked like the mother, the soft one, the one expected to absorb the blow and turn it into an apology. And in truth, you were their stepmother. It was a title that knew how to wear armor and softness at the same time, and you had learned to hold both, whether the world recognized the difference or not.

“I understand wanting to give children opportunities,” she said, her voice sweet in the way spoiled milk might be sweet if it learned manners. “But some children simply aren’t suited for public spaces.”

Jason’s book closed.

Not loud. Loud would have been less threatening. He closes it with one finger still marking his place, slow and deliberate, and lifts his eyes.

“Careful,” he said.

The woman recoiled, one hand fluttering to her pearls. “Excuse me?”

You looked at him. “Jason.”

“What?” he said. “It’s good advice. Lots of sudden drops on planes.”

“We are not doing this.”

A flight attendant named Maribel appeared in the aisle with the cautious smile of a woman who had smelled smoke before the alarm had started screaming. “Is everything alright here?”

The old woman turned to her immediately. “I’m being harassed.”

Jason made a sound like his soul had tripped over furniture.

Dick leaned forward. “No, she isn’t.”

“She is,” Tim murmured. “Being disagreed with.”

“Not helpful,” Duke whispered.

Maribel looked between all of you with admirable professionalism. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I asked this woman to control her children, and they became rude and threatening.”

“Threatening?” Dick asked, and the word came out quieter than before.

“That one told me to be careful.” She pointed at Jason again.

Jason lifted a hand. “General safety reminder.”

“Please stop helping,” you told him.

“I have never helped once in my life.”

“That’s true,” Dick said.

“Do not defend my character right now.”

The woman turned back to you. “Are you going to allow this?”

Your smile thinned. “I’ve allowed a lot less than you think.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“I’m sorry if you feel disturbed,” you said, and though your voice stayed calm, you could feel your patience fraying beneath it, thread by thread. “But my children have done nothing to you.”

The words changed the cabin.

My children.

They were simple words, but they settled over the rows with a weight that made several of the kids go quiet in a different way. Dick’s expression softened for half a second, unguarded and young despite everything he had survived. Jason looked away, jaw working once as if the sentence had struck somewhere too private to acknowledge. Tim stared at his closed laptop. Cass’s gaze warmed with a softness that was nearly invisible unless you knew how to read her. Duke’s smile tucked itself away into something careful and touched. Damian’s pencil hovered above the page, unmoving.

The woman missed all of it, naturally.

“They’re not children,” she said. “Half of them are grown men.”

“Then stop tattling on them like they stole your crayons,” Jason muttered.

“Jason Peter Todd,” you said.

He winced. “That was unnecessary.”

The woman lifted her chin. “In my day, young people respected their elders.”

“In your day, planes had smoking sections,” Tim said, then looked immediately betrayed by his own mouth.

Duke covered his face with one hand.

Cass patted Tim’s arm.

The woman gasped. “Are you going to allow that?”

Tim looked at you with the doomed expression of a man who had wandered barefoot into a courtroom. “I may have over-participated.”

“You think?”

“Statistically, yes.”

The woman leaned back, offended dignity gathering around her like a shawl. “I don’t know what kind of household you run, but clearly these children have been given too much freedom.”

Your anger always arrives quietly. It isn’t fire, an explosion, or something that cracks through a room and demands attention. It gathers like weather over dark water, slow and heavy, giving people too many chances to mistake the horizon for peace.

“You can complain about the seats,” you said, voice low enough that the nearby rows had to fall silent to catch it. “You can complain about whispering, or atmosphere, or whatever else you’ve decided is unbearable about sitting near my family. But you will not talk about my children like they are burdens someone dragged onto this plane.”

The woman’s face stiffened. “I never said burdens.”

“You implied it.”

“I only meant,” she said, wearing a small, ugly smile now, “that it is generous of you to take on so many complicated young people. Though generosity does have limits.”

For a moment, no one moved.

The engines hummed beneath the floor. Sunlight flashed on the woman’s pearls. Damian went rigid beside you, and you felt the barely contained fury in him like a blade heating under cloth. Jason’s stare flattened into something cold. Dick’s hand tightened around the armrest. Tim was fully awake now, which was rarely a good sign. Cass became too still. Duke’s expression lost every trace of humor.

You reached over without looking and touched two fingers to Damian’s wrist.

“No,” you said softly. “It does not.”

Before the woman could answer, the cabin shifted.

You saw him first.

Bruce came through the curtain at the front of the plane with his dark hair slightly mussed, his suit jacket folded over one arm, his white shirt fitted across his shoulders in a way that made the aisle seem narrower by personal insult. He thanked the flight attendant near the galley, then walked back toward you with that quiet, controlled presence that made the world appear to straighten itself as he passed. No music swelled, no cape unfurled, no dramatic shadow fell across the cabin, though Jason would have paid actual money for all three. Bruce simply returned.

The woman turned because everyone else did.

Then she saw him.

And immediately went silent.

Not quiet. Silent.

It was the kind of silence that happened when someone realized the thunderstorm had a name, a jawline known to every gossip magazine in Gotham, and a very expensive watch.

Bruce stopped beside your row. His eyes moved over you first, always you first, and then over the children with a swift, practiced precision that missed nothing: Jason’s closed book, Damian’s clenched hands, Dick’s missing smile, Tim’s awake stare, Cass’s stillness, Duke’s sharpened expression, Maribel standing in the aisle with the fragile composure of a woman praying no one committed a felony at cruising altitude. Finally, he looked at the woman.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

His voice was polite, even, and dangerous as a locked door.

The woman swallowed. “Mr. Wayne.”

Jason leaned back in his seat, delighted in the way only Jason could be when consequences arrived wearing cufflinks. “You were asking where our father was, right?”

“Jason,” Dick whispered.

“No, I’m helping.”

Bruce did not look away from the woman. “Were you?”

Her mouth opened, then closed. “There was a small misunderstanding.”

“A small misunderstanding,” Bruce repeated.

He glanced at you. You lifted one shoulder in a tiny motion that told him both nothing and everything. You could handle it. You had handled it. But Bruce looked at the children again, and something in his expression cooled.

“My wife,” he said, “is usually the most patient person in any room.”

The woman tried to smile. “Yes, well…”

“So if she became impatient,” Bruce continued, “I assume there was a reason.”

The smile died.

Maribel looked down, clearly fighting for her life somewhere behind her professional expression.

The woman clutched her handbag. “I didn’t realize this was your family.”

Bruce’s gaze sharpened. “That should not have mattered.”

Jason looked as if Christmas had arrived early and brought legal counsel.

Damian looked like justice had descended in human form and found the seating satisfactory.

The woman stared at her lap. “Of course.”

Bruce turned slightly to Maribel. “Has my family caused any disruption?”

“No, Mr. Wayne,” Maribel said. “They’ve been respectful.”

Bruce looked back at the woman. “Then I trust there won’t be further issues.”

It sounded like trust.

It was not trust.

“No,” the woman said stiffly. “There won’t be.”

“Thank you.”

Bruce sat down beside you and took your hand as if he had not just folded the entire argument into a neat little coffin and slid it beneath the seat in front of him.

For several seconds, no one spoke.

Then Jason whispered, “Dad voice still works.”

Dick exhaled a laugh, shaky with relief. “That wasn’t even full dad voice.”

Tim leaned back in his seat. “Full dad voice requires a first and middle name.”

Damian sniffed. “Father did not need volume. His disappointment was sufficient.”

Duke nodded solemnly. “Artisanal disappointment.”

Cass signed something with one hand that you couldn’t see fully from your seat.

Dick choked.

“What did she say?” you asked.

Dick grinned. “She said Bruce has resting principal face.”

Bruce looked at Cass.

Cass looked back, serene and merciless.

His mouth twitched. “Not inaccurate.”

You finally let out a breath, only then noticing how much tension had settled in your shoulders, tucked there like a smuggled knife. Bruce’s thumb moves slowly over your knuckles, hidden beneath the armrest where only you can feel it.

“What happened?” he asked quietly.

“She had opinions,” you said.

“About?”

“Our atmosphere.”

Bruce glanced around the cabin. “Our atmosphere.”

“Yes. Apparently we travel with a weather system.”

Jason muttered, “Accurate.”

You lowered your voice. “She said generosity has limits.”

Bruce’s hand stilled.

Damian looked up, his chin lifting with sharp, wounded dignity. “She implied we were burdens.”

“Damian,” you said softly.

“It is relevant.”

Bruce went very quiet.

Then he looked at them one by one. Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, Duke, Damian. His expression did not transform dramatically, because Bruce’s face had always been a locked house with only a few windows lit, but something deeper moved beneath it, something heavy and certain and fiercely held.

“None of you are burdens,” he said.

The sentence landed gently, and somehow that made it heavier.

Tim looked down. Cass’s eyes warmed. Duke swallowed. Jason’s jaw tightened as he stared hard at his book. Damian glared at his sketchbook with ferocious concentration. Dick smiled faintly, the kind of smile that looked like it had been stitched out of old hurt and gratitude.

Bruce’s voice stayed low. “Not to me. Not to your mother. Not ever.”

Your throat tightened before you could stop it, because even when a truth was known, there were moments when hearing it aloud made it real in a new place.

The woman in 3C sat so still she seemed to be trying to become upholstery.

Maribel returned with drinks a moment later, giving you a quiet look of solidarity as she stopped beside your row. “More water, Mrs. Wayne?”

“Yes, please.”

“Anything else?”

“Coffee,” Tim said at once.

“No,” you, Bruce, Dick, Jason, Duke, and Damian said together.

Tim looked betrayed. “I need it to live.”

“You need sleep to live,” you said.

“I’ve tried sleep. We’re incompatible, swiped left.”

Cass accepted the coffee Maribel had already poured and placed it on her own tray table, far from Tim’s reach.

Tim stared at her with hollow despair. “Cruelty from the quietest corner.”

Jason reopened his book. “This family hates innovation.”

“This family hates whatever happens when you drink airplane coffee after thirty hours awake,” Duke said.

“Thirty-one,” Tim corrected.

Bruce looked at him.

Tim closed his eyes. “Allegedly.”

Slowly, your family settles back into its shape. Dick makes Maribel laugh with something kind and easy. Cass watches the clouds like they’re speaking a language she almost understands. Duke quietly guesses which passengers are afraid of flying and keeps being right every time. Tim actually falls asleep, mouth slightly open, protected from caffeine by Cass and whatever higher power is on duty. Jason goes back to reading Austen with the grim focus of a man determined to win an argument with a woman who will never know she’s part of it. Damian finishes his drawing and, after a small hesitation, tears it carefully from the sketchbook and hands it to you.

You took it with both hands. Titus stood in the center of the page wearing a cape and a tiny cowl, one paw planted on a defeated vacuum cleaner.

“He looks brave,” you said.

“He is brave,” Damian replied.

“Is the vacuum cleaner dead?”

“Subdued.”

“Of course.”

Jason leaned over. “Can Titus have a gritty reboot?”

“No,” Damian said.

“I’m seeing rain, vengeance, tragic kibble trauma.”

“Titus already has depth.”

“He eats socks.”

“That is a layered flaw.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Bruce’s hand tightened around yours, his thumb brushing once over your skin like punctuation.

The old woman did not turn around again.

After a while, when the cabin had settled into that soft middle-of-flight hush and the clouds beyond the windows stretched white and endless beneath the wing, you leaned forward just enough for your voice to reach her. “I hope the rest of the flight is more comfortable for you.”

She turned slightly, embarrassed and stiff, no longer sharp enough to cut with. “Thank you.”

You sat back.

Jason stared at you. “You’re too nice.”

“No,” you said. “I’m exactly nice enough.”

Bruce’s gaze warmed. “Yes, you are.”

Damian frowned. “She did not deserve courtesy.”

“Courtesy isn’t always about deserve,” you said, watching the clouds glow like pale silk beyond the window. “Sometimes it’s about who you want to be when someone else is small.”

Damian absorbed that with the deep displeasure of someone who had asked for ammunition and received a philosophy lesson.

Jason groaned softly. “Great. Moral improvement at thirty thousand feet.”

“Hydrate,” you told him. “It’ll pass.”

Bruce lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles, the gesture hidden from most of the cabin by the angle of his body, but not from you. His lips were warm against your skin, brief and old-fashioned and tender in a way that made your heart ache.

“You were magnificent,” he murmured.

“I was irritated.”

“Magnificently irritated.”

You smile despite yourself and look around at your family, scattered across the cabin just like the woman said. Loose change, she called them, or close enough. But she was wrong, the way people are always wrong when they mistake what they can count for what they can understand.

Not loose change, you thought.

A constellation.

Bright, stubborn, impossible stars, scattered across the dark and still belonging to the same sky.

Ambrosia and citrus fruits hung in the air. Ice cream cones glided slowly down the ever warming pavements, the melting straberry and vanilla milky cream bleeding slowly along the cracks of the hot paving stone. For once , silence reigned at the lakeshores.

Even though the villa boasted a small private beach, teenagers would invariably hop the fence or clamber down the stone wall to party until dawn. "Il proprietario non c'è mai," they would hum whenever the Polizia peered over the fence.

"Let the young people enjoy their summer," she had said, just as he was on the verge of chasing the group away with a fine walking stick clutched in his fierce hand.

She was so lenient. He never understood why.

Windows flung wide open, an orchard of peach trees with wind chime breez through the leaves and branches shimmering with the early heat haze. A timeless oil-painting or polaroid-worn-away-at-the edges-with-fading-faces kind of beauty about this dream. It had to be one. Bruce Wayne was never lucky. This could not be real.

And her? Soft light spattered on her soft skin, her and her and her.

i want to live like this forever. I want to rip my teeth into this very moment and never let go. i want to feed on this very image. i want to die here.

Always intertwined, feeling the silken sheets shifting around us like white snakeskin as i sought for your body's warmth. Never quiet sated.

The golden light, filtered through the leaves, bathed her skin in gentle marble textures. Bruce traced curve after swirl, searching for those tiny imperfections in her skin that made her feel human. Less than the thalassic siren he saw within her.

Her muscles rippled in the same rhythm the gentle waves of the lake, soft, persistent, soft.

Bruce was scared. Scared that in this life, it would start raining the second he whispered her name into her ear. The second she called for him. Afraid that a storm would break, instead of time standing still, after they had kissed for the millionth time.

The house was filled with the smell of the last misshaped, sweet heavy, almost drunken peaches of the season. Slowly loosing shape from their ripeness. All summer long the peach-trees had begged to get picked. When their skin had still been plush, full of life as if frozen in them; smooth as marble.

Bruce pushed his nose into the back of her neck. Her warm, soft hair tickling his nose, while his lips savoured the faintly salty taste of her skin. He tried to purge the heavy ripe scent from his nostrils, trying to inhale her youthfulness. Hoping she was secretly not yearning for the light. That she did not feel as though her lips rested upon a fruit: a fruit that was scarcely lovable, less plump, and all too easily bruised.

He traced a tiny mole on her shoulder, sighing deeply. His eyes flickering towards an old bureau. Wooden vines adorned its otherwise simple form. Inside a tiny secret drawer lay a ring - cradled in silk and kept safe within a silver seashell jewelry box. A silver ring enclosing a genuine saltwater pearl, held fast by curving forms and filigree that evoked the beautiful, almost ethereal appearance of sea foam.

The ring of his mother. The ring of his father's mother. And hopefully soon the ring of his future children's mother.

Selina.

A name that haunted his mind like a ghost. He avoided mirrors, too afraid to catch the reflection of her cat like green eyes. Her gaze, staring back at Bruce like a blinding light in the darkness. Scars reminded him that Bruce Wayne would never find solace without becoming entangled in a web of hazy thoughts, thoughts he called love. Thoughts of straying from the righteous path of his predetermined, solitary road of vengeance, of abandoning the very safety of an already godforsaken city.

A name that had haunted him again for months, ever since a tiny green glimmer of hope had taken root in his heart. Hope for a more domestic life.

His spiraling thoughts were interrupted as she stirred beside him. The Bat blinked; his eyes felt dry after having zoned out for so long, his heavy eyelids unmoving. She turned over, still half-asleep, and buried her face against his bare chest. He felt her legs shift between his, yet she showed no sign whatsoever of waking up. "My sleeping beauty…" he murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. He inhaled her scent and the light oil of her scalp.

"Hmmm... does my pretty lady want to grace her humble knight with her waking presence?", he sighed gruffly. His voice was laced with a heavy raspy note. Another sleepless night for the vengeful knight, she noted. The young woman felt him shift his head,and felt, once again, how he was staring at that damned table for the umpteenth time. She didn't even have to open her pretty eyes to sense that tense gaze.

She heard him think, zoning out agian, for a tiny second. He heard her mumbel before he could once again loose him again.

"No...", she breathed, her refusal barily audible. He let out a soft, throaty laugh and scattered a thousand kisses across her jawline and cheek. His two days worth of stubble pricking her delicate face. "Let me see your pretty eyes...", he mumbeled between kisses, gently cupping her cheeks with one large hand. His palm was deliciously rough from the work as a viligante and the rigorous training. The skin scarred from training all the different skills he now commanded.

She opened her eyes only a tiny slit, her long lashes brushing expectantly against her slightly squished tissue of her cheekbone. He purred with contentment, pursed his lips, and pressed a childlike kiss to her mouth. "My pretty little fawn… just look at you—so displeased, and your day hasn't even begun yet," he murmured.

He laughed again, as if his words had been immensely amusing.

"I'm sorry, little angel—I'm so sorry I woke you," he cooed tenderly, kissing first her eyelids, then her nose. "Forgive me, my little apple."

He had left the bed, tucked his beloved back snugly into the silken cocoon of their sheets, and then set off for the kitchen. Ready to brew coffee and bring back some pastries from the tiny bakery downtown. Just a few miles away from this villa. The young woman slowly sat up, her eyes staring, almost gawking at the bureau. She tried to figure out what Bruce could possibly have found so interesting there.

After all, she hadn't simply stumbled into the Batcave last winter just because she had bumped her head one too many times as a child. She pushed the duvet off her legs and crept slowly, on tiptoe, toward the piece of furniture. Hesitantly, she glanced toward the open double doors. She could smell the fresh aroma of Italian coffee being brewed over on the stove.

Her hands felt along the underside; her fingertips sensed every tiny irregularity, every little imperfection in the wood. Her index finger glided over a strange spot. She pressed against the wood, and a tiny compartment sprang open. With a soft click, the drawer slid out.

For a moment, she simply stared inside. Lying there was a small silver shell, nestled within the folds of pale silk. The morning light caught on its curves, making it gleam like something dredged from the bottom of the lake by a mermaid's careful hands.

Slowly, she reached for it. The shell felt cool in her palm. Older than the house. Older than summer. The hinge gave way with barely any resistance. And there it was, a ring. Not gaudy not enormous. Not the sort of thing displayed behind spotless glass windows on Fifth Avenue.

The pearl seemed alive. Cream-white and luminous, carrying the soft glow of moonlight trapped beneath water. Silver swirls held it in place, delicate and wild at once, like sea foam frozen by magic. Her thumb brushed over the metal.

The realization settled slowly within her. For several seconds she simply sat there on the floor, cross-legged before the bureau, holding the ring between her fingers as though it might disappear. The world outside continued uninterrupted.

The floorboards groaned softly. Bruce appeared in the doorway carrying a tray balanced awkwardly in one hand.

Bruce almost dropped the tray. The pure silver was not particularly heavy, nor because the polished wooden floor beneath his bare feet was uneven, but because the sight that greeted him as he stepped through the doorway struck him with the same strange, disorienting force as waking from a nightmare and realizing it had followed you into daylight.

His Darling sat on the cool floor before the bureau, the tin ysecret drawer open; and between ger fingers, caught in a shaft of golden morning sunlight that pouzred through the open windows and turned every speck of durst into drifting flecks of amber, rested the ring.

The ring he had carried across contonets, hidden away in safes, vaults and secret compartments, protecting it with care that bordered on reverence, because some small and embarrassingly hopeful part of him had knoen for years that if therfe was ever going to be a woman standing again beside him at the end of all things, then it would be her.

For one terrible moment, Bruce could only stare.

Months. Months of planning collapsed in on themselves like a wet paper card house. Sogging into one big clump.

The little island in the middle of the lake appeared before his eyes, the old castle perched upon it like something stolen from a fairytale, its stone walls glowing honey-gold at sunset. He remembered the owner laughing when Bruce had first approached him, convinced the billionaire was attempting to buy the property outright rather than merely borrow it for an evening. He remembered checking out flower shops, stupid decoration and bills of online shopping of fairylights, so high no one could actually imagine one would buy so many.

He puffed, feeling suddenly so unsure.

The speech- God the speech! Entire patrols had been spent composing it in his head. He had rewritten it while literally hanging upside down from gargoyles. Rewritten it while bleeding. Rewritten it while pretending to pay attention during board meetings. Every sentence carefully chosen. Every word measured.

Because there were things he wanted her to understand: That she had saved him. That he still woke up some mornings convinced she was going to disappear. That every dream he had ever dared entertain for himself somehow had her standing at the center of it.

And now she had found the ring while wrapped in a bedsheet. Like a magpie digging through cupboards after flying into a room through an open window.

The Bat nearly laughed, oh he almost wept. He stepped hesitantly towards her, sank to his knees , slowly taking her delicate hands, and kissed ever singly inch of them. The ring lay cradled between her hands. "Please…" he murmured amidst his adoration. His eyes closed as he murmured "Please" once more.

It was an unbearably hot afternoon on the Kent farm.

The sun hung heavy over the fields, turning everything gold and hazy. Clark had been up since sunrise, working the fence line and clearing brush like he wasn’t made of steel—because even as Superman, he insisted on doing things the normal way. Said it kept him “grounded.”

From the porch, you watched him push his hat back with the back of his wrist, sweat glistening along the cut of his jaw. His white shirt clung to him in ways that should probably be illegal. Every now and then, he’d drag his forearm across his forehead, smearing dust but somehow still looking unfairly attractive.

You decided he’s worked long enough without an interruption. You brought out two mason jars of cold lemonade, full of ice that clinked gently with every step as condensation already gathered on the glass. Clark heard your footsteps on the grass long before you reached him—he always did—but he kept working until you were close enough that your shadow fell across his boots.

“Brought you something,” you said, offering him a jar.

Clark turned, and that boyish smile—your favorite one, the one he saved just for you—appeared instantly.

“Well, aren’t you a sight,” he murmured, taking the lemonade from your hand. His fingers brushed yours, rough and warm. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

He took a long drink, tilting the jar back until his throat worked in slow, steady swallows, each one catching the sunlight on the strong line of his neck. A soft sigh escaped him, low and pleased, and a bead of lemonade slipped from the corner of his mouth. It traced a bright, sticky line down the curve of his jaw, cutting through the dust clinging to his skin.

You tried not to stare—truly, you did—but your eyes followed that drop like it had a mind of its own, trailing over the stubble shadowing his face, over the bow of his warm, parted mouth.

And he caught you. Of course he did. Clark always noticed the little things—especially when they concerned you. His lips tugged into the slightest, knowing smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made heat unfurl low in your stomach.

To buy yourself a moment, you lifted your own jar for a sip. The lemonade was cold and sweet on your tongue, a stark contrast to the heavy summer heat, but his gaze on you burned warmer than the sun beating down on the fields. When you lowered the glass, you found him watching you with a softness that made your stomach flip even after all this time—like you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

He reached out, brushing his thumb along your cheek. His touch was feather-light despite the roughness of his callouses, a mix of tenderness and strength that was uniquely, unmistakably him. His thumb lingered there, tracing the line of your cheekbone as if he was committing the moment to memory.

His thumb lingered on your cheek, sweeping once more along your skin as if he couldn’t help himself. The rough pad of it contrasted deliciously with the gentle way he touched you.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he murmured, voice thick with affection and a hint of mischief, “and I’m never gettin’ any work done today.”

You huffed a laugh. “Pretty sure you weren’t getting much done anyway.”

“Hm.” His eyes dropped briefly to your lips, then flicked upward again. “Guess you caught me.”

You were close enough now that you could feel the heat radiating off him—not the sun’s heat, but Clark’s, warm and familiar. The brim of his hat dipped slightly toward you as he leaned in, shadowing both your faces. His hand moved to rest on your waist, fingers curling with an instinctive protectiveness you’d long since stopped trying to tease him about.

“You got lemonade on your jaw,” you said, mostly to steady your voice.

“Yeah?” Clark tilted his head, feigning innocence. “You gonna help with that?”

You rolled your eyes, already smiling but before you could reply, he crowded just half a step closer, enough that your chest brushed his. He dipped his head until your foreheads touched, your noses brushing. 

You slid a hand up to rest against his chest, fingers spreading over the soft, sun-warmed cotton of his shirt. Beneath your palm, his heartbeat thudded steady and sure, a quiet strength that grounded you just as much as he claimed the farm work grounded him. You felt the rise and fall of his breath, the subtle tension in his muscles as he waited.

His breath hitched, soft and sweet, the kind of sound he only ever made for you.

And then he kissed you. It started slow, a gentle press of lips that melted into something deeper, warm and unhurried. 

He tasted faintly of lemons and sweat and something unmistakably his—like sun-dried wheat and the comfort of home. His mouth moved against yours with a tender certainty, savouring each second.

His hand rose to cup your jaw, calloused thumb brushing along your cheek with reverence. The roughness of his skin contrasted beautifully with the softness of the kiss, each stroke of his thumb coaxing you closer as he deepened the kiss by the slightest fraction. Like he didn’t want to overwhelm you—just linger, just love you in the quiet, deliberate way he always did.

The world around you—buzzing insects, rustling grass, the crackle of distant heat—faded until there was only Clark. His hands. His breath mingled with yours. The tenderness threaded into every inch of him, every touch, every soft sound he let slip as your lips moved together.

When you finally broke apart, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against yours, noses brushing, his breath warm and a little uneven. He breathed you in like you were the first cool breeze he’d felt all day.

You let your hand slide down to his waist before gently easing back. “Hurry up and fix that fence, Clarky,” you whispered, your voice still a little breathless as you reached up to straighten the brim of his hat.

He smiled—slow and crooked—at the way you fussed with his hat, tilting his head just enough to make your fingers brush his hairline. “You sure you want me fixin’ fences?” he drawled, voice still a little warm and rough from kissing you.

You let out a soft laugh, stepping back another small pace. “Someone’s gotta keep the place standing. And last I checked, that someone was you.”

Clark clicked his tongue, pretending to consider it. “Mm. I dunno. Think the place looks pretty good right now.” His gaze swept you slowly—fond, teasing, entirely too full of affection. “’Specially the view.”

You scoffed, heat blooming under your skin despite yourself. “Flattery won’t get you out of work, Kansas.”

You turned to leave, fully intending to head back toward the porch. But you’d barely taken two steps before a strong arm looped around your waist, warm and sure, pulling you gently—but firmly—back against him.

You let out a surprised breath as your back met his chest, his hat brushing your temple. “Clark—”

He leaned down, murmuring against the shell of your ear, voice low enough to make your knees feel a little unreliable. “Just needed one more second with you.” His thumb stroked slow circles at your hip. “Can’t let you walk away lookin’ that pretty without gettin’ my fill.”

Your breath caught, and he felt it—of course he did. His smile pressed warm against your skin.

“Clark,” you said, though there was no real warning in it.

“Mm?” His nose brushed your hair. “I’ll get back to work. Promise. Just…” He tightened his arms around you for a moment, holding you close, like he was memorising the shape of you against him. “…let me have this.”

You turned in his embrace, hand sliding up his side as you faced him again. He looked at you like you were the only thing worth stopping the world for.

“You’re impossible,” you murmured.

He dipped his head, the brim of his hat casting both your faces in soft shade. “Yeah,” he whispered, stealing one more kiss—quick, sweet, utterly devastating. “But you love me anyway.”

You could only smile. “Debatable.”

His grin brightened like the sun breaking through. “Alright,” he said, reluctantly letting you go. “Fence. I’m going.”

You gave him a playful shove toward the half-finished line of posts. “Go on then, cowboy.”

He took a few steps backward, still facing you, still smiling that boyish, lovesick smile. “Keep lookin’ at me like that,” he called over his shoulder, “and I’m blamin’ you if it falls over again.”

You shook your head, laughing as you headed back toward the porch—perfectly aware that his eyes stayed on you long after he pretended to get back to work.

The house had settled into that comfortable quiet that only comes after a long, sun-soaked day. Dinner dishes were drying in the rack, the windows were open to let in the cooling breeze, and the sky outside had faded into deep shades of lavender and rose.

You were curled up on the bed, back against the headboard, a book open in your lap. The room smelled faintly of sun-warmed cotton and the faint sweetness of lemonade left on the bedside table. You were mid-sentence when you heard the bathroom door open.

Clark stepped out, a cloud of steam curling around him like it couldn’t bear to let him go.

And oh, good lord.

He had a towel slung low on his hips, hanging on by what felt like sheer charity. Droplets of water tracked from his hairline, down the strong line of his throat, over his broad chest. Every bead of water caught the lamplight as it slid over him, carving shadows along the ridges of muscle, dripping down to disappear beneath the edge of the towel.

His hair was damp and messy, a single curl falling onto his forehead in a way that should not have been as attractive as it was. He ran a hand through it, sending another cascade of water rolling down his shoulders and back.

You didn’t realise you’d stopped reading until you heard the soft thud of your book slipping shut.

“Sorry,” he said, voice warm and lazy from the shower, “didn’t mean to distract you.”

“You didn’t,” you lied instantly, before adding, “Much.”

His smile widened, dimples appearing, his eyes glimmering with gentle mischief. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

He started toward the dresser, water still dripping down his torso, tracking lower and lower, and you realised you were openly staring.

Clark glanced over his shoulder, catching the look on your face. And that was all it took—his movement slowed, the teasing creeping into his voice. “Somethin’ on your mind, sweetheart?”

You swallowed once. Twice. “Just… appreciating the view.”

He chuckled—deep, warm, pleased. “Funny. I seem to recall gettin’ in trouble earlier for not finishing the fences ’cause of the view.”

You lifted your chin. “Well, maybe I’m allowed to stare.”

“Oh, you’re definitely allowed.” He stepped closer to the bed, droplets pattering softly onto the wooden floor. “Encouraged, even.”

Your gaze dipped to the drop of water that slid over his collarbone, down the centre of his chest, across the defined line of muscle, and straight beneath the towel.

He braced one knee on the edge of the mattress, leaning forward just enough to make your breath catch. His voice dropped, low and warm like honey in the lamplight.

“You want me to get dressed,” he murmured, “or keep goin’ like this?”

Your pulse fluttered, heat blooming under your skin. “Clark…”

He placed one hand beside your thigh, close enough that you felt the heat of him even without touching. “Yeah, darlin’?”

You reached up and brushed a single water droplet from his chest, your fingertip trailing slowly over warm, damp skin. His breath stuttered—just a little.

“I think,” you whispered, meeting his eyes, “you know exactly what I want.”

His smile turned molten, soft around the edges, full of affection and something deeper. He leaned in, brushing his forehead against yours, his voice barely above a whisper. “Then I’ll give you anything you want.”

He rested his free hand on your thigh, gently spreading your legs. His fingers skimmed the inside hem of your sleep shorts and it took all your effort not to squirm. 

Slowly, almost teasingly, he dragged his fingers up your leg, making their way up the soft skin of your inner thigh. He stopped just shy of where you were aching for his touch, a smug grin on his face. 

Huffing, you reached a hand up and brought his lips down onto yours. Clark kissed you with an intensity that made your head spin. He gently pulled your legs, causing you to slide down the bed and rest your head on the pillows. He followed you down, bracing himself on his forearms so his weight didn’t crush you.

You moaned into his mouth, and he took the opportunity to slip his tongue past your lips, exploring your mouth. His hands moved down, fingers finding the hem of your shorts and tugging them down your legs in tandem with your underwear.

He broke the kiss briefly to get them off, and you lifted your hips to assist. But instead of returning to your mouth immediately, Clark gripped your jaw and turned your head to the side to expose your neck.

His lips on your skin were scorching as they pressed bruising kisses all the way up to the underside of your jaw, then back down again, his teeth scraping over the delicate skin. Clark continued to trail kisses down your body until his lips found the inside of your thigh. 

You could feel his grin against your skin before he spread your legs wider and leaned in. His tongue pressed against your clit, and pleasure exploded through you. Clark moaned against you, lapping your clit with relentless efficiency. 

His hands were holding your thighs open, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. He teased around your opening, pressing his tongue there before licking back up. Then, without a warning, he pushed a finger inside you.

You moaned loudly, your hips straining against his grip. Clark hummed against you, the vibrations adding to the pleasure already coiling low in your stomach. His tongue flicked over your clit as his finger curled inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars.

His mouth was relentless, his finger pressing and working as you gasped and moaned beneath him. You tried to reach for his hair, but he caught your hand and pinned it to the bed. 

His finger was joined by a second one, and the stretch had you arching off the bed. He only pressed further in, adding another curl. Your legs began to shake, the pleasure building quickly. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Clark murmured against you. His fingers delved deeper, spreading you open. “Come for me.”

He continued to flick his tongue over your clit, adding just the right amount of pleasure to send you over the edge. You came with a cry, your fingers digging into the sheets. Clark didn’t stop immediately, not until he’d coaxed you through your climax.

He slid his fingers out of you, bringing them up to his mouth and licking them clean. His eyes were dark with satisfaction as he leaned over you, his body covering yours possessively. You caught the way his chin glistened with your pleasure before he leaned down and pressed his mouth to yours. 

You could taste yourself on his lips, and it sent another shiver down your spine. You moaned into the kiss, your hands raking down his stomach and tugging at the towel around his waist. Unwinding the towel, you felt his cock against your thigh, hot and thick. 

Clark groaned as you reached down to wrap your fingers around him, giving a few firm strokes. His breathing hitched when you ran your thumb over the head of his cock. You could feel the precum gathering at the tip, making your strokes smoother.

You couldn’t help but grin, reveling in the power you held in this moment. You increased your pace, your hand gliding up and down his cock eagerly. You twisted your wrist, fingers slick with his precum.

You felt his arms shaking as he braced himself over you, clearly trying to keep composure. He was getting close, you could tell by the way his breath was coming in harsher pants and the way his hips were hitching against your hand. 

He pressed his face into the curve of your neck, panting against your skin. His teeth found the sensitive spot where the shoulder met the neck, and he bit down hard. It was just the right mix of pleasure and pain, and you moaned loudly in response.

Clark slid one hand between your bodies, finding your clit again and circling it with his fingers. You moaned, your hand faltering on his cock as pleasure shot through you. Clark’s fingers quickened their pace between your legs, coaxing you to yet another orgasm.

“Gonna cum,” you panted, your hand working him faster.

“Do it,” he whispered, his fingers pressed against you just right. “Come for me.”

You couldn’t hold back anymore, the pleasure peaking and shattering through you. You came with a keening cry, your body arching off the bed as waves of ecstasy washed over you.

Clark was right behind you, gritting his teeth as he followed you over the edge. He buried his face in your shoulder, his hand still between your legs as he came with a groan. You felt his cock twitch and pulse in against your fingers as he emptied himself in your hand and over your stomach. 

Clark slumped further into you, his chest rising and falling against yours. You finally let go of his cock, feeling it rest against you. The silence stretched between you for a few moments, broken only by the sound of your breathing.

When you thought Clark was done, his hips rocked, just a little—like he couldn’t help it. You ran a hand through his hair, feeling his cock nudge against your inner thigh as he grew hard again. 

He began to press lazy kisses to the valley of your breasts, his hips still rocking. The tip of his cock slid through your slick folds, brushing against your clit. He placed wet, open-mouthed kisses wherever he could reach. 

“I can’t get enough of you,” he murmured, his fingers moving to grip your hips.

You moaned, your fingers tangling in his hair as he continued to rock against you. It was a delicious torment, feeling him so close to where you wanted him but not quite there. His cock slid through your folds, his tip nudging at your entrance but not quite pushing in—just teasing, bumping against you with every faint thrust.

His hands were restless, moving up your sides to cup your breasts. He fondled them roughly, his fingers playing with your nipples. Your back arched off the bed at the sensation, your pelvis tilting up to meet his. 

Clark shifted above you, hiking your legs up a little higher around his waist. The new angle had him pressing directly against your clit and you moaned loudly at the contact. He gritted his teeth, grinding against you with a newfound intent.

His hands were back on your hips, guiding your movements as he rocked against you. The friction was maddening, the pleasure building with every roll of his hips. He reached a hand down, guiding himself so the head of his cock pressed against your entrance. 

“Please,” you whispered, moving your hands to his shoulders.

His grip on you became almost painful, and he began pressing himself inside you. Your breath hitched at the intrusion, your head falling deeper into the pillows. Clark moaned your name, his voice hoarse and full of pleasure.

He slid himself inside you inch by antagonising inch, until he bottomed out. You could feel the burn of the stretch and you couldn’t help the little broken cry that slipped past your lips. Your nails raked down his back, trying to find something to hold onto. You could feel his muscles tense beneath your hand, shifting and contracting with every movement.

Clark took a moment, staying still and reveling in the way you clenched around him. Then, he began to move, and your brain stopped working. He pulled out almost all the way and then pushed back inside, setting a torturously slow pace. 

His hands slipped under your shoulders, pulling you even closer as he increased his pace. He was still holding back, you could tell; trying to keep himself from getting too lost in the feeling. He pressed his face into your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

He was mumbling something against your neck, but you couldn’t make out the words over the pleasure throbbing through you. Your hands moved to his hair, your fingers clenching in the sweaty strands.

Clark’s hips were moving faster now, a steady rhythm that had your breath hitching with every thrust. You could feel his muscles flexing with every movement, the power behind his every motion.

He was growling into your neck, the sound low and rough. His hands were roaming all over your body, touching and gripping and caressing every inch he could reach.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmured. His lips were at your ear now, his teeth finding your earlobe and giving it a gentle bite. His hands were at your waist again, his grip bruising as he slammed into you.

His pace was relentless now, his hips slapping against yours with every thrust. You could feel the edge nearing, the pleasure building higher and higher.

Clarks name fell from your lips in a gasp, the sound mixed with moans and pleading. “Please, please, please,” you begged, not knowing for what. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails scraping along his skin.

His hands found yours, lacing your fingers together as he held you down. He was getting close too, you could tell by the hitch in his breath and the way his rhythm was starting to falter.

You moaned, pressing your hands against his chest and flipping the two of you over. Clark let out a grunt of surprise when you flipped him onto his back, his hands going to your hips to steady you.

He stared up at you, confusion mixing with the pleasure still evident in his eyes.

“What—?” he began to ask, but the question died on his lips when you sank down onto him. 

Your moan was lewd and filthy as you took him to the hilt. Clark groaned, head tipping back against the pillows. His eyes stayed locked on you, drinking in every inch of you. You gave yourself a moment to adjust, feeling him stretch you even fuller than before. Then, you began to move. slowly at first, lifting your hips up and then sliding back down. 

Your thighs flexed as you rode him and the heat between you built. Clark reached over to his bedside table, picking up his hat and placing it on your head. It was enormous on you, the brim dipping instantly, sliding forward until it covered half your face and shadowed your eyes completely.

Clark bit back a laugh, failing miserably. “Well look at that,” he drawled, voice dripping fondness, “fits you real nice.”

You pushed the brim up with a finger, giving him a flat look that lost all its intensity thanks to the hat fighting you and falling right back down. “Clark.”

“Looks good on you,” he murmured, his voice tinged with amusement. “My own personal cowgirl.”

He thrusted up into you, meeting your movements with an unexpected roughness. Your nails dug into the hard planes of his chest for balance as you rode him harder, faster. The pleasure was building quickly now, and you could feel the euphoric edge approaching.

Clark could feel it too; his hands were trembling where they rested on your thighs, his breath coming in short pants. Your breasts bounced with each movement as Clark's hips lifted off the bed to match your pace. 

Your fingers dug into his chest, your nails leaving indentions in the skin. Your breaths were coming out in short pants now, your entire body trembling with the effort to hold on. Your pace intensified, your movements becoming erratic as you raced towards the edge. You were right there, right on the precipice.

Clark’s hands were like vices on your waist now, his fingers digging in with bruising force. He was babbling something under his breath, your name mixed with curses and pleas. 

“Gonna—come,” he panted, his eyes locking onto yours. His legs began to tense beneath you, his hips jerking off the bed.

You slammed down onto him, the pleasure teetering on the edge of pain, and that’s when he lost it. Clark’s back arched off the bed, his hips snapping up into you once, twice, three times as he came. 

You clenched around him, the feeling of him releasing deep inside you sent you over the edge. He shuddered beneath you, the intensity of his orgasm clearly overwhelming. You moaned loudly, your head falling forward as the intensity of your orgasm shook your entire body. 

Clark’s hands were steadying you now, his grip gentler as you rode out the waves of pleasure. When you finally collapsed on top of him, he slid his arms around you holding you close against him. 

You were both a sweaty, disheveled mess, your bodies still hot and sticky. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Clark’s hands were running up and down your back, his touch soft. You could feel his fingers tracing patterns into your skin, drawing lazy shapes and lines.

Then suddenly, in one smooth movement, he shifted beneath you, flipping you onto your back. His hat fell from your head and tumbled to the floor as he grabbed the backs of your thighs and hiked them up until your calves were over his shoulders. The angle had you gasping in pleasure. 

He pressed his chest down against yours and his body caging you in completely. He braced his hand on the headboard, his fingers curling around the wood—knuckles going white, and the other gripped your thigh.

Your legs were practically folded to your shoulders, ankles hooked around his head. You were spread wide and stuffed full with each snap of his hips. The bed jolted under you, the headboard thudding softly against the wall as Clark pounded into you. 

His cock was buried so far inside you it felt like he was in your stomach. His balls slapped against your ass as his thick cock drew helpless moans out of your chest. Each thrust was deeper than the last—going all the way to the base. 

His chest smothered your gasps and moans and he leaned down to capture your mouth in a sloppy kiss. His arms began to tremble from the tension of keeping you folded under him as the kiss grew messy. It was a tangle of tongues and teeth. 

Pulling back from the kiss, the headboard began to rattle in Clark's grip, the wood knocking against the wall every time he drove into you. Clark’s eyes were glued to where you stretched around him, sweat beading at his temple. 

Clark could barely hold his head aloft with how hard he was thrusting into you, his breaths coming in short grunts. His thrusts were becoming more uneven now, his pace faltering as he neared his orgasm. 

“Clark—” you moaned, your voice bouncing with his thrusts.

"I know, sweetheart, I know," he groaned, his hips snapping forward in a jerky motion. “You feel so good, honey. So tight, so perfect.”

His rhythm turned frantic, his thrusts sloppy and uncoordinated. He was losing control quickly, his body shivering with the exertion. You moaned loudly, hearing the wood creak under his grip. 

“Oh God, oh God,” he muttered, the words coming out between clenched teeth. 

A sharp crack sounded out through the room, stopping your moan before it could slip past your lips. The headboard snapped with a sudden, sharp pop. Before either of you could react, the entire top-left corner of the bed frame gave out with a dramatic groan, and the mattress lurched a few inches to the side, tilting you both. 

Clark ignored it, his hands moving from the splintered wood to your hips and holding you closer. He pulled you into his chest, adjusting his movements without even thinking. His body covered yours and he went right back at it—pounding into you. 

His hips move at an animalistic fervour, his grip almost bruising as he chases his release. His face is buried in the nape of your neck, his forehead sweaty against your skin. The broken bed frame and uneven mattress was the least of his concerns. 

“I’ll fix it,” he panted against your ear, his thrusts becoming needier. “Later… I’ll fix it later…”

His words dissolved into a low, wrecked groan. Your nails dug into his biceps as the pressure started to build again. You were so close, but you needed more, just a little more. You could feel every inch of him, the friction driving you crazy.

Your moans grew louder as one of his hands moved down to your clit, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle and rubbing circles around it. You were so close to the edge now that you’d sob if you could find the words. 

Another thrust, another gasp. Heat swirled in your stomach, spreading down your legs as he continued to circle your clit with his thumb. Clark’s hips stuttered and he let out a long, guttural moan. 

“Come for me,” he begged, his voice cracking. “Please, sweetheart. please…”

Obeying his request, your back arched and a broken sound teared through your throat as you clamped around him—climaxing harshly. Your body trembled in his arms as his thrusts grew erratic. You felt him jerk against you, a long, low groan tore from his throat.

His hips pressed up to you one last time, and that's when you felt it. His whole body went tight as he spilled inside you, filling you up and making you shiver. He stayed buried to the hilt and you clenched around him while he kept prolonged both your orgasms.

Clark’s cock pulsed inside you as he continued to move his hips in small, desperate circles. Your ears rang as you slowly subsided from the aftershocks of your orgasm. His grip on you eased, and his head rose to look down at you.

Clark’s eyes were heavy-lidded with satisfaction, his cheeks flushed, and there’s a pleased kind of smugness in his expression that told you he knew exactly how wrecked he’d made you.

Your legs fell from his shoulders and bounced lightly as they hit the bed. You felt weightless as his hands ran up and down your sides with a touch that’s almost reverent. One hand slid up your leg, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and he pulled out of you, his eyes flitting down for a moment.

Clark let out a low sound as he watched his release spill from you. You tried to summon up some semblance of annoyance at his smugness, but you were still feeling too boneless and satisfied to even think about it.

You gently swatted his shoulder as he rolled off the top of you with a laugh and laid beside you. He slung an arm around your waist, hauling you close, and pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder.

Shifting ever so slightly, you rested your head on his chest, hearing the steady thump of his heartbeat under your ear. Your legs tangled in the sheets that had long since given up on staying neatly in place. 

Clark’s fingers traced lazy patterns along your spine, soft and idle, like he couldn’t quite stop touching you even when he was too blissed-out to move. Then the bed creaked. You lifted your head slowly.

“Clark…” You blinked down at him.

Clark stared up at the ceiling like he was trying to physically will himself invisible. You sat up fully now, sheets gathering around your waist as you inspected the scene of the crime. One leg of the bed frame had clearly surrendered to the forces of passion—and super strength.

He winced—adorably. Clark covered his face with one large hand, a flush creeping all the way to his ears. You poked his side and his hand dropped as he gave you a sheepish, boyish grin—the kind that always melted you a little.

“Guess I got carried away,” he admitted.

“You guess, huh?” you raised a brow, shoving his shoulder. 

Clark caught your hand gently, tugging you back down onto his chest with ease. “Hey,” he said softly, brushing a kiss to your forehead, “we’re a team. If I broke the bed… you helped.”

You smacked his chest. “Clark!”

He laughed harder, the sound rumbling warmly through his chest beneath you. “Alright, alright,” he said, dragging you closer and kissing your temple, “I’ll take full responsibility.”