“Nah Id Win”

Bruce Wayne had always respected you.

At first, it was professional. You were sharp without being cruel, curious without being reckless. You didn’t chase scandals for the thrill of it—you chased truth. In Gotham, that alone made you dangerous.

You’d interviewed him twice. Short conversations, clean questions. You never lingered too long on Wayne Enterprises’ money or the rumors that followed his name like shadows. You looked at him like he was… human. That had stuck with him longer than it should have.

Then it became something else.

He noticed how often he found excuses to be where you were—press events, charity galas, even a late-night fundraiser he absolutely did not need to attend. He told himself it was caution. Journalists were observant. But that was a lie.

He liked the way you spoke, calm but firm. The way you listened like people mattered. The way you didn’t flinch when Gotham showed its teeth.

Bruce Wayne didn’t allow himself attachments.

Batman did even less.

—————————————————————————————

The night he ended up at your apartment was a mistake.

A bad landing. A cracked rib. Blood soaking through armor that had already taken too many hits. He barely remembered grappling across the rooftops before his vision blurred and his body chose the nearest open window.

He remembered the impact.

Then warmth.

Then your voice—soft, startled, steady far too quickly for someone who had just found a masked stranger bleeding on their living room floor.

“Oh my God—don’t move. Please. Don’t move.”

Batman forced his eyes open.

You were kneeling beside him, hands hovering like you were afraid to touch him but more afraid not to. You had already grabbed a towel, pressing it carefully where the blood was darkest, not panicked—focused.

You didn’t scream.

You didn’t run.

You didn’t call the police.

“Okay,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “Okay. You’re alive. That’s good. That’s very good.”

He should’ve left.

He knew that.

But his body refused.

So did something else.

—————————————————————————————

You didn’t know who he was.

Not really.

You knew the symbol. Everyone did. Gotham’s shadow protector, half myth, half warning. But you treated him like a person—not an idea.

You cleaned his wounds with shaking hands that never once pulled away. You spoke to him while you worked, not asking questions, not demanding answers.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” you said quietly. “I just need you to stay awake.”

Batman had interrogated criminals without mercy.

This was worse.

Because kindness disarmed him completely.

————————————————————————————

Bruce Wayne fell in love with you that night.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Quietly.

He watched you pace your apartment while he rested on your couch, murmuring to yourself as you researched how to treat injuries without removing armor. He noticed the way you apologized every time you touched him, like he was the one being inconvenienced.

At one point, you laughed—soft, breathless.

“This is insane,” you said. “I let a stranger bleed on my couch and I’m worried about getting blood on the floor.”

Batman almost smiled.

Almost.

—-——————————————————————————

When he finally stood to leave, you stepped back—not afraid, just respectful.

“You can… come back,” you said, hesitant. “If you need help again. I won’t ask.”

He looked at you then—really looked.

Not as Batman.

As Bruce.

You had no idea how rare that was.

“Thank you,” he said, voice low, sincere.

You nodded. “Be careful.”

He vanished into the night without another word.

—————————————————————————

The next time Bruce Wayne saw you, it was at a press conference.

You looked tired.

He wondered if you’d slept at all after that night.

You met his eyes—and something flickered there. Recognition without understanding. A feeling you couldn’t place.

Bruce felt it too.

It’s late when you stir, the crickets humming, the air hot and thick in your lungs.

Arthur’s arms are around you like always, his chest against your back, hand splayed low on your belly like it always drifts there in his sleep. But tonight something’s different.

His breathing isn’t steady. And his hand isn’t still.

You shift slightly under the sheet, your thighs bare and glistening from the heat, and feel him pressed hard against your backside. The tip of his cock nudges between your thighs, slow and hot and aching.

“…Arthur?” you whisper sleepily, turning just a little.

“Mm,” he hums low, voice gritty. “You awake now, darlin’?”

You nod, heart fluttering, hips already tilting back into him.

He exhales through his nose, dragging his hand up to cup your breast under your nightgown. His thumb brushes the stiff peak, slow, reverent.

“I been thinkin’ ‘bout this too long,” he murmurs. “Too damn long. You lyin’ here like this—soft and warm and mine—and I can’t stop picturin’ it.”

“Picturing what?” you ask, breathless, even though you already know.

His lips brush your neck. “You. All round with my child. Belly full. Me takin’ care o’ you while you carry somethin’ we made together.”

You whimper, hips arching into him.

Arthur grunts. “I wanna fill you up, sweetheart. I wanna watch you take every drop and keep it. I know it’s greedy, but I can’t help it. Want you carryin’ my baby so bad I can barely think straight.”

Your thighs clench, and he slides his cock against your slick folds, not in, not yet.

“Please,” you whisper.

“You sure?” he breathes against your ear, voice breaking. “You really want this, now?”

You nod hard. “Yes. Want it so bad. Want you to fuck me full.”

That’s all it takes.

Arthur pushes inside you slow and thick, a deep groan rattling from his chest as he sinks all the way in. You gasp, your hand grabbing at his wrist where it grips your hip.

“You’re so goddamn tight,” he growls. “Like you’re made for me. This pussy knows who it belongs to.”

You moan, his hand sliding up your chest to grip your throat gently—not choking, just holding, grounding you to him as he starts to thrust.

Each stroke is deep and hungry, his hips snapping into yours with a purpose that makes your knees tremble.

“I’m gonna give you everything,” he pants, rutting hard now. “All of it. Gonna knock you up real good, darlin’. You’ll be carryin’ me everywhere.”

Your belly quivers with every word, slick pooling between your thighs.

“Fuck, Arthur—don’t stop—” you cry, and he groans, flipping you onto your back in one strong motion.

Now you’re beneath him, legs wrapped around his hips, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss. His thrusts get faster, rougher, the slap of skin loud under the stars.

You cling to him like he’s the only thing keeping you breathing, and in this moment, he is.

“I’m close,” you whimper. “I’m—Arthur, I’m—!”

“Come for me,” he growls. “Let me feel it. Let me feel my wife fall apart around my cock.”

You scream his name when you do, your walls clamping down on him so tight he bites your neck with a groan, unable to hold back.

“Take it,” he snarls against your skin. “Take every drop, sweetheart.”

He shudders, spilling deep inside you, pulse after pulse of heat flooding your womb. His hand’s on your belly again, possessive and awed.

“Gonna take,” he pants. “I know it will. You’re gonna look so damn beautiful carryin’ my child.”

You’re still shaking when he leans down and kisses your lips, then your temple, then your belly.

“I love you,” he murmurs.

You nod, your voice gone, your body still fluttering around him. “Love you too.”

He doesn’t pull out. He stays there, heavy and warm, his hand moving gently in circles over your belly like he can already see the future.

The snowstorm hit faster than anyone expected. Joel cursed under his breath, wiping frost from his beard, while Tommy tried to radio back to Jackson with no luck. You had insisted on joining the patrol despite the weather warnings, and now the three of you were holed up in an old hunting cabin, snow piling high outside.

Joel and Tommy were both quiet—too quiet—eyes darting from you to each other. You couldn’t help but notice how their hands twitched when you shivered, as if they wanted to pull you closer, but neither did. Instead, they focused on starting a fire, giving you a chance to change out of your snow-soaked clothes.

You rummaged through a battered trunk in the corner, finding a worn flannel shirt that must have belonged to someone twice your size. Pulling it over your tank top and shorts, you couldn’t help but grin at how it swallowed you, the hem brushing your thighs.

When you walked back into the room, both Miller brothers glanced up, their eyes lingering on your bare legs and the way the shirt slipped off one shoulder. Joel looked away first, jaw clenching, while Tommy gave a low chuckle, trying to hide the way his gaze traced the line of your throat.

“Shirt’s a little big, sweetheart,” Tommy teased, but his voice was rougher than usual.

You shrugged, arms lifting just enough that the too-large armhole gaped, revealing a hint of the soft skin of your chest. Both men froze, eyes glued to the sight before you casually tugged the fabric back into place. You pretended not to notice, biting back a smirk.

“Better than freezing,” you shot back, settling near the fire. You stretched, the shirt lifting just enough to show the curve of your thigh. Tommy’s eyes darkened, and Joel cleared his throat, looking like he was two seconds away from bolting.

There was something thrilling about the way they looked at you—like they were trying to resist but couldn’t quite manage it. You knew your husband back in Jackson was the last person either of them would want to think about, but out here, snowed in and restless, it seemed like their restraint was wearing thin.

When you leaned back on your hands, the movement made the flannel ride up just a little more, and you caught Joel’s gaze fixed on the exposed skin before he quickly looked away, cheeks flushed under his scruffy beard.

“So… how long do you think we’ll be stuck here?” you asked, voice sweet and innocent, though your eyes lingered on Tommy’s tense shoulders.

He ran a hand through his hair, scoffing. “Hard to say. Could be all night.”

Your smile widened. “Guess we’ll have to find ways to keep warm, huh?”

Tommy choked on a laugh, and Joel shot him a glare that could’ve melted the snow outside.

“You always this damn reckless?” Joel muttered, but you caught the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Only when I’m with you two,” you teased, shifting closer to the fire, but not missing the way they exchanged a look—part frustration, part something darker and deeper.

Tommy was the first to break, moving to sit beside you, his thigh brushing yours. “Y’know,” he said, voice low and smooth, “it ain’t fair to go teasing like that.”

You looked up at him with wide, feigned-innocent eyes. “Teasing? I’m just trying to get comfortable.”

Joel grunted, sitting across from you, eyes flicking between you and his brother. “Ain’t sure you know what you’re doin’, darlin’,” he muttered.

Remmick’s reputation precedes him—rough around the edges, commanding, and unpredictable. You’d be lying if you said his presence didn’t send a shiver down your spine. Maybe it’s the way his intense gaze lingers a little too long or how his deep, gravelly voice makes even a simple greeting feel like a challenge.

Tonight, you’re alone in the safehouse, cleaning up and organizing supplies. The dim light flickers, shadows dancing across the worn walls. You’re humming softly when you hear the door creak open. You turn, heart pounding, only to see Remmick leaning against the frame, his eyes locked onto you like a predator sizing up his prey.

“Didn’t think anyone else was here,” he mutters, his voice low.

You smile sweetly, pushing a stray strand of your dark hair behind your ear. “Just me. Figured I’d tidy up a bit.”

His eyes rake over you, lingering just a second too long on the curve of your neck. “You always this good?” he asks, his tone almost mocking.

“Depends,” you reply, your voice softer, hinting at something unspoken. You swear you see his jaw tense.

He steps closer, the air thickening between you two. “You don’t fool me,” he says, reaching past you to grab a bottle of whiskey from the shelf. “That innocent act. It’s cute. But I know better.”

Your cheeks flush, but you tilt your head up, eyes meeting his defiantly. “Maybe I just like playing the part,” you murmur.

Remmick’s smirk is dangerously enticing. He sets the bottle down and moves closer, his hand grazing your hip. “Playing with fire, sweetheart.”

You bite your lip, looking up at him through your lashes. “Maybe I’m not afraid of getting burned.”

His hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him. “You think you can handle me?” His breath ghosts over your lips, and you shiver despite yourself.

Your hands find his chest, fingers tracing the muscles under his shirt. “I think you’re underestimating me,” you whisper.

He chuckles darkly. “Sweet girl. You’re gonna regret teasing me like that.”

Before you can respond, his mouth is on yours—rough, demanding, and impossibly intoxicating. You gasp, but your hands fist his shirt, pulling him closer as he pushes you back against the worn wooden table. The kiss is a clash of heat and want, and you can’t help but let out a breathy moan when his hands grip your hips harder.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and wild. “Still think you’re the one in charge here?”

You smirk, running your fingers through his hair. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

Remmick doesn’t waste another second. His lips trail down your neck, nipping at your skin just hard enough to leave a mark. You can feel his frustration mingling with desire—how you push his buttons just right. Your sweet, innocent act crumbles as you let out a soft, needy sound, and he growls in response, his hands sliding under your shirt.

“Thought you’d be quieter,” he teases, his voice husky.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. “Only for you,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He pulls back, a wicked glint in his eyes. “You’re gonna wish you hadn’t said that.”

You don’t get the chance to respond before he’s capturing your lips again, more possessive this time. And as the night goes on, you realize just how dangerous it is to play with fire—especially when it’s with someone like Remmick.

“She didn’t know,” he whispered against your shoulder, his voice raw. “She thought he was me. And now… now she thinks he treats her better than I ever could.”

Your heart ached for him. Clark Kent, the boy who always put everyone before himself, was now drowning in the pain of being unseen—of being loved by someone who didn’t know it was never really him.

You held him tighter, your fingers threading through his dark hair as he clung to you like you were the only solid thing left. “Clark, you are so much more than he could ever be,” you murmured. “And if she couldn’t tell the difference… maybe she wasn’t really seeing you at all.”

For weeks, you were his anchor. You checked on him, forced him to eat when he forgot, made him laugh when the sadness weighed too heavily on his shoulders. You reminded him that he was still Clark Kent—still good, still kind, still worthy of love.

But you also knew he still loved Lana.

So when the time came, you pushed aside the feelings creeping into your heart and made it your mission to help him.

“Clark, listen to me,” you said, standing in front of him, hands gesturing wildly as you paced his barn. “Lana does love you, okay? Maybe she got confused, but that doesn’t mean it’s over! You have to talk to her. Show her who you really are, remind her why she fell for you in the first place—”

He kissed you.

The world tilted, the breath stolen from your lungs as his hands framed your face, pulling you closer. It wasn’t soft or hesitant—it was desperate, pouring every unsaid thing between you into that one moment.

When he pulled away, your eyes were wide, searching his in stunned silence.

Clark smiled, breathless, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I’m sorry it took me so long to see it,” he admitted, voice low, reverent. “But it was never about Lana. It was you. It’s always been you.”

Your heart pounded, your mind reeling. “Clark, I—”

He shook his head, smiling like he’d finally figured out the answer to a question he never knew he was asking. “You’ve been here all along, taking care of me, making me laugh, reminding me who I am. And all this time, I was too blind to realize… you’re the one I should’ve been fighting for.”

Tears burned in your eyes, emotions crashing into you all at once. “You really mean that?” you whispered.

His hands squeezed yours, his gaze steady and sure. “I’ve never meant anything more.”

And in that moment, you knew—you were no longer just Clark Kent’s best friend. You were his choice. His future.

She barely registered the chaos around them, the sirens wailing in the distance, the sound of gravel crunching beneath his boots as he carried her away from that horrible place. Her body ached, her lip stung, and her eye throbbed painfully, but none of that mattered now.

Clark had her.

And the moment she realized that, the dam broke.

She clutched onto his jacket, burying her face into his chest as sobs wracked her body. “Clark—” Her voice broke, barely a whisper against him. “I was so scared.”

Clark squeezed her tighter, as if he could somehow pull all her pain into himself. “I know, baby. I know.” His voice was thick with emotion, his breath uneven. “I’m so sorry. I got here as fast as I could.”

His lips pressed against her hair, then her forehead, then her bruised cheek, lingering there like he wished he could erase the pain with just a kiss. “Please don’t cry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Please. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

She couldn’t stop, though. The fear, the helplessness—it was all spilling out in choked sobs, shaking her down to her bones.

Clark sat down on the ground right there, still cradling her in his lap, rocking her back and forth like she was something precious. His lips ghosted over her skin again and again—her temple, her nose, the corner of her busted lip, so careful, so gentle.

“I thought—” She sucked in a sharp breath. “I thought I wouldn’t see you again.”

Clark shut his eyes tight, jaw clenching. “I would never let that happen.” His fingers tangled in her hair, holding her to him like he was afraid she’d disappear. “I’d burn the world down before I lost you.”

She believed him. She always had.

Her sobs softened, breath still hiccuping as she clung to him. “You’re really here.”

“I’m here,” he promised, pressing another lingering kiss to her forehead. “I’ll always be here.”

For a long time, they stayed like that—wrapped up in each other, bodies trembling from everything they’d been through.

She knew the bruises would fade, the pain would dull. But right now, all that mattered was Clark.

Her protector. Her home.

The first thing Achilles does after Patroclus remembers is pull him in.

He crushes him into his arms, burying his face in Patroclus’ shoulder, holding him like he might slip away again, like this is just another dream, another cruel trick of fate. But Patroclus is real, warm and solid beneath his hands, the scent of his skin achingly familiar.

Patroclus doesn’t let go either.

“I found you,” he whispers against Achilles’ collarbone.

“You found me,” Achilles chokes out.

They stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other, the weight of thousands of years pressing against them.

And for the first time since the fall of Troy, Achilles feels whole.

—

They don’t talk about it right away.

The memories come in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes all at once, overwhelming and raw. Some days Patroclus will reach for Achilles’ hand like it’s second nature. Other days, he’ll pause mid-sentence, eyes distant, remembering something else, something new, something old.

Achilles gives him space.

For once in his life, he’s patient.

Patroclus needs time to process everything—their life in Phthia, the war, their deaths.

And Achilles—Achilles is terrified.

Because what if remembering means Patroclus won’t want this? Won’t want him?

He remembers how it ended. The grief. The anger. The way Patroclus must have felt, watching Achilles fall, knowing what would come next.

What if he resents him?

But then, one night, as they lay side by side in Achilles’ bed, staring at the ceiling, Patroclus murmurs, “We were always going to find each other again, weren’t we?”

Achilles swallows. “I hoped.”

Patroclus turns his head, looking at him, soft and fond. “I knew.”

Achilles lets out a shaky breath, and Patroclus smiles, reaching for his hand.

And just like that, Achilles knows too.

—

They settle into this new life together slowly.

There’s no war to fight, no prophecy hanging over their heads. No gods to please, no throne to claim.

It’s just them.

Achilles teaches Patroclus how to fight again, just for fun, just because they can. Patroclus grumbles about how unfair it is that Achilles is still faster, still stronger, even after all these years, but he never really minds.

Patroclus, in turn, teaches Achilles how to be still. How to appreciate the quiet moments—soft mornings tangled in sheets, cooking dinner together in their tiny apartment, watching old movies on the couch.

They live.

And for once, time is theirs.

—

One evening, they’re walking home from the bookstore when Achilles suddenly stops, staring up at the sky.

Patroclus follows his gaze, frowning. “What is it?”

Achilles exhales. “The stars.”

Patroclus tilts his head. “What about them?”

Achilles hesitates, then looks at him, something unreadable in his expression. “They don’t look the same anymore.”

Patroclus studies him, and understanding flickers in his eyes.

He reaches out, gently linking their fingers together.

“They don’t have to,” he murmurs.

Achilles turns to him fully then, searching his face, and Patroclus just smiles, warm and sure.

And Achilles thinks—maybe he was wrong.

Maybe the stars aren’t different.

Maybe it’s just that this time, he finally gets to see them with Patroclus by his side.

The first time Achilles sees him again, it’s like remembering the lyrics to a song he’d long forgotten.

It’s been lifetimes. Ages. And yet, when the man in the café glances up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, something in Achilles’ chest clicks into place, like a puzzle piece he hadn’t even known was missing.

“Patroclus,” he breathes.

The man blinks at him, confused. “Sorry, do I know you?”

Achilles stares, heart pounding.

Gods.

It’s really him.

But there’s no recognition in his eyes. No memory of the way they once stood side by side in a war that tore the world apart. No memory of the way they once swore, in hushed whispers beneath golden light, that they would find each other again.

Patroclus doesn’t remember.

Achilles sits down across from him anyway.

—

They don’t become friends immediately.

Patroclus—now Patrick—is hesitant. Quiet. He studies Achilles with careful curiosity, like he can sense something just out of reach, but can’t quite grasp it.

Achilles, on the other hand, doesn’t hesitate at all. He sticks by Patrick’s side like gravity itself pulls him there. He knows it’s selfish. Knows he should leave, let him be, let him live this life without the weight of their past pressing on his shoulders.

But he can’t.

Not when he’s finally found him.

—

One night, Patrick falls asleep next to Achilles on the couch, his head tilted toward Achilles’ shoulder, the glow of the TV flickering across his face.

Achilles doesn’t move.

He just listens to the steady rhythm of his breathing, his heart aching with something he can’t name.

Something close to worship.

Something close to grief.

—

Patrick starts remembering in pieces.

Small things at first—a phrase slipping from his lips that he doesn’t remember saying before. A dream of golden fields and the sound of waves. The overwhelming feeling that Achilles is someone he should know.

Then the memories hit all at once.

They’re sitting by the ocean when it happens, watching the waves roll against the shore.

Patrick stiffens.

Achilles glances at him. “You okay?”

Patrick turns his head slowly, eyes wide, stunned, reverent.

“You,” he breathes.

Achilles stills.

Patrick reaches up, fingers trembling, and touches Achilles’ face, just the barest brush of his fingertips against his cheek.

“I remember,” he whispers.

Achilles doesn’t speak.

He can’t.

Because he’s staring at Patroclus.

Not Patrick. Patroclus.

And for the first time in over three thousand years, his name sounds like home again.

—

That night, when Achilles kisses him, it tastes like salt and honey, like the memory of golden shores and laughter stolen in the dark.

The clock ticked softly in the dimly lit bedroom, the sound almost deafening in the quiet. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, flipping absentmindedly through a book, though your mind barely registered the words. It had been days—weeks, really—since you had more than a fleeting moment with Bruce.

Wayne Enterprises, the city, Batman—they had all stolen his time. And you understood. You always did.

But that didn’t mean you didn’t miss him.

A soft creak of the door caught your attention, and before you could turn, a familiar warmth pressed against your back. Strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you into an embrace so tight, so desperate, that it knocked the breath from your lungs.

“Bruce—”

“Just let me hold you,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost hoarse. His face buried into the crook of your neck, and you felt his breath, warm and uneven against your skin.

You melted instantly, letting the book slip from your fingers as you leaned back into him. His grip tightened, as if afraid you’d slip away, as if you’d disappear like smoke between his fingers.

“I missed you,” he confessed, barely above a whisper. The words carried a weight that made your heart ache.

You reached up, threading your fingers through his dark hair, feeling the tension wound so tightly in his body. “I missed you too.”

He exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding that breath for days. His hands roamed gently, almost reverently, over your arms, your waist—like he was mapping you out again, committing you to memory, as if he hadn’t spent every night for years holding you in the rare moments he was home.

“I hate being away from you,” Bruce murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to the side of your neck. “I hate missing you like this.”

Your chest tightened at the raw honesty in his voice. Bruce didn’t say things like this often—he didn’t let himself—but right now, it felt like he was making up for every lost second.

You turned in his arms, cupping his face between your hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. His blue eyes were dark, heavy with exhaustion, longing, and something deeper—need.

“You’re here now,” you whispered. “That’s what matters.”

A flicker of something desperate passed through his eyes before he crashed his lips against yours, pouring every missed moment, every stolen night, into the kiss. It wasn’t gentle—it was hungry, urgent, like he was trying to pull you closer than physically possible.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he deepened the kiss, his hands gripping your waist like he’d never let go. When he finally broke away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged.

“I don’t want to waste another second,” Bruce murmured, brushing his lips against yours again, softer this time, like a silent promise.

You smiled against his mouth, your fingers tracing over his jaw. “Then don’t.”