Krimsonprose

The first thing you noticed was the blood dripping onto your doorstep.

The second was the red and blue suit.

You stared at the figure leaning against your door, trying to decide if this was the strangest thing that had happened to you this week.

Considering your last name was Stark, that was saying something.

“Spider-Man?” you questioned, opening the door only slightly. The masked hero looked up. For a moment, neither of you moved. There was something strange about him. Not the fact that he was injured.

Not the fact that one of the city’s superheroes was standing outside your house at some ridiculous hour of the night. Something else. A feeling you couldn’t explain.

Like you were supposed to know him.

Like there was a memory sitting just out of reach, buried somewhere you couldn’t find.

“Please,” he said quietly.

So how did that lead to you being flat on your back under him, you don’t really know.

He wasn't wearing the suit anymore. The only thing covering him was his mask that was pulled above his bleeding lips so he could kiss you, between you was the friction of skin and the desperate, rhythmic heat of bodies.

He was positioned above you in a punishingly deep prone bone. His frame loomed over you, his powerful legs braced against the mattress as he drove forward with a slow, deliberate intensity that made the bedframe creak ominously. Because your knees were pushed up towards your chest, every thrust buried him impossibly deep, stretching you open in a way that made your vision swim.

"fuck " He gasped, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly register that was quite unusual from anything you had seen on tv. His dark hair was damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead as he leaned down, his chest pressing against yours. The squish of your breasts against his chest was driving him insane, the soft give of your curves contrasting against his hard, athletic muscle.

His hands weren't gentle; they were possessive. One hand was buried in your hair, tilting yout head back to expose the column of your throat, while the other gripped your hip hard enough that he knew there would be faint fingerprints there in the morning. His fingers dug into your soft skin, anchoring you as he maintained that relentless, punishing angle.

"I can't I can't think when you look at me like that," he groaned against the shell of your ear, his breath hot and ragged. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"

Every time he thrust home, his hips grinding against yours, he felt the friction of yout body against his own, a sensory overload that made his spider sense go haywire not with danger, but with pure, unadulterated need. He wanted to mark you, to claim every inch of your frame, to make sure that when you thought of Spider Man, you thought of the way he made you feel right now shaking, overwhelmed, and completely undone.

"Look at me," he commanded hoarsely, pulling back just enough to meet your hazed over glossy eyes " look at me."

Your eyes drift to his, still covered by his mask “I want to see you please” you gaps out. Not really waiting for his approval, your hands lifted instinctively, fingers finding the edge of his mask before you pulled it away in one swift motion.

The fabric fell onto the bed

His eyes were already on you wide, unblinking, the irises swallowed by an inhuman black that sent a chill racing down your spine.

You barely had time to process what you were seeing before a sharp thwip cut through the silence.

A strand of webbing shot from his wrist, wrapping tightly around yours and pinning your hand above your head against the bed frame.

He didn't stop there. Wanting to feel every single inch of you, he hooked his hands under your thighs. With an effortless display of his strength, he hauled your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders. The position was obscene and perfect, opening you completely to him, exposing your vulnerability to his relentless rhythm.

The thrusts became faster, harder, more desperate. He was driving into you like he was trying to fuse your bodies together. The friction was white hot, a building pressure that made his entire nervous system scream.

Then, it happened.

As your body buckled under the force of an orgasm, a name tore from your lips instinctively like a prayer: "Peter!"

The sound of it hit him like a physical blow. Something in his brain snapped. The confusion, the secret identity, the months of pining it all collapsed into a single point of explosive release. He let out a guttural, animalistic grunt, his back arching as his own climax tore through him.

He choked out your name his hips locking against yours as he emptied himself inside. The sensation of filling you was overwhelming, a hot flood that seemed to echo the intensity of his release. At the same moment, his control over his powers shattered along with his restraint. His wrists spasmed involuntarily, sending uncontrolled arcs of webbing shooting across the room clinging to the walls, spider webbing across the ceiling, and tangling in the discarded sheets.

The soft jingle of the door breaks your concentration, drawing your gaze from the exquisite garment draped across the counter as a customer enters the boutique.

You immediately set your scissors down and hurried over to greet them.

“Hi, welcome to Bellarose!” you said brightly, only for your enthusiasm to fade the moment you recognized the figure standing in front of you.

“Oh. It’s just you.”

You slumped against the counter in disappointment. For a second, you’d thought it might be your first customer of the week, but it was only a security guard. Cosmo, if you remembered correctly. He didn’t speak much, so that was about all you knew about him.

“Alfred sent you some food, ma’am.”

“Right, thanks. Just leave it on the counter, please.”

With a small nod, he did as instructed while you returned back to your work, carefully mapping out the fabric and shaping it into a silhouette. The familiar rhythm of scissors gliding through cloth filling the boutique.

After a while, you became completely engrossed in your work, creating gowns to display on the shelves since there weren’t any custom orders yet. The constant hum of the television filled the boutique, but you barely paid it any attention.

That changed the moment you heard the name Batman.

Your eyes immediately snapped toward the screen, laser-focused on the news report covering Gotham’s newest vigilante.

You knew Bruce was Batman.

He couldn’t hide anything from you, even if he wanted to.

After his parents’ deaths, you’d become his one constant source of comfort. You knew him better than anyone, sometimes better than he knew himself. So when he vanished one day without warning, leaving behind nothing but a text saying he was going to “find himself,” you knew something was wrong.

Then, two years later, he came back.

Different.

There were new scars hidden beneath expensive suits, bruises he brushed off with weak excuses, and a darkness lingering behind his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Two months later, Batman made his first appearance. It hadn’t taken much for you to put two and two together.

Bruce, however, denied it relentlessly.

Over and over again.

Until one night. You had been staying at Wayne Manor, something that had become routine long before he left. Unable to sleep, you’d wandered the halls only to catch sight of Bruce emerging from a hidden passageway beneath the manor.

Covered in blood.

The memory was still vivid. You remembered dragging him to the nearest chair despite his protests, frantically patching up his wounds while scolding him the entire time. He’d sat there in silence, letting you fuss over him as blood stained your hands and tears threatened to spill down your cheeks.

That was the night he finally stopped denying it. The memory made your cheeks burn a bright red.Not because you’d discovered his secret, but because of how close the two of you had been that night, the way he’d looked at you while you stitched him back together.

Speak of the devil.

Your phone rings, and the name on the screen makes your stomach flutter.

Bruce. You answer immediately. “I will pick you up at ten. You’re staying with me tonight.”

His voice is rough around the edges, low and tired. You don’t have to see him to know he’s still wearing the suit. Years of knowing him have made certain things impossible to miss.

“Alright,” you reply softly.

The line goes quiet for a moment before he says “See you soon” in a much softer voice and hangs up without another word. Your relationship with Bruce isn’t complicated, but it isn’t defined either.

You’re certainly not friends. Bruce has made that abundantly clear through both his words and his actions. Friends don’t show up at your apartment at three in the morning just to make sure you’re safe. Friends don’t remember every insignificant detail about your day. Friends don’t look at you the way Bruce Wayne does and friends defiantly don’t touch you the way Bruce Wayne does, and friends don’t fuck you the way Brice Wayne does.

And yet he’s never given whatever this is a name. No labels and no explanations.

Just a possessive hand resting on the small of your back, a look that lingers too long, and the same words murmured against your ear whenever anyone gets too close.

You’re mine.

The thought sends a shiver down your spine. You force yourself to focus on the fabric spread across your worktable, though the silhouette you’ve been sketching suddenly seems far less interesting than the man who’ll be waiting for you at ten.

Soon it’s 9:45, and you begin closing up the boutique. A boutique that had been your dream since childhood.

Ever since you could hold a pencil, you’d filled sketchbooks with designs, imagining fabrics, silhouettes, and entire collections. Opening Bellarose had been the culmination of years of hard work and determination.

Lately, though, the dream felt more like a nightmare. Customers were scarce, bills were piling up, and every quiet day made your stomach twist with anxiety.

Taking a deep breath, you switched off the lights. The warm glow that usually filled the boutique vanished, leaving your beloved shop cloaked in darkness. You grabbed your bag and slipped on your coat, smoothing your skirt over your plush hips. You’d never been model-thin, but that had never stopped you from turning heads. Fashion wasn’t about fitting into clothes rather it was about making clothes fit you. With every carefully tailored outfit, every bold silhouette, and every perfectly chosen accessory, you wore your curves like they belonged on a runway. Shutting the door you stepped out into the chilly Gotham night.

The cold immediately sent a shiver through you.

Down the street, you spotted Cosmo lingering near a lamppost, keeping his usual watchful eye on you. You sighed knowing you will have to have a serious talk with Bruce. Soon a sleek black car turned the corner.

Your heart gave a small flutter. You recognized the car long before it came to a stop.

Not wanting to stand in the cold, you hurried over and slipped into the passenger seat before he could get out. The moment you settled inside, you were met with a pair of piercing blue eyes.

For a brief second, they softened as they landed on you. Then the look was gone.

“Why didn’t you let me open the door for you?” Bruce asked. You rolled your eyes.

“You know how much that pisses me off, baby.”A ghost of amusement flickered across his face. You sank further into the leather seat with a tired sigh.

“Did you have a good day at the boutique?”. You let out a quiet laugh. “About the same as every day since it opened.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Let me help you, princess.”

There it was again. The offer he’d been making for months. Bruce had been relentless in his attempts to help, offering investments, connections, advertising, anything that might keep Bellarose afloat.

But that wasn’t what you wanted. You wanted to build this yourself. If it succeeded, you wanted it to be because of your own hard work.

And if it failed…

Well, at least it would be your failure.

“No thanks.”

A low grunt escaped him. Before you could question it, Bruce suddenly leaned across the center console. Your breath caught.

For a moment, all you could focus on was how close he was.

His cologne.

The faint stubble shadowing his jaw. The intensity in those blue eyes of his. Then his hand moved past you.

Click.

He pulled the seatbelt across your chest and fastened it into place. “you always forget,” he muttered.

The first time you met Bruce was at a charity gala when you were only three years old. You stayed close to your parents, hiding behind them as you watched the crowd of unfamiliar faces around you.

It was Martha Wayne who noticed you first and smiled at you with a warmth that made so many people adore her. She was the one who introduced the two of you gently coaxing you away from your parents and leading you toward her son, Bruce Wayne who was only 5 years old at the time

Yet, even then there was something strangely intriguing about him. He stood in a perfectly tailored suit, far too serious for a child his age. At first he was cautious of you but by the end of the night he smiled so brightly at your every word he was just a quite boy with a careful smile.

Now you stand in-front a man twice your size, in a suit quite similar, just as poised and regal as before. But his eyes were full of years of rage, anger and loss. His smiles not coming so easily anymore. This time you stand infront of your husband as you say your vows at the alter.

——