DOWNTOWN GIRL!
a classic spinoff of Billy Joel’s uptown girl.
poster girl presents…
Stu Macher x fem!reader ! enemies to lovers cinema !
You weren’t anyone truly special in Woodsboro High School. I mean, you weren’t particularly popular. A shadow compared to girls like Casey Becker and her boyfriend Stu. Or was it Steve? You really couldn’t keep up with the amount of annoying news of someone getting a new boyfriend every other week.
Not to say that you’re jealous or anything! You’ve had boyfriends in the past… not lately, but it just wasn’t the right time.
“Boys only really want one thing!” You wince at the memory of your mother’s voice. She’d kill you if you brought home one of those guys! Someone whose on the football team and think they’re all that when it’s really not attractive to date someone who spends half the time on the bench rather than the field.
Snapping out of unwanted remnants from the past, you find yourself on the floor. Somehow your disassociation led you to bump a bit too hard into someone else.
A mocking laugh came from above you. Fucking Stu Macher and his annoying laugh. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who it was. All the girls fawned over him and Billy, shadows like yourself dreaded encountering him.
Waves of embarrassment washed over you as you forced yourself to look upwards at this 6’4 demon. Blues eyes stared down at you, crinkling ever so slightly from amusement.
“Sorry… I, uhm, didn’t see you there.” You cleared your throat whilst looking for the nearest place for you to die of shame.
“Really?” He replied in feigned shock, wide eyes and all before doing a breathless “aha!” like it was the funniest thing ever. Jackass
Biting your tongue from unleashing any remarks that you’d surely regret, you simply nodded. Fortunately, you dropped nothing so you scrambled to get up. Which, somehow, made the situation a bit worse.
Stu had prevented you from leaving by purposefully remaining in front of you when you had tried to walk away. He frowned like it personally had hurt him that you were trying to save yourself from any more embarrassment.
“Where do ya think you’re going?” Stu questioned. Whether it was rhetorical or not, you would rather die than answer it and have him bothering you in your class as well.
“I—“ a voice cut you off, calling Stu away from you and diverting his attention. Thank the Gods for that! Allowing you to slip past him and speed walk towards literally anywhere else. But, you couldn’t help the feeling of someone staring at you while you made your not-so grand escape.
The bell had rang for lunch. That loud, annoying bell was actually a sense of comfort. It meant that school was almost over and you could finally stop replaying that horrid memory from the hallway.
A water fountain caught your attention. It was small and barely had any ripple of water but it wasn’t anything special. The thing that made it special were the people there.
Sidney and her boyfriend Billy alongside Stu and Tatum, and always out of place, Randy.
They were in their own world, chatting about Gods know what. You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. They all looked so happy to be there, to have friends.
It wasn’t like the opportunity didn’t present itself to you but your academics had socially killed you. You used to be friends with people like that. Especially Stu but overtime he changed. Turned into some asshole who only dates to fuck and screw girls over by ruining their reputation.
You couldn’t help but stare at their little circle of Elysium. A temporary paradise if anything. Yet, envy still wanted to consume you. Even when you forced yourself to look away, you still glanced back at Stu.
Wait, Stu?
He was staring back at you. All silent and serious while the rest of his friends kept talking, oblivious to the little stand-off you two were having.
Fuck, he looked hot scary. You never knew this side of Stu. The cold and emotionless one. You only ever knew the Stu who could crack jokes at any moment. The Stu who could make dad jokes seem sexy. The Stu who could bring light in the middle of darkness. The Stu who you fucking hated because he was all of those things and you loved him for that.
You bit your tongue. It was better to bottle everything up and stay a shadow rather than the girl who committed social suicide by asking out Stu Macher. And, once again, when you finally could walk away from all of it, you could feel the weighted gaze of someone staring directly at you.
You hadn’t even made it back inside of the high school before someone pulled you away. Your back hit the cold brick wall and your face was pressed against someone’s chest. A sly laugh escaped the man above and you seethed with rage.
“What the fuck—“
“Shhh, shhh.” Stu shushed you. Tilting your chin up while keeping a firm hold on your waist to prevent you from going anywhere. What the hell was this perv planning? “You’re going to get us caught, baby. You can’t be loud.” He murmured with a baby voice, cooing at your face of hatred.
“You dick! Get off of me!” Shoving at his shoulders, the offer to slap him silly was extremely enticing. Who did he think he was? Pushing you against a wall where ANYONE could see if they walked by?
Stu sighed. Looking down at you with a bored expression and dead eyes. You felt a chill go up your spine when he clicked his tongue in annoyance. “You keep staring at me, reader. Might start to think that ya got a crush, honey.” He snickered, his warmth returning quite quickly as if it was all a big joke that only he knew about.
This jerk. He was just toying with you. Like he always did. Even when you were kids, the teasing was constant. Any thought of actually hurting your feelings was discarded because you were no one compared to him.
You were raised downtown and he was uptown. Opposites forevermore. Enemies for an eternity. The feelings in your heart were unimportant if you knew deep down that he would never reciprocate them.
Harshly, you shoved him away. It made him gasp, pretending to be hurt with an over exaggerated “ouuucchhh!”. He pouted, leaning up against the wall, easily catching you once more because he was Stu Macher. Very tall, lanky Stu fucking Macher.
“What is your problem freak?! So what if I looked at you for a few seconds! I’m not guilty of anything and you have a girlfriend. What would she think about you cornering a stranger?” You asked in a bewildered tone. Your hand twitched at your side. You really should’ve slapped him when you had the chance.
“C’mon, can’t I have some fun with my childhood friend?”
“Fuck that! You haven’t talked to me in years and now you want to play the friendship card? That is so bullshit!” You finally managed escape his grasp. You moved to actually slap this blond-haired giant but he caught your hand inches away from his face.
Your face morphed into shock. Not because he caught it but rather because he moved your hand to cup his face instead. He even leaned into your touch! Your resolve slowly weakened, the anger sizzling down like nothing bad had ever happened.
“M’sorry… really. I didn’t know it mattered that much to ya. But I’m here now, right? We can go back to playing house like when we were kids.” Stu whispered softly. Looking at you with remorse and guilt, but the voice in the back of your head told you it wasn’t sincere. That he was just playing you. That he only wanted one thing. That maybe he just wanted you.
Stu pulled you closer to him until you were flat against his torso. He removed your hand from his cheek and began to slowly kiss it. All while looking at you with that half-lidded gaze that gave you butterflies in your stomach.
Maybe Stu Macher wasn’t such an asshole. After all, whats the worst that could happen dating someone you’ve known since you were kids?
I adore SCREAM! especially Stu, he’s just too cute :3 💕 my writing kinda sucks ik 💔 btw, this takes place before the murders!! not proof read + cringy
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it's perfectly fine to blow some steam with the so-called 'detective' you hate. it's also perfectly fine to turn around and talk shit about him to your best friend.
— wc 4.3k, suggestive content, menaces/bffs to luvs, making out, identity silliness, 2-timing but also not really, banter, fluff and cuteness
— title from bad habit by steve lacy, im crazy for the jimenez/rpat bat but u can imagine him as any version tbh!!
BATMAN WOULD BE YOUR FAVORITE CRIME, apart from the fact that you, in no way, are a criminal.
Every day before you slip that Gazette badge into your pocket, you tell yourself that he's just a guy in a suit. A six-two, totally ripped, and infuriatingly genius guy who has a penchant for out-scooping you.
Mysterious sounds in the sewers? The Bat's already got that solved, and spoiler alert—it's Killer Croc, again.
Local gang war? Oh, don't worry about it. There won't be much reporting needed, because the leaders have been strung up above Main Street with Bat-rope.
Journalists always have some paranoid, skeptical chip in their shoulders. You're worried that this could be some sort of telepathic link or something. Why else would Batman be haunting your headlines like he does every pitch-black alleyway in this damned city?
So, naturally, you find ways to take out your frustration.
"God, how many compartments do you need?" you grit, fingers scrabbling for the right seam in his suit. You aren't a stranger to wrestling his cowl off, but it's hard in complete darkness, and you've almost cut yourself on a hidden blade more than once.
But that's how it always is with Batman. Darkness, danger, a knife's edge between will he, won't he. Schrodinger's Bat, if you will.
The alley you're crammed in isn't really one. It's a side-street, tucked between a condo and a rowhouse. Clean and quiet, in a way that would be surprising if you weren't in the nicer part of the city that lines the financial district.
You suppose the night is why he even lets you touch him at all. The myth turned man, right at your fingertips. He sows a line of kisses from the right corner of your mouth to your ear, squirming out of your grip on purpose because last time, he admitted to finding you cute when you were frustrated.
You had half the mind to gag, and the other half you buried deep into the meat of your brain, where it will rot and follow you forever. The thought comes back now, that maybe he's not that bad of a bad guy.
(It’s not like you hate him. It’s just…you wish he’d leave some of the fun for you—after all, there’s nothing exhilarating in simple reporting. You want excitement, the thrill of the chase.)
At least he knows how to push your buttons.
"Not that hard," he mumbles, lips mouthing at the space behind your earlobe. He's somewhere between chapped and baby-soft, like he sometimes peels the skin off his mouth with his teeth as a nervous habit.
"It is," you respond, swallowing a sound when he bites. Just lightly, not hard enough to bloom, but enough to remind you.
It's this cat-and-mouse game you play. The PD gets the whole story before the press can jump because of Batman. Therefore, you're justified in your duty as a journalist—a pillar of democracy—to try unmasking him, no?
The mission may have run awry, but you're here, and you're close.
Finally, you find the small flap where his mask detaches from his cape. He helps you with it, considerate for once, fingers joining yours in sliding under the cowl and wrestling it off.
You still can't see him, but you can feel him. The day-old stubble clinging to his jaw. How his nose has that slightly crooked angle, one you couldn't feel if he had his mask on. The way his jaw works, the way his hair is shorter at the nape and soft at the crown.
You wonder what color his eyes are, if they sparkle in the light.
He's never taken his suit all the way off with you. How many scars does he have? Does the suit bulk him up? Is he really that tall without boots?
And then, quieter in your head...does he have cold feet? You know someone who does, and he always presses them to your warmer thighs.
You grimace. It's one thing to have a covert, inappropriate relationship with the most wanted man in Gotham, but it's another thing entirely to think about your best friend while participating in said relationship.
"What are you doing." Not a question, but not a demand either. His voice echoes in the narrow side-street.
"Feeling your face?"
"That defeats the purpose of being a mystery," he says, low. Then you hear the rasp of his glove sliding off, and the palm of his hand meets your hip, burning as he nudges the hem of your cardigan.
(You're again reminded of him. Probably dead in that stupidly large bed in his mansion, snuggling silk sheets and the whole works, completely unaware of what you're doing. He'd chastise you if he found out.)
Humming, your fingers tangle in his hair. "I have a mystery for you: where's Karate Kid?"
"Taking a break."
"Can you respond in more than ten words?"
"Depends on if we're off the record."
You hate him. Still, you don't stop him from kissing you again, eyelashes fluttering on the apple of your cheek as he moves back down to your jaw.
A soft sigh burns through you when Batman's bare fingers find the sliver of skin beneath the hem of your rucked-up shirt, then dip into your waistband—myth and man, all at once.
Face numb with heat, you just hope no one can hear the night’s silence shattering with your quiet whine of want.
—
"Thanks, Alfred."
You know the tight grin you flash looks more like a grimace, but you have to make do with your thighs that scream with every sore step.
“He’ll be in his room,” Alfred says, and every muscle in his face stays perfectly still as he folds your jacket over his forearm, giving no indication that he’s picked up on your stiffness.
But knowing the butler, he probably has—he just doesn’t feel the need to comment.
The halls, however grand and spacious as they are, have never made you feel small. Though your steps echo as you drag yourself up the darkly lacquered stairs, and the grim paintings on the walls regard you with intimidating glares, the Wayne residence has always felt like a second home.
It’s awfully drafty, though. You know Bruce runs hot (save for his freakishly frigid feet), but the breeze drifting along the ornate walls is making concern for that poor kid itch at your nape.
You turn right, go straight until the floorboards make a particularly loud creak, then take a left. It’s a path you could follow by feeling alone, by counting the precise seconds until you can see your best friend again.
You knock on the bedroom door with firm knuckles and resolve.
“What.” The word comes out as a low, gravelly rasp, devoid of inflection.
You scoff, wry. “Did Alfred not bring you coffee?”
The latch twists with a snick, and the heavy, darkly lacquered door parts from the frame to reveal a scruffy jaw and broad ink-strokes of messy hair falling over an angled brow.
Bruce glares at you, but there’s no trace of annoyance in those clear blue eyes. Only tiredness; slight relief softens the heavy bags beneath his enviously thick bottom lashes.
“Woah,” you blurt, instinctively taking a step toward him. “Sheepless night?”
He just makes this…little rough, careless sound in the back of his throat, letting you in as he sneaks one hand beneath his black silk shirt to scratch his stomach. “Not punny.”
Ignoring the insult, you pad into his room. It hasn’t changed since the last time you’ve been here—which was last week, as always.
His absurdly massive bed sits in the middle, more rumpled than usual. It’s a shame that he rarely sleeps here anymore, and you almost feel bad that he prefers to spend his nights in his office (or wherever he wants you to believe).
Like second nature, you choose the silky cushions of the chaise lounge beside the bed to unceremoniously stretch out across. You won’t disturb that sacred mattress with your outside clothes.
The curtains are drawn tight, forming a thick armor of velvet over the windows, but Gotham’s pale sunlight still wriggles into the room from above the curtain bar.
The thousand-threaded sheets seem to shimmer in the dim light, rippling as Bruce collapses onto the bed with a sleepy groan.
“I take it we’re having brunch at home then,” you say, arranging your limbs so that you’re starfished on the lounge. “Shame…Dick seemed like he was looking forward to soufflé pancakes.”
“Mhm,” he rumbles, dragging a pillow into his chest. Nuzzles into it, and something in your chest loosens like the first bloom of spring.
Lately, you've noticed that his typically rigid composure has been loosening. Though the ghosts of his parents' deaths still hang over his exhausted head, he's warmed up in small increments—like now, choosing to lean into his sleepiness rather than pushing past the need to maintain his image.
But perhaps that's because you've known him for too long. You can see through most of his farces, especially the one he insists on displaying to the wider public.
You almost scoff to yourself. Playboy billionaire. Who's going to tell the paparazzi that he broke into a cold sweat when you joked about setting him up on a blind date?
He sighs, all rough edges, tinged with the sweet relief of abandoning pretense. “You can blame Dick for keeping me up last night.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that to him.”
Gazing at you with sleep-softened eyes, Bruce says with a tinge of earnest affection, "I was helping Alfred tend to him. Wouldn't have happened if he dressed warmer like I told him to.”
“What should we do instead?” you muse, absently running your fingers over the smooth, nearly invisible stitches in the chaise’s upholstery. You’ve probably worn a path along the seam with that habit.
“Tell me about your week,” Bruce murmurs, voice dipping into gravel. His languid words pour over you, soothing. “Any scoops? See the Batman again?”
At the reminder, irritation and something akin to embarrassment (though you won’t assign an official name to it) flares in your stomach. The ache in your thighs and a few tender points along your collarbone decide to flare up, which only serves to fuel your annoyance.
You exhale hard—not so much a scoff than a careless grunt—and choke back the burning urge to roll your eyes. “Alright, that's just provoking, Bruce.”
A lazy, almost blasé, hum is your answer. “I thought you liked complaining about him. Beating the dead horse much?”
"Oh, that horse is rotting," you grit, sitting up so quickly that your vision spins with the elaborate detailing on his dark ceiling. Now that it's come to your attention, you're slowly noticing how the Gothic-reminiscent ornamentation resembles the skeletal wings of a bat, stretching above you in desperate flight. Huh.
"Do tell."
You cross your arms and glare at him, but he just lets an amused smirk play at the corner of his chapped lips (though still partially concealed by his stupidly fluffy pillow, which you are suddenly thankful for, as you'd probably just suffocate him remorselessly if you'd been exposed to the full power of his smugness).
"Remember the gang war lead?"
"Tied above Main Street with Bat-rope," is the confirmation, followed by a couple of nods that are too solemn to not be teasing.
"And the whole Joker thing—which, by the way, I think he should investigate why the clown keeps escaping—"
"—it's ninety percent Arkham Asylum's fault—"
"—plus when I was actively investigating the Riddler's latest puzzle, but he must've stolen my notes because I swear I was this," you pinch your index and thumb together, muscles tensed for emphasis, "this close to solving it."
To your ire, Bruce chuckles wryly, and if you didn't know better, you'd say he's dangerously toeing the line of self-satisfied. But that would be crazy...unless...
No, that's just crazy.
Right?
"Well, Batman is the world's greatest detective," he says, following the statement with a smooth card of fingers through his inky mess of hair.
The motion shifts the collar of his expensive pajamas, making the silk dip to reveal a small circular bruise on his collarbone. It's still reddish and stark against his pale skin, so it must be fresh. Weirdly, you distinctly remember the hard press of the Batman's clavicle against your teeth last night.
Your own bites pulse faintly again beneath your clothing.
"There's a reason why Commissioner Gordon—"
"Is that a hickey?" you interject, your pointer finger flicking out to zero onto it. You scoot to the edge of the chaise, frowning; secretly, you're elated at the chance to pivot away from the subject of Batman.
Your voice takes a teasing tone as you chuckle. "C'mon, you didn't have to lie about Dick's antics keeping you up. Bruce Thomas Wayne, are you finally becoming the playboy they say you are?"
You bite back the bitter tang of regret the moment those words escape your mouth. Your best friend can have anyone he wants—he's rich, handsome, generous, caring, and despite what the tabloids spew about him, all of Gotham knows that his intellect is damn near genius.
And yet the discovery stings. Deep down, you chide yourself for being a hypocrite, for feeling the slight betrayal that Bruce had someone in his bed while you were fucking Gotham's protector (you'll use the word loosely) practically every week.
But still. Maybe he isn't loosening up. Maybe he's still the same guarded boy he's been for over two decades.
He huffs softly, the white of his canines flashing at you for a moment. "It's nothing."
"Nothing," you repeat, incredulous. "You don't think—maybe—that this is a significant milestone?"
"Pssh, you're acting like I'm some fair maiden."
Doubling down, you slide off the chaise and kneel by his bedside, folding your arms along the edge of the mattress with a pleading look in your eyes and a sharp grin on your face. "Come on, I'm just curious. I tell you everything, down to my leads and sources."
Eyeing you from behind the soft armor of his pillow, he responds, "Alright. Why were you limping?"
Shit. The gleeful journalist in you drops dead on the floor, replaced by the anxious secret-bearer, whose knees are knocking together like the erratic tick of your heart.
"Almost everything," you correct, grin beginning to wilt into a grimace.
Bruce just regards you with a stare that is almost cold while exasperation weighs heavily on the thick lines of his angular eyebrows. That damn disapproval lances straight through your heart. Jaw tight, you concede and rest your cheek against your arm, frowning slightly.
"Fine. Sorry. I shouldn't push," you say with a softer voice. "I'm limping because I hooked up with a guy."
He...doesn't seem fazed, which throws you off. You've always known him to be protective, even possessive at times; even before his parents were murdered, he kept watchful tabs on his belongings, and he'd know if you shifted one of his toys by an inch.
Naturally, you'd expect him to show some sliver of alarm between his brows—because if you were limping after sex, that would imply that your partner may have been rough enough to affect your gait—but those faint 11 lines haven't budged.
In fact, he almost looks smug. Or maybe he’s just gotten better at caring more than he lets on.
"Your turn," you mumble as an afterthought, cheeks burning hot. If this room were colder, you'd be radiating white coils of steam.
"I also…was intimate. With a girl," he admits, though he works through his choice of words with a faint wrinkle by the corner of his mouth, like they taste bitter. "She’s nosy for a living."
Sounds like someone you know very well.
“You could’ve just told the truth,” you mumble, feeling redundant in your disappointment.
Flashes of your clandestine meetups with Gotham’s favorite vigilante unwittingly resurface, from the softness of his maybe-black hair to the way you’d know the elegant structure of his cheekbones by touch alone.
You’ve always wondered what he looked like, yes, but you suppose that imagining it with all the parts you have already memorized is different. But if you could hold up a man to the myth…
…you might raise Bruce.
Which is—fucking insane! It’s crazy, and stupid, and a terrible thing for him to do.
Yet.
Yet the small, needling voice of journalism rises from the dead. Whispers echo in the caverns of your chest: just follow the hunch, wouldn’t it explain a lot?
A beat of silence follows as Bruce determines his next words.
“I didn’t want you to see me differently,” he says, low and earnest. “I thought I had a good thing going. For the first time, I don’t want things to change.”
Somehow, you get the feeling that he isn’t just talking about his hookup.
“Plus,” he tacks on, like some afterthought he finds vaguely humorous, “you get all flustered when you need the truth. It’s cute.”
He admits that in the same tone the Bat admitted it, kissing the side of your neck.
The world shifts just a few degrees. Like the Earth has been spinning on its axis a little wrong, and you sitting up has made the planet right again.
It fits so fucking neatly that it’s infuriating. The intricate gadgets. The sleek car, with all its sharp edges and plush Italian leather cushions. The way he always seems to be two steps ahead of you.
They’re both six-two, ridiculously smart, and muscular. You know Bruce had trained in martial arts overseas; you’re realizing with horror that Dick is about the same age as Robin, and the cold would explain the sidekick's absence last night.
You deal in facts. In hard, concrete truths and testimonies sworn against perjury. Yet, if you wanted to stick with only the cold facts, you would’ve become a lawyer.
And there’s the subject of his hickey. The thought of it being you twists something around your ribs, ugly and vindictive and satisfied all at once.
You should be pissed—no, you should be furious.
Bruce lied, hid, copied off half of your investigations like a bad high school cheater, and fucked you so good that you’d forget about it.
Yet the truth just settles deep inside the pit of your stomach, like you’ve known all along but never wanted to believe it.
Because maybe you’re just as possessive. Maybe you do feel ugly and messy and proud that you’re the one that keeps him coming back.
“Yeah,” you say after a swallow, gluing your gaze onto him to gauge any reaction. “My guy’s pretty nosy too. A lot more annoying than your girl, probably. Tends to hide important information.”
“It seems like they’ve got their bad habits in common,” Bruce responds. To any other person, he’d seem unfazed, but you know.
You know that slight downward twitch of his sharp eyebrows. You know the understated purse of his lips by touch in the dark and visual study in the light. He doesn't quite blink, but his long, dark eyelashes flutter like he's making a conscious effort to keep his mask up.
“That changes a lot, doesn’t it?” It leaves your mouth less like a question and more like a statement. “Does she mean anything?”
You lean closer to him, eyes flicking all over the planes of his face until he twitches, one hand curling gingerly around your nape, as if deciding between holding fast or not at all.
“Everything.” He lets it tumble out, just like that, lets the weighty admission bounce off the mattress like a hand grenade. Too easy, too loaded. “She means everything. I think you know that too.”
The last syllables are breathed softly against your lips, and his lashes tremble as he searches your gaze with a deceptive calm brewing in his glassy eyes. Like the stillness before a storm, except there's a sort of acceptance thrown haphazardly into the blue swirling around his pupils.
Understanding.
“I can forgive the lying,” you murmur, tilting your head just so, nose brushing against his. “And the hiding. But out-scooping me? That’s fucked up.”
“You’re not even mentioning last night, and all the other ones?” A faint laugh colors the question, blooming in the infinitesimal space between your lips.
It’s then that you realize you can never be mad at him for too long. He’ll just pull some puppy-eyed shit like this, irresistible charm woven into his forever lingering smirk, and you’ll turn the world just because he’d do the same.
“Those have been forgiven for a long time.”
Bantering like this, impossibly close yet too far, comes as second nature. You fall into place like the pieces of his two identities, all neat and simple.
“Can I make it up to you?”
You flick your eyes to his Gothic ceiling, where the spiny wings of the bats seem to flutter in excitement. “Since you asked so nicely…”
Bruce presses his gentle, apologetic lips to the corner of your mouth, then traces your bottom lip with a callused thumb. “Can I kiss you here?”
“Will that stop making you ask questions like a journalist?”
A soft puff of air leaves him, half incredulous and all endeared. The thought of that being so enamoring, so magnetic flashes through your mind before he softly places his lips over yours—slightly chapped, warm, and completely familiar.
You've figured the Batman out and solved the mystery of the century. The victory doesn't taste as sweet as Bruce Wayne.
Without breaking, he draws you up to him as he shifts onto his back, a rough yet cautious hand on your waist guiding you to shuffle across the mattress on your knees and sit over his hips.
Your head spins, eyes refusing to open out of fear that this is a dream. You feel the gradual slide of his tongue in your mouth, so unlike the feverish way he kisses you in alleyways.
A quiet moan of satisfaction rumbles in his throat, and it strikes you in the chest, how he seems to be just the same, yet so different. Or maybe it's because he knows this is tentative, precarious, that it's not as certain as you and his alter-ego.
You shiver—pliant and wanting in a way you didn't expect from yourself—when he diverts his attention, kissing reverently across your cheek, then expertly down your neck.
Palms and fingers on your waist, surer this time and dragging your weight against...is he serious?
You sigh against his hair, putting a little firmness behind the occasional rock of your hips against the growing heat tenting his pajama pants. "Really?"
He groans at the stimulation, cheeks flushing as he ducks his head down.
"Ignore it. Just want to stay like this," he mumbles, voice rough.
You slide a hand into his hair, which is prickly at the nape and soft at the crown (yes, yes, yes), and run the other down from the scruff still clinging on his jaw, to his softly heaving chest, to the hem of his shirt.
You sneak your touch beneath the warm silk, splaying your hand over the burning skin above his hip. This feels like a blessing, to feel the subtle ripple of muscle instead of a toolbelt and a suit.
Bruce’s sharp canines nip at your fresh hickeys from last night, to which you wince at the twinge of tenderness and slip your fingers higher to fit into the dips between his ribs—he's a little ticklish there, though you know he lies badly about it.
Paying you back in double, his hands travel beneath the hem of your own shirt, rucking the fabric up to expose your spine to his exploring touch. Another soft sigh burns through you, though the latter half is swallowed by his lips, all lazy and savoring.
And this might be better than what you've been doing. There's no more dancing, no more cat-and-mouse.
There's just you and him, sharing breaths in a sliver of air you're hesitant to widen, learning to orbit each other again with the weight of Batman altering your gravities.
He rolls both of you onto your sides, wasting little time tangling your legs. He traces shapes into your back, weaving around your spine.
The world smudges around you. Time swims by languidly as he just…caresses your skin, humming against your lips, bent on appreciation rather than stress relief.
You’ve never wanted something to stretch on forever so badly.
Unfortunately, impermanence calls when Alfred—and you know it’s him before he speaks—primly raps his knuckles three times against the door. “Master Dick is stirring. His temperature has dropped.”
“Finally,” Bruce grumbles. He attempts to pull away but can’t resist another two (or five) quick pecks. “Breakfast for lunch?”
You smooth your fingers over his head, pressing down the strands that stick out at odd angles from your grip. “Weird, but okay.”
He calls out, “Alfred, order from that French toast place Dick likes.”
“Will do, sir.”
You can practically see the way the butler bows slightly and marches down the hall. Never change, Alfred.
Bruce glances back at you with glimmering eyes, and his faint smile is too tender to be anything but hopeful, "Stay for dinner, too?"
You twist your lips, faking pensiveness. “Only if you promise to leave something for me to write about.”
Wrinkling his nose, he scoffs but makes a point of avoiding your gaze. “When have I ever done that…”
“Don’t even start.”
“I'm not,” he chuckles against your lips. It’s signed and sealed with a sweet, chaste kiss.
Oh, your heart sighs in wistful recognition. It’s always been him.
— soft tease bruce my shayla.... part of the much ado about luv event <33
synopsis: you accidentally get added to the wrong class group chat during the start of the second semester (a class you aren’t even taking), but the people in it are weirdly entertaining so you decide to stay. what’s the worst that could happen?
⤷ ゛ ˎˊ˗ chapter summary: to celebrate you passing your exam, your boyfriends decide to take you out for a date. the night ends with the three of you finally releasing all the tension that's been building up between you for months now...
content: smau, college!au, poly!krbk x oc, oc has a name, making out, oral (f!receiving and m!receiving), praise, cum eating, fingering, mild soft dom kirishima, mild sub bakugo, boys kissing
NOTE: there is a written section at the end that does include SMUT so please read with caution...but otherwise enjoy :D
series m.list
The door had barely clicked shut before your body was pressed up against it, a warm pair of lips attached to your neck, sucking in the skin between sharp teeth and leaving a trail of purple and red. You whimpered helplessly, hands tugging on the freshly dyed, vibrant scarlet strands, back arching against the door and pushing against Kirishima’s hips almost desperately.
He groaned into your collarbone, mouth parting to pant against your flushed skin. “Fuck—Fuck, hun…” His voice was absolutely wrecked, raw and dripping with desire. He pulled back slightly, taking a moment to admire the way your eyes were glossed over and hazy, fingers trembling.
Then he tugged you closer, crashing your lips back onto his as he swallowed the delicious moan that vibrated out of you, the sound going straight to his groin. His arms tightened around you as he guided your body away from the door. You felt the room spin before you were pressed against another solid wall, but this one felt warm and familiar.
A second pair of hands settled on your hips and you didn’t have to look to know who it was. Instead you relaxed into them, lips never leaving Kirishima’s.
“You gonna let me have a turn or what, Ei?” Katsuki yanked you back harshly, smirking when he heard the sharp gasp fall from your mouth as you separated from the redhead. He wasted no time and gripped your jaw, turning your head far enough so he could capture your lips with his own, immediately groaning at the way you melted into him, becoming so needy and pliant under his hold.
Kirishima huffed out a raspy laugh, breathing heavily. He took a step back, pupils dilating even further at the sight of Katsuki practically devouring you right in front of him.
“Oh fuck,” he breathed. “You two look so good like this.”
Katsuki hummed in response. The fingers on his other hand traveled around your waist and lower, lower, lower until they brushed against the hem of your dress, dipping underneath the fabric. Your breath hitched at the contact, another whimper bubbling from your throat and Katsuki parted from you, his entire body going still.
“Too much?” he asked, eyes flickering over your face as a rare, worried expression overtook his features.
“N-No…keep going…please,” Your voice was hoarse, thick with need. Katsuki’s concern was immediately replaced with a smug look.
“Since you asked so nicely…” He spun you around so you were facing him now and kissed you again, sucking on your bottom lip, a sigh of pleasure leaving him as you opened your mouth wider, allowing his tongue to slide in. The kiss was filthy, the sound of spit being exchanged between the two of you. Your fingers curled into his collar, eventually reaching for the tie around his neck and hastily loosening it.
Once it was off, you tossed the article of clothing to the side and immediately went back to his shirt, deftly unbuttoning the first few from the top. You heard Kirishima chuckle behind you.
“Someone’s eager, huh?” He briefly closed in on the two of you again, knees almost giving out when Katsuki made eye contact with him, lips still connected to yours in a heavy make-out. Kirishima’s expression changed suddenly, eyes growing dark as he jerked his head over to the couch.
The blond immediately knew what he was asking and—still without breaking away from you—slid his palms under the soft flesh of your thighs and lifted you up effortlessly. Your legs automatically wrapped around his waist and within seconds, you were tossed onto the soft cushions.
Propping yourself up on your elbows, you raised your head and the sight above you was so arousing—both your boyfriends utterly ravaged and looking like they wanted to eat you whole. The visual made your head dizzy and you rubbed your thighs together, seeking some friction to satisfy the throbbing heat between your legs. Seeing this, Kirishima clicked his tongue in disapproval and he gripped your knees, stopping your movement, and an understanding smile spread across his face at your whine of protest.
“I know, pretty girl, I know,” he muttered. “I’ll give you what you’re asking for soon, but first—”
He leaned in close, taking your chin between his fingers gently and holding you in place. “I need you to tell me that you’re okay with this—that this is something you want.”
You nodded in response, but Kirishima just shook his head. “Words, baby.”
Shit, you could feel your underwear getting soaked through.
Another whimper left you, but you managed a soft and shaky, “Y-Yes, I want this. I want this so bad, Kiri please—”
He shushed you sweetly and tilted your head up even more, placing a tender kiss to your forehead, possibly the most intimate act that’s been done to you all night.
“Lay back for me then,” he mumbled into your skin. “Let us take care of you tonight, you deserve it.”
You fell back onto the couch, resting your head on the armrest. Kirishima smiled, pleased, then shifted his attention back onto the blond practically hovering next to him. Katsuki’s gaze was on you the whole time, but when Kirishima turned, he couldn’t look away, staring deeply into a matching pair of crimson eyes—eyes he spent years looking into but have never seen like this before, wide with longing.
Kirishima slid a palm around his neck and yanked him close, kissing him intensely, which Katsuki returned back with the same amount of fervor. The two of them fought for control for a bit, but eventually Kirishima reigned victorious, smirking against your boyfriend’s lips as he relented, body stumbling forward into Kirishima’s. The redhead pulled off, leaving behind a string of saliva between the two of them, and you made a soft, unintelligible noise
Kirishima held Katsuki’s jaw between his fingers, but unlike with you, his grip was harsh and unrelenting.
“Go give our girl what she wants, hm? I think she’s waited long enough.” Kirishima patted his cheek gently, moving over to the side to let him through. You expected Katsuki to put up more of a fight, to bark out a snarky reply like usual, but you were caught off guard when he easily complied without so much as a complaint.
Katsuki didn’t hesitate to crawl on top of you, caging you with his arms as one leg came up between your own. You shifted your hips down and let out the most delicious moan either of them have ever heard when your cunt rubbed against his clothed thigh, the pressure and friction providing you with the relief you’ve been seeking. Katuski’s lips parted in mute shock as he watched you grind on his leg, growing harder and harder. From behind, Kirishima inhaled sharply.
The degree of desperation you were showing should’ve been embarrassing, but all you cared about right now was achieving that sweet, sweet release you’ve been craving all night.
“Katsuki,” you whined. That seemed to knock him out of whatever trance he was in and he dropped his head onto your shoulder, bringing his mouth close to your ear.
“Tell me what you want,” he demanded breathlessly. You were at a loss for words, mind clouded with nothing but intense want. “C’mon—talk to me. You were giving me so much attitude earlier and now what?” he teased, tone almost mocking. “Barely fucked out and suddenly you can’t speak?”
“Katsuki…” Kirishima warned, voice gentle but firm.
Katsuki grunted once, rolling his eyes, before his hand once again trailed down your body and disappeared underneath the hem of your dress. Your body jolted when the tips of his fingers brushed against your sweet spot, your own hands reaching up to grip his biceps. Katsuki groaned, sounding wrecked when he felt how soaked you were, even through the thin fabric. His lips latched onto your earlobe, sucking on the skin and gently nibbling it between his teeth.
“Mmm..nngh—ahh—”
“How ‘bout I give you my fingers first?” He traced your dripping wet cunt, occasionally catching onto the edge of your underwear, sending a wave of heat down your spine.
“Yes please,” you begged, digging your nails into his arms. “I need it, give it to me, Katsuki please—ahh, fuck—!”
Without giving you a chance to finish your sentence, Katsuki had tugged your underwear down and shoved two thick fingers inside you, working them in and out at a slow pace. He looked down, cursing under his breath when he felt you clench around him, coating his entire hand with your slick in a matter of seconds.
“God, you’re so wet,” he murmured. He brought his thumb to your clit and circled it, watching the way your thighs shook at his ministrations. His two fingers curled deep inside, searching for that one specific—
You let out a broken noise, somewhere between a whine and moan as Katsuki stroked that spongy spot, dragging the pads of his fingers over it, the sensation driving you insane as you arch up into him, throwing your head back in pleasure. He took that opportunity to rain your neck in kisses, leaving his own marks on one side, mirroring Kirishima’s from earlier.
You continued to move your hips, practically fucking yourself on his fingers now, rhythm steady but increasing in speed. Katsuki allowed it, busying himself with licking and sucking on any exposed skin he could get his mouth on.
“That’s it,” he purred. “Ride my fingers, baby. You feel so good—shit, yeah wrap around me, just like that.” He inserted another finger, stretching your hole open a bit more, leaving you a wriggling, moaning mess underneath him. Your hips went down further, taking him in all the way to the knuckles. Katsuki’s mouth watered as he looked down at where the two of you were connected, thrusting his hand in and out of you with earnest, the sound of his palm slapping against your drenched pussy so obscene it made him lightheaded.
You gasped, clenching hard around his fingers. “Fuck, K-Kats—ahh—oh, god—too much—”
“Yeah?” he whispered hotly. “You can take it, I know you can.”
You keened, pulling his face down to yours and kissing him wherever you could reach. You met again in a heated, messy kiss, latching onto Katuski’s bottom lip and tugging. He growled and shoved his fingers in deeper, maintaining a steady but addicting rhythm.
“You’re taking me so fucking well,” he praised. “Wanna watch you come like this, right on my hand. Can you do that for me, baby?”
You nodded frantically, head lolling to the side. From here you could see Kirishima, perched on the other couch, his legs spread and head thrown back over the cushion. His pants were unzipped, cock free from his underwear and his fist wrapped around it as he jerked himself off, beads of precum leaking from the tip.
You almost came right then and there.
Katsuki followed your gaze and a loud, pitched groan rumbled from his chest.
“Holy fuck Eijirou,” he panted. At the sound of his name, he lifted his head up, smiling lazily at the blissed out, hungry expressions on both of your faces.
“Wow…” he breathed. “Look at you two, so pretty for me.”
You mewled softly, reaching out to him. “K-Kiri, c’mere…want you…”
Kirishima raised an eyebrow, still stroking himself. “Where do you want me, sweet thing?”
You pointed to your mouth and Kirishima swore he saw stars, clenching his fist around his cock to stop himself from coming so soon.
“You sure, hun?” he asked. “You don’t have to, tonight’s all about you remember?”
You made a noise of protest, urging him to come closer. “I want to—Kiri, please…let me—let me suck you off.”
Your desperate pleas went straight to his cock, and Kirishima knew he couldn’t deny you when you were asking so sweetly. He made his way over to you, stopping right where your head dangled over the arm of the couch, exhaling sharply at the way your mouth opened automatically.
He eased himself into you, tensing up at the feeling of your warm, wet mouth closing over his tip. You relaxed your jaw, wanting to take as much of him in as you could. Kirishima was built like a tank and his thick length was certainly no easy fit, whatever part of him you weren’t able to take you wrapped your hands around.
Once he was sure you were ready, Kirishima started thrusting, mindful not to choke you. You moaned around him, the vibrations making him tremble so much his knees grew weak and he hunched forward, catching himself on the back of the couch.
“Oh fuck—” he choked out. “Fuck baby, your mouth…nngh—”
Katsuki was still knuckle-deep into your sopping, wet cunt, your slick dripping down onto the leather cushions. Without missing a beat, he moved down your body, keeping his fingers inside you. You barely had a second to register what he was doing before you felt his mouth on you.
Your mouth briefly popped off Kirishima’s cock as high-pitched, pathetic little whimpers slipping out of you. “Katsuki—hah, fuckfuckfuck—”
He dragged his tongue over your slick folds, groaning, raw and guttural, as the taste of you overcame all of his senses. He didn’t bother taking it slow this time, licking and sucking fervently, drinking in every last drop of you. It didn’t even bother him when his entire face became coated in your slick, in fact he relished in it, moaning recklessly into your pussy. You wailed loudly, one hand letting go of Kirishima to grab onto Katsuki’s hair, pushing his head down.
Your hips canted up to meet his lips, grinding feverishly on his face. From above you, Kirishima was gasping, holding on for dear life so he wouldn’t fall on top of you. Watching Katsuki devour your pussy made him short-circuit and his cock was practically throbbing in your mouth now. He knew he was close, but he held on, not wanting to come before you.
“C’mon, baby,” he coaxed. “You’re so close, I can tell. You did so well for us. Want you to come all over Katsuki’s pretty little mouth.” He adjusted his position and lifted one leg up, resting his knee right beside your head. The change in angle allowed him to sink his cock deeper in your mouth and Kirishima’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. “Ah—fuck—!”
“Come on my tongue,” Katsuki mumbled against your cunt, humming in pleasure as he slurped up another gush of slick. Your thighs clamped around his head, pulling harder at his hair. He growled deeply and held you down, not easing up one bit.
Your spine arched off the sofa, jolting sharply as you came, squirting into his waiting mouth. Katuski kept you pinned down, helping you through the aftershocks as his ministrations gradually slowed down, not wanting to overwhelm you with the oversensitivity. He shuddered, coming in his pants and licked up what he could, carefully slipping his fingers out of you.
“Jesus, you taste so fucking good,” he drawled, the entire lower half of his face shiny with your slick. He flicked his eyes up at Kirishima.
“You wanna taste her, Ei?” he offered.
“Fuck yes—” Kirishima groaned, gripping the collar of Katsuki’s shirt and pulling him in for a kiss, whining as he lapped up your sweet nectar. He was still thrusting into your mouth, twitching when you curled your tongue around his tip. The sound of his lips smacking against Katsuki’s and your throat gagging on his cock became too much for him and a pit formed in his stomach. He pulled away from Katsuki, gasping and dropping his head onto the blond’s shoulder.
“D-Don’t swallow it just yet,” he stuttered. “Keep it all in your mouth for me until I say so, okay?”
It was difficult to do so from your position, but you managed a slight nod.
“Good, that’s good baby—fuck—you’ve been such a good girl for us. M’gonna…gonna give it all to you—oh, fuck—!”
With one final twitch, Kirishima finally let go, releasing his entire load into you as stuttered moans ripped out of him. Like you were told, you kept his cum in your mouth, not losing a single drop. He pulled out of you a few seconds later, and Katsuki helped you sit up slowly.
You were still coming down from the high of your orgasm when he cupped your jaw and leaned forward, parting your lips open with his. Immediately, Kirishima’s load dripped into his mouth and the two of you moaned softly into each other, savoring the taste. From behind you, you could hear Kirishima panting heavily, also coming down from his own high.
The air in the apartment was thick and damp, sticky with sweat. A heavy silence settled over the three of you. You pulled away from Katsuki, collapsing straight into his chest, his arms immediately wrapping around you, one at your waist and the other over your head, scratching gently at your scalp. You sighed into him, exhausted.
“Well, that was….something,” you breathed, making him snort.
“Good something, I hope,” he said.
You nodded weakly, blinking slowly. “Yeah, really good…”
You trailed off, eyes drooping shut. There was the sound of clothes rustling and footsteps, and then a gentle hand rested atop your head, caressing your hair with a familiar tenderness and care.
“Sparks?” came Kirishima’s soft voice. “You still with us, hun?”
You mumbled out an unintelligible response, eyes still closed shut. He chuckled fondly and pressed another kiss to your forehead. “Looks like we knocked you out, huh? Kats, can you bring her into the bathroom and make sure she goes? I’ll clean up out here and meet you guys in the room after.”
Katsuki nodded in agreement then lowered his head, whispering, “M’gonna pick you up now, just hang onto me.”
His palms slipped back underneath you, tucking you against his chest as he carried you to their shared bathroom.
Moments later, Kirishima walked into the bedroom and absolutely melted at the sight that greeted him—you, changed out of your dress and into a comfy shirt (one of his), curled into Katsuki’s side with his arm draped across your back. You were in a deep sleep, breathing slow and even. Katsuki himself was still awake, chin resting atop your head as he brushed your hair with his fingers.
Kirishima’s heart clenched at seeing Katsuki so vulnerable and affectionate, something he rarely ever was. He padded his way over to the bed, carefully pulling the sheets back and crawling in next to you, mindful not to wake you.
“She fell asleep so fast,” he whispered.
Katsuki grunted under his breath. “Yeah, dummy almost toppled off the toilet because she couldn’t stay awake.”
This made Kirishima chuckle and he bent down, brushing his lips against the back of your head. Then he leaned over, planting a kiss on Katsuki’s temple, mumbling a quiet ‘goodnight’ into his skin.
The two of them settled more comfortably into the sheets, but just before they dozed off completely, both of their phones beeped. Katsuki groaned in annoyance as he gestured for Kirishima to answer it.
Reaching over to the nightstand, Kirishima grabbed his phone, squinting at the brightly lit screen.
synopsis: you accidentally get added to the wrong class group chat during the start of the second semester (a class you aren’t even taking), but the people in it are weirdly entertaining so you decide to stay. what’s the worst that could happen?
⤷ ゛ ˎˊ˗ chapter summary: hearing about your old group left a bitter taste in your mouth, but you decide to be the bigger person and leave it alone for now
content: smau, college!au, eventual poly!krbk x oc, oc has a name
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my gcese are finally over dude I’m soooo happy (gcese are like the exams up you take at 16 in England)
Which means I get three months off way longer than usual so hopefully I’m gonna be able to post way way more….i really won’t to open commissions but low-key I don’t think anyone would buy them
in my heart of hearts, ominis would exclusively wear matching pajama sets because he's always so prim and proper >:) also idk what his hair looks like when there's no pomade in it so i had to guess lol (he probably wouldn't have a middle part now i think about it)
and sebastian would wear random band tees (i had to do a candlemass shirt cuz...i've been listening to a lot of doom metal....and seb might like it heh) and like plaid pajama pants
oh and his hair looks kinda the same (it's only slightly more messy)
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I think Ominis (and Sebastian too, for that matter) would absolutely become the sort of father who does everything in his power to keep boys like themselves away from their daughters.
there was something achingly beautiful about making love to ominis gaunt.
since his gift of sight was taken away from him at birth, he couldn’t see you with his eyes-
yet he could still feel you with his touch.
you lay back against the comfort of his bed, feeling his hot breath against your skin. he runs a loving hand down your bare body, his whispers of your name causing a gentle tickling sensation to run down your spine. you wrapped your arms around his neck, bringing him closer to you while basking in his groans.
the powerful wizard hides his face within the curve of your neck, settling himself between your thighs while traveling a hand down your form. his fingertips gently trace at your entrance, dancing around your swollen clit as your breath hitches in response. “you smell so sweet, love.” his voice was a desperate rasp that sends pinpricks of pleasure coursing through your veins as you cling to him.
while his lips press lingering kisses against your skin, he slowly parts your slickness with his fingertips. your hands now harshly gripping at his back as he slides a finger within your heat. your walls immediately flutter around that single digit, seeming to draw him in as your soft mewls echo within his room.
ominis’ breathing turns labored now, and you could feel the way his length strains against his pants, desperate for its release. “come for me, darling. let me feel you.” his ministrations within your sensitive flower becomes faster now, pumping his fingers in and out of you, drawing out your sweet arousal as you cried out to him, spilling yourself against the palm of his hand.
“good girl…” ominis praises you, finally moving away from the junction between your neck and shoulders. removing his hand from your entrance, he closes his eyes, basking in the scent of your climax before wrapping his tongue around his soaked fingers. he licks them clean, seeming to enjoy the pure taste of your release against his lips.
shivering in response to his lewd actions, you couldn’t stop the blood from flowing to your cheeks, warming them significantly as ominis chuckles in response. “still as shy as ever, i see. i can hear the way your breathing hitches…” he trails off just then, finally opening his eyes while placing a hand against your burning cheeks, “ah, just as i thought, you’re embarrassed aren’t you?”
you end up lightly slapping his biceps in response, earning another rich chuckle from him as he adjusts himself. you hear the shifting of fabric before feeling a familiar hardness pressing against you. your words died within your throat when he slides his shaft up and down your core, causing a sweet friction to be felt against your clit. he basks in your breathy moans for a few more seconds before slowly sliding into you.
letting out a moan of relief at being filled by him, you greedily wrap your legs around his waist, allowing ominis to reach deeper into you. he starts a slow and steady pace, as if savoring this moment with you-
allowing your union to last well into the dawn of a new day.
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Ominis: "Before I had time to talk to Black, I heard from Anne. I rushed to Feldcroft and found her with Solomon's body. She was beside herself with grief"
