“ I’ll die if I wither in your memory “

“Come on, babe… seriously?”

Jason’s voice hits the quiet room with far more weight than he intends, dragging across the stillness like rough gravel, thick with disbelief and a frustration so reluctant it almost embarrasses itself as soon as it leaves his mouth. His brows pull together in a tight, uneasy line—an expression he would never aim at you on purpose—especially not when you’re standing there blinking too fast, your lashes wet and trembling, your throat bobbing like you’re trying to swallow something sharp that refuses to go down.

“You have like a million of them.”

He gestures vaguely toward the counter, where the remains of the china teacup—your moderate-quality, robin patterned, impulse-buy teacup—lie scattered like a small, stupid tragedy. They weren’t heirlooms or antiques, not rare pieces from some dusty backroom chase. These were cups you grabbed without thinking, without sentiment, without ceremony. Eight of them total. A casual, mismatched set.

Well… seven now.

“I’ll buy you one, I swear—”

His hand lifts halfway, caught in a helpless, uncertain arc before the words collapse in his throat and die there, because the moment he sees the tears actually slip free—heavy tears, slow tears, so silent they seem almost reverent in the way they fall—Jason goes completely still.

He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. Like he’s witnessing something impossible.

Teacups. You’re crying over teacups. Teacups you still have seven of.

“Are you—” Jason stops mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open in a stunned, graceless pause, and the expression that flickers across his face—hesitant, baffled pity—makes your stomach twist with pure humiliation. “Are you actually upset at me right now?”

You shake your head—barely, weakly—because even you don’t understand it. The tears aren’t sharp with anger or hot with blame; they’re just happening, spilling for reasons you couldn’t name even if you tried. You bite your lip hard enough to sting, keeping your mouth clamped shut because you know the moment you speak, the words will fall out trembling and pathetic.

“Hey—” Jason tries again, exasperation threading through the tired edges of his voice, “when you broke that part of my motorcycle I didn’t say shit. When the hell did material things start mattering to either of us?”

“Why wouldn’t my things matter to me?”

Your voice shatters right down the middle, thin and fragile like porcelain under too much pressure, and before he can see the way your face twists with the effort of holding yourself together, you crouch down.

You gather the broken pieces carefully, almost ritualistically, your hands moving with a reverence that feels too gentle for something so ordinary—as though, if you’re soft enough, steady enough, patient enough, maybe the cup will knit itself back together and the part of you that cracked with it will follow.

“They shouldn’t.”

The words escape him with a force that seems to rip straight out of his ribs, unbidden and unrefined, slicing through the stillness of the room before he even fully registers he’s said them. They hit the air too hard, too sharp, reverberating like something brittle thrown against concrete, and he looks instantly, horribly aware of the damage they might cause.

Jason draws in a breath that stumbles unevenly through him, his chest rising with the kind of sincerity he has spent years learning how to smother beneath sarcasm and a bulletproof smirk. There’s something desperate in the way he inhales, something taut and aching, as if the confusion flooding his voice is so deep, so marrow-level, that it drags grief behind it like a shadow disguised as irritation.

Because in his world—one stitched together by scarcity and tight budgets and objects that were borrowed, stolen, or broken before they ever reached him—things were never allowed to matter. Not cups, not toys, not clothes, not anything you could hold in your hand.

In his world, things broke all the time. In his world, people broke too. And no one ever cried over either.

He grew up wanting things he wasn’t allowed to touch, told to keep his hands in his pockets and his eyes down, to pretend he didn’t see what he desperately wanted, trained to choke on desire before it had a chance to hurt him.

And the truth—the painful, embarrassing, childlike truth he would never speak aloud—is that he would’ve traded the last unbruised shard of his soul for a cheap plastic cup with a peeling racecar sticker on it, something flimsy and mass-produced, something that would never impress anyone, simply because it would have been his. Just one object that belonged to him alone. One thing no one could rip from his hands, or throw away in a rage, or pawn, or break, or use as proof that he didn’t deserve anything nice in the first place.

And he has no idea how to bridge the distance between your heartbreak and his history.

And now he’s standing here, watching you cry—cry—over a teacup he’s never once seen you cradle to your chest like something precious, never watched you display on a shelf with the kind of pride reserved for heirlooms, never heard you speak about with anything more than offhand fondness when you stumbled across a new one to add to the pile.

It hits Jason strangely, almost disorientingly, the way a dream curdles into something slightly off-kilter, because the sight of your tears over something so… replaceable presses on a part of him he doesn’t know how to unpack, a part of him that twists slowly, tightly, like a knot forming in the center of his stomach.

He’s so careful with your belongings it borders on near-religious devotion, a quiet reverence he never names out loud because naming it would make the feelings behind it too visible, too exposed. Jason never touches your jewelry trays because the clasps look delicate in a way that feels above his pay grade, like the kind of fragile luxury that should only ever be handled by someone who doesn’t have a lifetime of breaking things embedded in the muscle memory of their hands.

He avoids your vanity entirely, sidestepping it like a shrine he has no right to approach, because the shimmering bottles and soft-bristled brushes arranged in pristine rows look like artifacts—beautiful, intentional, expensive—objects that radiate the same untouchable gravity as all the things he wasn’t allowed to want when he was young.

He places his phone on your nightstand with the gentleness of someone setting down an explosive device, using both hands, terrified his weight might scratch the surface or send a lamp wobbling toward disaster.

He even—Gods, even the thought is embarrassing—hand-washes all your clothes when your not home to do the laundry with him.

Even your socks.

Because the idea of shrinking something soft and beloved of yours makes his throat go tight, because the fear of ruining a thing you love is so sharp it borders on physical pain, because he cannot stomach the possibility of leaving the wrong kind of mark on anything that belongs to you.

And yet here you are, shoulders trembling, breath stuttering in fragile hiccups, tears slipping down your cheeks in slow, devastating arcs over a teacup that has seven identical sisters waiting patiently in the cabinet.

The sight doesn’t irritate him.

It doesn’t make him scoff or roll his eyes or dismiss your grief as melodrama the way someone less careful with you might have done.

No—what it does is far worse.

It cracks something open in him, something raw and jagged and humiliating, because nothing—not the memories of his childhood or the poverty, not the violence, not the hunger—has ever dragged him back toward the aching emptiness of where he comes from quite as mercilessly as watching you mourn something he doesn’t have the blueprint to value.

And the awful part—the part that presses under his ribs like a shard of glass—is that he wants to understand.

Jason wants to know why your fingers tremble as you gather the broken porcelain, why your breath keeps catching in your throat like you’re afraid it will escape you entirely, why your tears fall faster every time his voice slips into that helpless, weary frustration he didn’t mean to let bleed through.

He wants to tell himself that maybe this cup carried some hidden meaning, some quiet memory or sentimental thread he never saw, something soft and secret that shattered along with the porcelain and left you hurting in a way he wishes he knew how to soothe.

But he knows that isn't it. So Jason doesn’t understand.

So he stands there—lost, aching, hollowed by helplessness—staring at the broken pieces scattered between you, each shard glinting with a kind of accusation he doesn’t know how to answer. And for the briefest, sharpest moment, he feels like the fracture on the floor isn’t the worst thing he’s broken here.

And you—

God, you feel so unbearably stupid you could fold in on yourself from the embarrassment of it.

They were just tea cups.

Just cheap little china cups you never bothered to wash the “proper” way like the tiny slip of paper told you to, cups you left in the sink overnight sometimes, cups you barely thought about until one was sitting cracked and broken on your kitchen floor like the aftermath of something far more devastating.

You didn’t even care enough to treat them gently.

You chipped one last week and shrugged it off.

But now—now staring at it shattered beyond repair, splintered into fragments that look like the aftermath of a moment you weren’t equipped to handle—you feel something twist sharply inside you, something raw and humiliating and impossible to explain.

“Jason.” You breathe his name out in one long sigh, trying to smooth the wobble from your voice before it cracks into something pathetic, something you know he’ll mistake for anger. “Please… not right now. I had a long day and—”

“I just came back from an eight-hour patrol, and you’re the one crying, so how is this my—”

“I’m not blaming you!” you snap—not out of rage, but desperation—and the moment the words escape, you hate how thin and trembling they sound.

“Sure as hell sounds like it!” Jason fires back, a sharp huff of frustration leaving him as he begins pacing around the kitchen like the movement might somehow make sense of any of this.

You stare back down at the broken pieces of china, your teeth biting into your lip so hard it almost hurts, and the quiet, exhausted words slip out before you can stop them. “Well how is it my fault you’re taking it that way?”

“Can you stop talking to me like that?”

“How else am I supposed to talk to you?” you whisper, blinking fast, eyes wide and stinging. “What do you want me to do, lie and say ‘It doesn’t matter, Jason, this is exactly what I needed to come home to at ten o’clock at—’”

“If you’re stressed about something else,” he cuts in, exasperation threading through every syllable, “then why are you getting so defensive about the stupid tea cup?”

You stare at him, jaw dropping, because the word feels like a slap. “Stupid?”

“It’s a tea cup.” He groans the words, dragging a hand over his face like this entire moment is exhausting him.

“My tea cup,” you sputter, voice breaking as you gather the pieces into your hands and set them on a plate.

“What—so something you have seven other of matters more than me?” Jason finally asks, and the words aren’t mocking or cruel. They’re lost. Utterly, helplessly lost. Because you crying over something he did feels worse to him than any yelling you could throw his way. Yelling he understands. Yelling has a shape, a form he can wrestle. But crying? Tears he caused? That carves panic into his bones because tears don’t tell him what to do, tears don’t show him where to step, tears don’t give him a blueprint for repairing what broke.

He offered to buy you a new one—twice.

He tried explaining it was small, replaceable, meaningless in the grand scheme of things.

But you didn’t let it go.

You couldn’t let it go.

And he doesn’t even care if his own frustration sounds ridiculous, because in his mind he’s changed so much for you already.

You coaxed him open, gently, carefully, teaching Jason piece by piece what it meant to trust someone without waiting for the ground to fall out from under him—but Jason's the one who actually did the opening.

Jason's the one who learned to speak softer when you’re overwhelmed, who forced himself to sleep through the night instead of wandering the apartment like a ghost, who makes himself step back when he feels his temper flare instead of letting it swallow him whole.

He takes care of himself now—because you asked him to.

He tolerates people he would’ve shoved aside or ignored—because you asked him to.

He has given and bent and adjusted more than he ever thought he could for another person.

And Jason's never asked you for anything in return, so the helpless, aching plea slips through his voice before he can soften it, before he can make it gentle.

“Can’t you just let this go?” Jason murmurs, exhausted, grabbing his jacket from the back of the kitchen chair like he’s already bracing himself for the distance he thinks is coming.

And you don’t care—not even a little—if your reaction looks ridiculous or dramatic or childish, because the truth is that you have adjusted so much for him, bent yourself in ways you never thought you would have to, stretched your patience and your compassion and your understanding until it felt like you were pulling threads from your own ribs just to weave Jason something safe to land in.

You’ve explained every emotion you’ve ever felt to this man, laid them out in neat, vulnerable rows so he could see them clearly, so he wouldn’t have to guess, so nothing inside you could ever blindside him the way life blindsided him growing up.

You’ve explained his emotions to him too, talking him down from the cliffs of his own mind, guiding him back toward safety again and again, never once complaining, never once hesitating, because if he was drowning, then you were already in the water with him, pulling him back toward shore.

Was there ever one night—just one—where you weren’t there after patrol, waiting with the med kit, with the soft voice, with the careful hands?

Has Jason ever once gone to sleep without you bandaging him up first, cleaning blood off knuckles that never deserved to split open, humming under your breath so he wouldn’t mistake tenderness for pity?

Have you ever blamed him for anything—any outburst, any moment of panic, any jagged edge that cut too sharp because he hadn’t learned how to sand it down yet?

Have you ever pushed him to talk before he was ready, forced anything out of him, told him that what he felt was stupid or irrational or inconvenient?

No.

Never.

You’ve given him endless grace, endless patience, endless space to unravel and re-stitch himself at his own pace.

So for this one thing—for this one small, embarrassing, fragile break down—

“Please don’t be upset with me,” you whisper, voice trembling in a way you can’t hide, because you genuinely don’t think your heart can take it right now, because even if the reason for your tears is stupid, the feeling behind them isn’t, and lying about that would hurt more than the broken porcelain ever could.

And Jason—

God.

“…so that’s a no.”

And he breathes it out like you’ve betrayed him, like you’ve taken something from him without realizing it, like your refusal to snap out of your emotion is confirmation of some deep, ugly fear Jason’s never learned how to name.

You look down again, wiping your face with the back of your sleeve, your breath shivering in your chest as you try to swallow down the ache pressing against your ribs.

“I’m…” Jason starts, voice fraying at the edges after a long, taut moment. “I’m—I’m going to go, okay?”

You stare at the floor—at the tiny fragments of the cup, pieces so small they’re hardly more than dust, pieces you couldn’t see clearly through your earlier tears—and you manage a small, hoarse “…Okay.”

Jason stands there for a second and then hes nodding stiffly even though your eyes are still glued to the floor, your shoulders tight, your hands curled helplessly against your sides.

Then he walks away, the sound of him crossing the room somehow louder than it should be, like every step is dragging something behind it.

You don’t move.

You don’t even breathe properly.

You just stand there pressed against the fridge, listening to him tie his boots, the laces whispering against each other, the radiator humming in the background like it’s trying to fill the emptiness settling between you.

Then you hear his footsteps again—approaching this time—and before you can straighten or look up or prepare yourself, he’s standing beside you.

“I love you,” Jason murmurs, low and quiet and painfully awkward, like the words are too big in his mouth. “That hasn’t changed—uh… goodnight.”

Maybe it would have hurt less if he hadn’t said anything at all, because the forced wobble in his voice lands in your chest like a bruise, and you hate that you can hear the part he’s trying to hide.

“…tie your boots,” you mumble softly, eyes still fixed on the floor, “don’t trip, Jason.”

There’s a long, aching pause.

“Yeah, babe,” Jason whispers. He stands there for another second—just breathing, just gathering himself in the silence—and then he turns and leaves.

¹ ʷᵉᵉᵏ, ¹ ᵈᵃʸ ˡᵃᵗᵉʳ

Jason might genuinely be dumber than Damian ever suspected, because everyone at this damn table is staring at him—openly, mercilessly—and he’s still shoveling steak into his mouth like he’s in some kind of life-or-death speed-eating contest, jaw working with single-minded determination as if chewing is optional and survival isn’t.

Father, of course, looks absolutely delighted.

Ecstatic, even.

Jason staying at the manor for more than forty-eight hours—actually sleeping in his old room, leaving his boots by the door, existing in a way that suggests permanence—has turned Bruce into some strange, quiet version of jubilant, sipping his miso soup with the serene bliss of a man receiving endless father's day cards. Damian would not be surprised in the slightest if Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s brooding sentinel, were kicking his feet under the table like a child too excited to sit still.

Jason finally glances up mid-chew, cheeks full, eyes flat.

“What.”

Damian doesn’t miss a beat. “Chew.”

“Yeah, seriously,” Dick scoffs, though he’s grinning in that way that means he’s both disgusted and entertained, “what are you, a dog?”

“Do not compare dogs to him,” Damian snaps before Jason can even gather enough dignity to glare. “Titus eats his food like a gentleman.”

“I’m losing my appetite watching this,” Tim mutters, pushing his plate away and turning toward Bruce. “Since I’m obviously done, can I go work on—”

“No,” Bruce cuts in smoothly, still wearing that faint, impossible-to-scrape-off smile, “eat your asparagus.”

Tim groans, picks the limp vegetable up with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man, and shoves it into his mouth. “Acting like your not avoiding your seaweed.”

Jason tunes them out, shoulders lifting and falling with a silent sigh as he scowls and aggressively inhales the last of his food.

Eventually it’s just him, Dick, and Damian left at the table.

The clock on the far wall blinks a clean, indifferent 2:00 a.m.

Bedtime for the bats.

Or it should be.

Patrol itself had been easy—almost offensively so. Just annoying.

A rundown gambling hall and a half-hearted drug exchange at the docks during the storm, nothing he couldn’t handle blindfolded with one hand tied behind his back.

But Jason hadn’t been in it.

Not fully.

Not even halfway.

He’d moved on instinct alone, the muscle memory of nights like this doing all the work while his mind drifted somewhere far from the smoke and the grit and the snapping bones beneath his fists.

Jason had taken more hits than usual—unnecessary ones, stupid ones—including a sharp punch that split his lip and another that caught him square in the jaw. One ancient asshole had even landed a blow to his knee, of all places.

Dick had actually yelled at him mid-fight—“Get your head on straight!”—voice cracking with genuine worry.

Later, on the rooftop where Tim passed out greasy paper bags of burgers, Dick had tugged Jason aside, fingers buried in the mess of dark hair, muttering about how he needed a damn haircut because obviously that was the reason he was off his game.

And Damian—

Damian had burned holes through the back of Jason’s hood all night, silent, suspicious, eyes sharp enough to slice open whatever secret Jason wasn’t sharing.

“You going to bed here?” Dick asks now, picking up his plate, tone light but probing in that older-brother way he’ll never shake.

“Yeah,” Jason mutters, nudging a sad stalk of asparagus across his plate like the world’s most exhausted toddler.

Damian’s head snaps up so fast it’s almost comical.

He stares—really stares—at Jason, eyes widening, brows furrowing, mouth parting in something halfway between realization and disbelief. Jason, predictably oblivious, doesn’t notice a damn thing.

Dick does, though–oh, he definitely does.

He hides a snort behind his hand, mumbling something about making sure Tim is in his bedroom and not the cave before walking out.

And Damian?

Damian is still staring like Jason has just announced he’s selling his organs to fund a circus.

Now it’s just the two of them left in the dining room, the silence stretching out in a way only Jason receives as casual, and Damian watches as Jason takes a slow swig of water as if he can wash the exhaustion out of his bones before pushing himself up to stand, ready to make the quietest, least dramatic exit possible—only for a metal clatter to slice through the room when a spoon hits the middle of his back with the delicate precision of someone who has absolutely no intention of letting him leave.

Jason freezes mid-step, staring at a painting on the wall as though it might offer him a different reality, one where he isn’t being pelted with kitchenware by a ten-year-old assassin, and then he turns, slow enough to betray just how done he is, to face Damian.

“What did Dick say about throwing cutlery?” he grumbles, trying—God, trying—to summon that authoritative ‘dad’ tone Bruce wields like a weapon and Dick wields like a warm blanket, but it comes out thin, frayed, and completely incapable of intimidating anyone who’s ever stabbed a man before puberty.

Damian doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink. He just looks at Jason with those flat, unyielding eyes and says, “It’s been a week, you said on monday 'maybe friday'.” like the words are a verdict and Jason is already guilty.

Jason drags a hand down his face, worn-out in a way that has nothing to do with the bruises blooming under his skin. “Look, now is really not a good time,” he mutters, the words reaching for patience and barely grazing it. “And it’s not like I’m keeping you out, alright? I’m not going either—”

“Who said I needed to go with you?” Damian interrupts, his tone sharp enough to cut, as if the idea that he might require accompaniment is almost insulting.

Jason raises an eyebrow, too tired to even pretend he doesn’t know exactly where this is going, too tired to carry the weight of this conversation but too human not to try anyway. “She’s not going to want to see you right now,” he says, and the words come out softer than he means them to, softer than he wants them to be.

That actually hits Damian—Jason sees it, the tiny break in the armor, the shift from steel to something almost, almost vulnerable. His expression tightens, curls in on itself, and for a moment he looks less like the demon heir and more like a kid trying to fit himself into a shape the world keeps insisting on. “I… don’t recall doing anything… wrong,” he murmurs, the uncertainty so rare it practically echoes.

Jason exhales, a long, unraveling sound that’s half frustration and half something like grief, because the last thing he needs is to drag anyone else into the mess he’s made. “You didn’t,” he says, and he even tries for reassurance, though it lands crooked. “Chill. You’re fine. It’s me—it’s… her. We’re not talking right now. She’d be upset if you showed up by yourself, and you’re not coming with me because I’m not going.”

“You’ve split up?” Damian explodes, his hands slamming against the tabletop with a force that rattles the silverware, the kind of theatrical outrage only someone raised by assassins and billionaires could ever pull off without flinching.

“No,” Jason exhales, the word coming out flat, worn, so utterly unaffected that it almost sounds cruel, though it’s really just exhaustion wearing his voice like a wet coat. He knows exactly where this is headed, knows exactly how drained he’ll feel by the time he finally gets upstairs, and yet he still tries—Gods help him—to keep things level. “We’re just taking a break, okay—?”

“A break?” Damian repeats, the word hitting his tongue like it’s poison, like the very idea defies the laws of physics. He stares at Jason with something between horror and disgust. “What the hell did you do?”

“Nothing!” Jason shoots back, the frustration rising faster than he can tamp it down. “We just had an argument, alright? And frankly I don’t even feel that in the wrong here—we’re going to talk about it like adults later, but right now I don’t exactly want to see her and I seriously doubt she wants to see you—”

And the second the sentence leaves his mouth, he hears it. He hears it. The way it sounds. The way it lands. He watches Damian go still in that frightening, surgical way he has, his lips flattening into a single, rigid line and his fists curling tight enough that the knuckles pale.

Jason closes his eyes, drops his head, raises a hand in something like surrender—but not quite apology, because he hasn’t figured out how to string one together yet. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“What does what you did wrong have to do with me?” Damian fires back, each word sharpened to a point.

Jason actually stops. Actually blinks at him. And then, with a tiredness so bone-deep it feels like he’s speaking through mud, he says, “I hate to fucking tell you this, Damian, but you’re my brother first. No amount of closeness—yours or mine—or whatever the hell any of us think we are to her is going to change that.”

For a moment, the room goes very, very still. A breath held by someone who doesn’t want to acknowledge they’re holding it.

Then Jason turns—and finds Dick and Tim standing in the doorway like two busted gargoyles caught eavesdropping on a family therapy session they absolutely didn’t have the clearance for. The tension on Jason's face folds into something sharp and undeniably pissed off.

“What the hell?” he snaps. “Fuck off and go to bed.”

Dick looks at him like Jason’s a stray dog someone just threatened to kick. Tim looks like he’s trying to figure out whether this is finally the moment where a 'trouble in paradise?' joke would get him killed.

Jason pushes past both of them anyway, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He sends one last look over his shoulder toward Damian—the kind of pointed look that carries a warning far heavier than the words themselves.

“Don’t even try to sneak out,” he says, low and firm, a promise more than a threat. “You do that and I— so help me Damian I'll make sure your never allowed to step foot into that apartment again, who do you wana be shed listen to?”

And then he’s gone down the hall, leaving Damian alone with a table full of cold food and a silence sharp enough to slice clean through him.

“Hey… bud,” Dick starts, voice careful, slow, like he’s trying to thread his way through a minefield of tension he can feel but can’t quite see. “Do you want to play a video game with—”

Damian doesn’t even pause. Doesn’t even glance. His head shakes once, sharp, decisive, the motion carrying more weight than any argument ever could. Then he simply walks past them, silent, deliberate, leaving the words hanging in the air like smoke, unclaimed and useless.

Dick exhales, just a little, the sound betraying a mixture of frustration, resignation, and something softer, something that almost feels like sadness. Tim shifts in place, uncertain, then sighs and mumbles a small, "I'll tell Bruce.”

Damian is sprawled flat beneath Titus like some unwilling, furry sarcophagus, limbs splayed and pinned, when Bruce walks into the room. Fresh out of the shower, pretending worry isn't gracing his brow because of the fact Damian has not kicked him out yet. Lucy, the monkey Damian has been itching to introduce for days, perches nearby, inspecting strands of his hair with meticulous little fingers, poking as if she’s checking for fleas or ticks.

Bruce eases onto the edge of the bed, reaching down to lift one of Damian’s feet. His hands move with that practiced, silent precision, pressing gently for bruises or tenderness from the night’s patrol—the memory of Dick shoving Damian away from a man and into that tight space between two shipping containers still clear in his mind, the only time Jason had reacted with something close to humor, snorting from his daze as if the absurdity had momentarily broken through the tension.

“I’m not hurt,” Damian huffs, the sound muffled beneath Titus’s fur, thick and immovable. Ace nudges into Bruce's back like hes telling his owner to ignore the little one.

“Humor me,” Bruce replies, voice low and roughened from Gotham’s rain, hands shifting carefully, probing not just for broken bones but for temperature changes and tension in muscle that might betray pain he refuses to admit.

“Father…” Damian’s voice finally cuts through, hesitant, thin, fragile under the weight of silence. Titus has shifted fully, blocking Bruce’s view of his youngest’s face, and maybe that is exactly what gives Damian the courage to ask the question rolling uncomfortably off his tongue.

“Mhm? Yes, Damian?”

“…Your… experienced with women.”

Bruce freezes mid-motion, fingers resting lightly on Damian’s knee. This is not the conversation he anticipated when Tim had peeked into his master bedroom, reporting that the baby needed attention.

Not in a million scenarios did he imagine navigating questions about women or experience with this son, least of all now, when he barley reaches Bruce's hip.

And yet here it is, suspended between them in the quiet room, heavier than any patrol report, any argument, any lesson on discipline—and Bruce knows that his experience isn't exactly…well one he wants to be used for teaching. 

“Did you… meet a girl at school?” Bruce begins carefully, slow and measured, the words more an experiment than a question, and he watches, almost with a kind of detached fascination, as Damian immediately snaps upright, yanking his leg away from his father’s hand as if contact itself had suddenly become unbearable. His ears flare bright red, almost glowing beneath the dim light, and the flush spreads up his sharp cheekbones, raw and uncontainable.

“NOT ME!” Damian practically screams, the volume ricocheting off the walls and into Bruce’s ears, which still throb faintly from the night’s patrol.

“The other one!” Damian huffs, his anger deflating slightly as he pets Lucy, Titus, and Ace with careful, apologetic strokes, murmuring soft noises that are half reassurance, half apology, as if the animals themselves need to understand he’s not permanently dangerous. 

Bruce rubs at his ears, bitterly convinced that after that scream he deserves a pet too.

“Dick?” Bruce murmurs, voice low and cautious, “I think he can figure out Koriand'r better than any of us could, Damian—”

Damian mutters a name under his breath, sharp, almost imperceptible, and Bruce pauses mid-thought.

Of course, he knows of you; he knows that most of his children are well-versed in your existence, your habits, your presence in the orbit of their lives—but the formal interactions between Bruce and you have been limited, almost clinical: a parent-teacher conference, one short exchange of cash in thanks, nothing else. Hell, the only reason he has your number is because Damian's phone and contacts is connected to his.

Bruce is not annoyed that Damian hadn’t called him immediately when the fight happened, but there had been a flicker of irritation that neither you nor Jason had tried, that the initiative had fallen elsewhere.

That irritation fades almost entirely, however, the moment he recalls the selfie Jason had sent a few days ago, one of those rare, candid things. Jason had been smiling ear to ear, face unguarded, and Bruce’s eyes had fallen on your hand brushing lightly against the whipped cream on Damian’s upper lip, gentle and unaware of the camera.

Jason was wearing one of Bruce’s suits, perfectly tailored from no use, and Bruce thinks it has been years—years—since he has seen that effortless smile from his son, never mind one sent willingly, one shared.

“Jason…” Damian spits the name like venom, forcing Bruce’s memory out of that quiet, tender snapshot he had professionally printed months ago and keeps tucked in his desk drawer. “Says the two of them are on a break.”

Damian’s voice hardens further, the word break pronounced like an accusation. He mutters under his breath, barely audible: “What does that entail?”

Ah.

Well.

Talia and Selina had taught him more than enough about what a ‘break’ meant, and Bruce could feel the weight of it pressing into the room, a tension that seemed almost physical, curling around the corners like smoke.

“Well…” Bruce begins slowly, carefully choosing each word as if it were a scalpel, “Your mother—”

“Father. Textbook definition.” Damian’s face scrunches up, sharp angles softening for the briefest fraction of a second. “Not mother's.”

Bruce exhales, long and weary, the kind of sound that carries the history of too many late nights, too many battles, too many conversations that end in nothing but exhaustion. “It’s different for everyone,” he says, hands flexing on his knees, voice low and ragged, “It could entail not seeing or speaking, just acting as friends, maybe seeing other people—”

“OTHER PEOPLE?” Damian actually yells this time, the word snapping like a whip, ricocheting against the walls of the room.

Other people.

People who could, Gods forbid, have little brothers.

Bruce presses a hand to his temple, already tasting the headache forming, the kind that comes whenever hes thinking about his children's love lives. At least it’s not Cassandra, he tells himself bitterly.

Bruce looks down at his son, defeated, the weight of parenthood settling across his shoulders like an old, heavy coat. “I doubt that’s what they did, but—” He pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose, willing the migraine back into nonexistence, “Look, they probably had an argument and just—”

“Have you done this ‘break’ before?” Damian interrupts, sharp, precise, a predator circling a question like it’s prey.

“Yes,” Bruce says, the word falling flat but necessary, the history of his own mistakes and missteps coiling behind it. “With your mother. All the damn time. In fact I think we never formally ended things. See? No problem. Calm down, Damian—”

Damian blinks at him like a bird caught mid-flight, feathers ruffled, heart racing. “That’s… not exactly reassuring,” he mutters, the words soft but pointed, as if every syllable carries a weight Bruce isn’t entirely ready to shoulder.

Bruce shifts, awkward, uncertain. “She’s nothing like Talia, and you can’t assume Jason will act the way I do, so… I’m sure—”

But Damian doesn’t hear him. He sees you. He recalls the way you scold Jason and him, measured but firm, precise as any lesson he’s ever had from his mother. He remembers the tea, the way you handle it, the soft pressure of your hands on the cup, as if you are instilling care into the ritual itself. He recalls the gentle pat to his head, firm yet soft, praise administered like an art form in the same cadence, the same rhythm as Talia.

He remembers Jason, the way he closes off, blocks the world, melts into something unreadable and strange the way Bruce had with Talia, the way he does with you. He remembers the switch flipping, the calm, the mush of familiarity and affection, all tangled into a strange, fragile symmetry.

Damian looks down at his lap, where Lucy has tucked herself, huffing softly, a tiny puff of air as if she’s exasperated on his behalf.

Bruce tries again, voice careful, steadying, the weight of years of lessons bleeding through: “And… it’s not like Jason can’t handle his own relationships—”

Damian looks up at Bruce and mumbles the money move.

"Father...please? I'm only talking about this with you because I trust you to keep it to yourself."

The pause stretches, dense and thick, a pressure that hovers in the space between them, before Damian watches as his father flops onto the bed, resting his head on Ace’s back as if surrendering to the sheer absurdity of parenthood.

“I’ll take you to her apartment,” Bruce sighs, voice heavy with both command and relief, “Go get the keys.”

Damian launches himself from the bed with such ferocity, such unrestrained vigor, that Bruce can’t help but feel a small, fleeting twinge of jealousy.

“CAN I DRIVE?!” Damian yells from down the hall.

“DONT MAKE ME TAKE IT BACK!” Bruce yells back from the bed, petting Ace with the same gentleness his son does all the time.

You don’t even know why you’re surprised when you glance out the window and see Bruce and Damian Wayne crawling back inside—completely unannounced, completely without costume, like some absurdly wealthy, deadly version of burglars who’ve forgotten the subtlety part of the job. Your brain freezes for a moment, caught somewhere between incredulity and the faint, reluctant amusement that it somehow never manages to suppress around this family.

Bruce moves with the quiet, deliberate precision you’d expect, though somehow even that is comically undermined by the fact that he’s wearing a loose dress shirt and slacks instead of armor, and Damian—sharp, rigid, impossibly focused—clings to the sill like a tiny, lethal spider. And somehow, somehow, this is happening in your living room.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. You think about yelling, about asking, about just… doing literally anything, but the scene is already too ridiculous, too surreal, too utterly Wayne to stop watching.

“…I take it Jason doesn’t know you two are here.” Your voice is flat, calm, deadpan enough to make Damian falter at the window, caught mid-crouch like a startled cat, before he stiffens and composes himself with that rigid precision that somehow manages to look both absurd and impressive at the same time.

Bruce just stares at you, eyes flicking toward the floor for a moment, the faintest shadow of shame crossing his face. “Damian is… very convincing,” he admits quietly, almost reluctantly, like he doesn’t want to admit that his youngest has outmaneuvered him. And that the reason he isn't donning his suit and cowl that would make him feel less awkward doing this is because Damian said you…dont allow ‘costumes’ in the apartment.

You sigh, long and measured, because you know that all too well. “...Would you both like some tea?”

“Green, please.” They say it simultaneously, words colliding mid-air, and then both of them pause, blinking at the strange synchronicity of it.

Damian finally lifts his gaze to you, stepping fully into the warmth of your apartment—the one he’s been missing all week—shoulders still drawn back a little, tight with tension, cautious. There’s a flicker in his expression, a shadow of worry that you might be angry with him, and for a quiet moment, you realize that this must be why he didn’t come with Jason.

Why he felt safe enough to come with Bruce.

The thought makes you smile faintly to yourself. Unfortunately that worry was still for not, since nothing—nothing—could make you think of Jason without some measure of fondness, some involuntary warmth curling in your chest.

“…Two sugars and—”

“Honey.” You nod softly, gentle but sure. “I take it that’s for you as well, Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce notices it immediately—the same airy softness in your voice that Talia once had, long before… everything. The sound of it makes his chest tighten in a almost protective way, the kind of tightness that drives him to think about checking security systems more obsessively, running patrols along streets he shouldn’t need to think twice about, filing addresses away in the back of his mind for frequent, silent surveillance.

Mr. Wayne closes the window behind him with a slow, deliberate motion, the kind of movement that feels both commanding and almost apologetic at once, muttering under his breath with that rare, unguarded humility: “I don’t deserve honey.”

“I agree.” Your voice cuts through the quiet with that clipped precision, that same subtle authority Bruce knows all too well, and both father and son feel it—the unmistakable sting of being scolded by another woman in their life.

“This is all Jason’s fault,” Damian mutters under his breath as he stalks toward the kitchen, each step measured, deliberate, like a small storm contained in a human frame. Bruce sighs and trails behind, a quiet shadow to Damian’s tempest. “I’m putting salt in his hot chocolate.”

“That makes it taste better,” Bruce mumbles, distracted, voice low, already running through possible interventions, calculating ways to prevent this minor rebellion from turning into another justification for why your relationship with Jason is somehow compromised.

Damian turns to him with a look that could have been mistaken for disbelief or horror, eyebrows raised as if Bruce had just sprouted a third head. “You… you poor people are so weird, Can’t afford high-quality chocolate, so you add salt—”

“I’m a billionaire,” Bruce scoffs, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at how Damian seemed to relax slightly.

“Do all billionaires use the window?” You quip from in front the kettle, and only then does Bruce fully register that the two of them have already moved into your kitchen, filling the small space with the weight of their presence. In his defense, Bruce isn't used to such small living spaces.

“Just our family,” Bruce says awkwardly, voice softening, attempting to lighten the mood in a room that somehow feels smaller and larger than he can fit in all at once.

You glance over your shoulder, and the glare is familiar—sharp, incisive, the same one Jason had once leveled at him at nine years old, full of judgment that Bruce could only find adorable.

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀꜱ: ᴄᴜʀꜱᴇᴅ ᴄᴀʀᴍɪɴᴇ & ᴄᴀꜰᴇ ᴋɪᴛꜱᴜɴᴇ

⤷ series masterlist

tag-list [ reply to the master list to be added ദ്ദി˶ｰ̀֊ｰ́ ) ] ᯓ★ @marenyearlylover444, @psysgr, @sourstrawburry, @bloomfaery, @prettysweet02, @r-4-y-v-3-n, @backtonormalthings, @milam03, @animegamerfox, @tamyyyy2005, @arachniis, @k-pevensie28, @thetruecardinalsinner, @dreammarereads, @lllucere, @vieenr0se, @deadbeatphobos, @k-pevensie28, @nyxisnotok,@lemmonpiie,@yo-soy-yo, @starfiremylove, @whosmev, @avlizio, @indigoscribe, @yo-soy-yo, @appalost, @c4xcocoa, @mystic-is-here-to-love, @its-me-mila, @nightlights-and-twiklingstars, @smiithys, @oh-buttercup, @jcks29, @naessheart, @bungunz, @atomicpeachmaker, @lulasgna, @givemefinganame, @dap11, @screamingsilence3, @woderfulkawaii, @radicalcannoliqueen, @itachisrealm, @missmillivanilli, @fluffalorianflash, @koibleufish, @liuope, @athenalive, @idiotussupremus, @foquest, @justamarsbar, @lordbugs, @rosehoneycomb, @bibiznbyler, @andraax2, @lemmonpiie, @mournersinketterdam, @wrenisrad, @chaosandcandies, @saltedcoffeescotch, @0lives10, @s0uz4s, @girl-so-gay, @sharkabb, @blackthemiller, @strawbrysapphic, @inherdiary77

please please let me know what you think, it gives me so much motivation and you will get a new chapter sooner if you do.

©zhaosuni 𝖺𝗅𝗅 rights reserved

so you had quickly become apart of the many moving cogs that kept the wayne al-ghuls spinning-- every tuesday and thursday (and occasionally weekends), the grand doors to the manor opened wide to allow you access into a world you once had no concept of.

damian would greet you by a swift reciting of your last name and a tip of his head-- only to wander off to whatever activity he had been engaged in prior to your arrival; leaving you alone in the obscenely large house, to do whatever you pleased.

never had you really thought about abusing this power-- actively choosing to stick to the first few rooms they had shown you on your trial night; a lounging room with windows spanning the floor to ceiling, additionally sporting an impossibly large television, a library with thousands of books, and one of the three kitchens within the manor. really, there had never been any reason for you to wander about-- for damian chose these same rooms to galivant (save for his own quarters, and dedicated animal room) on nights you were around.

besides, you had learned the couches with impeccable looking leather and the softest of throw pillows and blankets was not just for decoration. curling up with your phone or a good novel, hours would pass instantly-- leaving you no time to explore the home even if you had wanted to, for bruce and talia always returned home from their formal events or work-related endeavors right when they said they would.

punctuality and routine was something both of the older individuals practically thrived on-- never relying on you for emergency based babysitting. choosing strict days of the week for your arrivals, the couple never needed to resort to you as a last contact.

except for tonight.

an unassuming friday night with the moon already miles high above gotham, your phone had rung once. then twice, before you had picked up. seeing the contact-- MRS. WAYNE-AL-GHUL-- had sent a certain shiver down your spine; one you could not place as fear nor anxiety, but perhaps something else entirely foreign.

(attraction.)

"we hate to do this to you, dear," talia had spoken sincerely into the phone, though urgency weaved its way into her words, "but something for bruce's work has come up, and alfred is off, so we're left with no choice."

with little hesitation, you had answered. "oh," you breathed, "it's really no trouble. i'll be over as quick as i can."

there was a distant chatter barely audible through the phone-- talia and bruce discussing something-- before bruce's voice became clear on the other end of the line.

"expect double your usual rate," bruce had said calmly, "we can't thank you enough."

the drive had been fast-- gotham's concrete and grey blurring into thick, forested greens as your car approached the manor; talia and bruce already standing, waiting, expecting, your arrival by a sleek, expensive looking limousine.

as you stepped out of your car, the man made an advancement in your direction; one sturdy palm placed gently on your shoulder, bruce pressed a neat (and thick) envelope into your hands.

"five hundred," he murmured easily, "thank you, again. i apologize for the lack of notice, but certainly--"

something about bruce's hold on your frame made your gut flip excitedly. you cut him off with a simple shake of your head. "please, mr. wayne," you reassured, "things happen. i get it."

a rare grin briefly dusted across bruce's face and the crow's feet at his eyes deepened. "right," he agreed, finally letting go of your shoulder. bruce swallowed, re-adjusting his suit jacket. glancing behind him, talia had caught his eyes-- her gloved fingers wrapping softly around the limousine's door, she offered you a succinct smile, before dipping into the car. "we'll be back before midnight." the man offered finally, slipping away from you and towards his awaiting car.

you nodded, running your tongue idly across your front teeth. glancing towards the manor-- the youngest master stood at the giant oak doors, looking impossibly cross.

"i told them i was in no need of your presence tonight," damian had huffed, barely stepping aside to let you into the manor, "i am taking myself right to my chambers."

"well," you had sighed, toeing off your shoes, "don't let me stop you from getting your beauty sleep."

behind you, the limousine had pulled out of the main driveway for the manor-- down the long, leading twisty road to the gates at the edge of the property. in no mood to wave goodbye to his parents-- damian slammed the two doors shut.

with a subtle roll of his shoulders, damian bid you goodnight, briskly uttering your surname and something like it's nothing personal. the boy turned and went down a long hallway, to the staircase that would lead him to his room; leaving you, once again, alone in the manor's front entrance.

grand paintings of who you identified to be bruce's family (though you could not place who the little freckled boy with thick curls was) decorated the walls, all encased in gold picture frames. a chandelier with at least one hundred candles hung high from the manor's ceiling, casting an imposing shadow down onto the marble floors.

you swallowed, suddenly terribly aware of the five hundred dollars sitting in your jacket pocket.

you could go down to your usual spot in the lounge room; throw on the television, half-heartedly pay attention to a black and white movie-- sip water from a stupidly expensive glass and patiently await talia and bruce's return.

you could.

but something about the glimmer of moonlight through a magnificent window in another room, down another hallway you had not been before practically yanked you away from the lounge before you could make the decision.

feet carrying you faster than your brain could process, guilt briefly clawed at your throat; until you conceded that it would be hours before the couple's return, and something as innocent as a walk could not possibly get you in trouble.

°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °

in your defense, the door had been ajar-- not open all the way, no, but not closed either. it had been terribly easy to slip into the room you had discovered to be a study-- and even easier to trace the bookshelves with your fingertip, and let your eyes dance across all of the valuables bruce wayne had laying about.

an expensive looking oak table lined with a singular, silver laptop and a glass lamp greeted you first. all, appearing pristine in condition as if never used before.

glossy leather upon the desk chair shone idly in the moonlight-- let into the room via large, dazzling windows. and the view, perhaps, was the most stunning thing the room offered. looking outward and towards the manor's front yard-- miles of perfectly manicured grass, hedges, and trees painted the landscape. leaves whispered and brushed in tandem with each other, victims of gotham's late night winds. dew coated the rest of the greenery, offering almost an ethereal shimmer to the scenic picture. if you squinted, you could see the large, black gates on the very edge of the property-- the only entrance and exit to wayne manor-- and the security station that glowed with the faintest traces of life (a hired night guard now on duty per talia and bruce's leave). you turned, finally tearing your vision away from the window; unknowingly missing the flash of a car returning to the manor. using your palm, you gently twisted the desk chair-- which creaked silently underneath the newfound stress of your hand.

your vision floated upwards, to just overhead of the chair; an extensive portrait, painted meticulously and with the utmost care flashed brilliantly underneath its display lights. a man, woman, and a little boy-- though not of the family you had grown fond of. no, this was one of the individuals you had known for a short period of time, but the other two remained distant figureheads unknown to you. the woman had a short black bob and the same blue eyes you had recognized on bruce-- though her smile was more gentle, as if it was a secret she could barely contain. the man, on the other hand, was sharper and more angular; face set almost identically to bruce's. adorned by both in different ways (bruce's father a brooch, his mother a necklace) were pearls.

something about them made your stomach sink-- so you tore your vision away from the painting, and back to the rest of the study.

there were filing cabinets hidden cleverly within the bookshelves that surrounded you, and the odd centerpiece for a coffee table caught your eye-- but after a while of snooping, you boredom overtook your mind-- pushing you towards the exit.

just past the door, the manor had gone quieter in a way you could not place. it wasn't the usual silence, somber and tranquil, broken only by the gentle snores of damian-- no, this was somehow tentative. charged.

on edge. almost as if--

the sound of the front doors opening and closing, partnered with hushed voices caused your neck to whip around.

your snooping had gone on far longer than you had anticipated; the fault of your actions becoming ever so clear and blaring as you stood, tucked away against the manor's wall, in a corridor that you certainly never should have been in in the first place. talia's serene laugh carried down the hallway, followed by a soft, almost out of character rumble from bruce.

as comforting as those sounds had once been-- they only now caused your heart-rate to spike, adrenaline coursing through your veins at speeds you had not felt since being caught red-handed by your parents as a child, doing something you were not supposed to be doing.

pressing your head into the sturdy wall of the manor-- a brief exhale through your nose passed through you, because the irony of the situation had not been lost.

in some sort of odd way, this was terribly akin to being caught by your parents. except now, the stakes were much higher-- as you could not exactly afford to lose the hefty pay-check the wayne al-ghul's offered. could not bear to lose the curious little boy you had grown so fond of, could not bear to lose the fleeting surges of attraction you felt around talia and bruce-- no matter how wrong, tasteless, and downright crude these feelings were.

caught up in your head, you had missed the sudden cease of noise from the couple-- no clicking of dress shoes or heels against the marble floors, no hushed whispers or terribly masked chuckles.

there was silence.

your chest heaved softly, the possibility of bruce and talia potentially traveling to another one of the many rooms within the manor giving you ample opportunity to dash back to the lounge an exciting thought-- before you heard the man clear his throat.

"you can come out now."

if your stomach had not already been in knots, it would have certainly been now. despite the lack of... anger, or frustration in bruce's tone (in fact, he had sounded oddly amused-- like this was a game he was playing, and like he had just won) remorse still scraped at your core.

the few steps of shame out of the corridor and into the manor's main entrance had been even more embarrassing, your shadow trailing behind you a few feet-- as if ashamed to be associated with someone like you.

one of bruce's pronounced brows quirked upwards, beguilement curling around the sharp angles of his face. "you're usually very good at following instructions," he said mildly.

heat raised in your cheeks and-- well, your hands kept folding and refolding in front of you as the husband and wife came into your view. leaning against bruce, the woman slowly peeled her evening coat off; long and black with fur stitched into its sleeves and neckline, it only accentuated her fit figure. she t'sked, though there was little heat behind her words.

"which is why this is so interesting." she mused, folding the coat within her hands. long jade nails caught the minimal light the manor's chandelier offered, as if they were akin to claws.

"i'm sorry," you apologized meekly, "i was just heading back to the lounging room."

bruce and talia shared an intimate laugh-- just under their noses, as if they were in on a joke you were oblivious to. "no need to apologize," bruce stated, "it's not often my study gets visitors anyways."

your throat dried up, shame washing over you once again. "i--"

"hush," talia murmured, effectively cutting you off, "we're not angry, dear. though next time," she took a step forward, heels clicking against the floor, "just ask. bruce and i could never tell you no."

her lips-- plump, matte within a brownish-red shade-- tilted upwards. not quite a smile, but something just as warm; just as inviting.

"we don't mind indulging you." talia added lowly, deliberately.

bruce's gaze lingered-- not improperly nor obviously-- but thoroughly. like you were mystery or puzzle to be solved. methodically.

(seductively.)

"it's friday," bruce said obviously, glancing down at his (offensively expensive) wrist-watch, "and not quite eleven yet. since this is such an... impromptu night, we were hoping you'd join us." he explained, adjusting the collar of his suit jacket.

at your hesitation, because when on earth would bruce wayne and talia al-ghul ever have wanted to spend time with you, talia broke your train of thought.

"we were just about to head to one of our lounges," she explained pointedly, "hopefully not one you've seen before."

heat crawled up your neck. "i wasn't snooping," you tried.

both individuals in front of you laughed again.

perhaps your nerves were the joke.

"we know," bruce consoled.

"it's alright," talia offered, fingers running along the fabric of her coat. "but we're just going to unwind, and we'd love for you to keep us company."

bruce ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth, jaw ticking and un-ticking. "wine, whiskey, tea," he offered, in hopes to persuade you.

talia's eyes narrowed, slim like a cat-- preying, almost. "or simply just us," she added.

"whatever you'd prefer."

certainly, you were a lot of things-- but naive enough to remain oblivious to the couple's apparent desire to get you alone? of course not. the idea brought goosebumps to your arms, racing down your entire body. before there had been only delusion feeding your lust-- your pathetic sort of puppy love that chased after the man and woman in front of you. a lingering gaze from bruce on your way out, or maybe a (not-so) innocent touch from talia once your work was done; all feeding these incessant and all-consuming ideas that made you feel like-- perhaps, they were more than just the parents you babysat for. perhaps they thought you were more than just someone who treated their son with the dignity and respect he deserved.

perhaps, they were enticed.

before nightfall had blanketed over gotham's city, it was pitiful and wistful thinking that got you through your day.

but now...

the invitation hung in the air, steady. there truly had been no reason for you to hurry home-- nor did you have plans the following morning.

something curled deliciously, guilty, within your core. you had already run past the confinements of the routine you once practiced within the manor-- why now should you stop? especially with the mr. and mrs. of the household practically begging for you to break the subconscious rules you had set in place for yourself.

the faint scent of talia's perfume and bruce's cologne wafted into your nose and you took an impossibly small step towards them. bruce matched your movements, not coming inappropriately close (yet), but closing enough of a gap to emphasize his size. how sturdy, how solid, how unhurried he truly was.

"if you're offering," you began, "i think i can stay for a drink."

a true grin broke out across talia's face, and she shoved her coat into her lover's chest-- opting to slink her strong arms around your waist, pull you into her frame.

"good," she nodded. you couldn't tell if you were imagining it-- but you could have sworn you felt talia's fingers give your waist a good squeeze. "because it is such a shame every time you're here, bruce and i are absent." she laughed underneath her breath, "it's frustrating, really."

leading you both down another hall-way you had never been before, one you hadn't thought to sneak through, bruce hummed. "such a shame," the man echoed, "but let's make up for lost time now, yeah?"

°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °

the first thing you had noticed in the lounge were the lights. they hadn't been bright-- no, they were dimmed to a provocative sort of yellow, tinged with reds and oranges. placed intentionally in the corners of the room to warm, to entice, to ground-- but never to intrude.

the next thing had been the couch; not as plush as your normal sitting room, nor had it been as formal and sleek as the ones in the hosting rooms-- but it still seemed just as expensive. suede-- dark, grey, longing; you hadn't expected to like it when talia urged you down by your shoulders, her fingers rubbing methodical circles into your back in the process. you hadn't anticipated melting into the fabric, into the crevasses of the chair, as bruce handed you one, and then another, glass of red wine. it was expensive, the type that goes down without so much as a hitch. the type that was dangerous.

you really had not foreseen sinking into the husband and wife-- letting talia run her finger-tips along your collarbone, tracing idle figure-eights near the nape of your neck, and allowing bruce to remain beside you, his big hands massaging and caressing the plush skin of your calves like second nature.

talia draped herself over the back of the couch like a cat-- legs crossed, hands pointed and steady against your skin. you breathed her in like oxygen, gasping and unconsciously becoming dependent on her presence. if you leaned into her close enough, the heat that radiated off her frame in waves clung to you like honey along the skin. "this is my favorite," she spoke quietly, and you assumed she had been gesturing to her wine (though her finger-tips drove deeper into your shoulders). "what do you think, bruce?"

"i think," bruce replied, one of his hands occupied by a glass of whatever expensive and hard liquor he had poured himself, "this one's to be savored, dear."

the ice in his glass clinked. a jarring noise compared to the serenity of the room.

"you and i have such divergent tastes," talia said, clicking her tongue, "but for once, beloved, i agree."

there was a shared silence that let you linger in the space; one that allowed you to cherish the looseness in your limbs, the tingle in your finger-tips. never enough to keep you in a haze of intoxication, but just enough to prove that you could be easy.

easy to hire, easy to know, easy to trust.

easy to fuck.

bruce set his glass down on a sturdy oak coffee table just near the end of the couch. with a clear of his throat, he asked; "are you okay?" his hands found your calves once again, readjusting them purposefully within his lap, his touch ghosting against your skin.

"you're quite tense," talia hummed from behind, "you're allowed to enjoy yourself-- allowed to relax."

tipping your head backwards to address the question, you felt the skin of talia's thigh-- exposed via the slit in her dress-- and shivered. "i'm quite alright," you almost laughed, "i just... didn't expect this."

"oh, sweet girl," talia grinned, "we did." her hands traced a slow, deliberate path now-- never dipping anywhere improper, teasing, but never retreating either.

your thoughts had gone slower, more lucid, more distracting-- and your lips pressed to the rim of your glass idly.

bruce's thumb brushed idly at your ankle, swiping softly. he followed the delicate dip of your bone, grounding in his touch. "you're usually so careful," he hummed, "always polite. always so good."

talia leaned in closer, her breath warm and fanning against your cheekbones. "and tonight you're letting yourself be," she exhaled, "indulgent."

heat swarmed to your cheeks, though not from your intoxication. "i don't mean to be unprofessi--"

"no," bruce interrupted gently, his hold on your leg tightening, "that's not what this is, sweetheart."

at the pet-name, something once dull and barely aflame flickered brilliantly within your gut, blazing to life.

"then what is this?" you asked suddenly, the alcohol giving you a false sense of confidence-- though very much short-lived, as impossible levels of humiliation washed over you; heat shooting up your spine.

talia laughed, a breathy sort of thing-- from the back of her throat, syrupy. at the sound, you turned to look at her, taking in her form.

it was odd (though not unwelcomed) to see mrs. al-ghul so... vivid. as if the adrenaline coursing through her veins spurred something within her to life-- something dormant forced open and breathing, it's heart beating erratically with composure. her usual stoicism, politeness-- replaced with an unabashed desire for whatever it was this happened to be.

the concentration on the grand woman now within your line of sight distracted you from the cool, almost jarring sensation of bruce's palm off of your calf.

though quickly-- it was replaced with his hand on your jaw, tilting your head upwards and insisting on your attention. cobalt irises narrowed at you, barely flickering down to your lips, before dancing upwards to your eyes again. his scent was now invading your senses-- vaguely intoxicated from his drink, though mostly enthralling; mint, warm after-shave, the smokey undertones of his cologne.

his breath fanned across your lips, and his fingers clutched almost desperately onto your jaw (like the last bits of restraint bruce wayne had were quickly succumbing to deeper desires)-- tilting you towards him, keeping the tips of your noses brushing. "you want to know what this is?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper; a rumble, perhaps even a groan.

"beloved," talia simpered, fingers running across your shoulder blades.

bruce's eyes briefly darted towards his wife's, before they skimmed back to yours. "answer me."

something unconscious, perhaps carnal within you, made you nod, unthinking. "i do," you stuttered out.

"then kiss her," he instructed, eyes remaining yearningly on the plump fat of your lips, "you want this? prove it. kiss her."

"you don't have to," talia offered, her voice startlingly close to your neck as she spoke; her own lips softly planting themselves near the junction where your throat met your shoulders.

at the tightening of bruce's grip on your jaw, your cunt throbbed. "i want to."

crow's feet appeared near bruce's eyes as he smiled slowly-- mouth tilting into something, though subtle, greedy. "yeah? you want to?"

you nodded, and echoed your words-- enthusiasm bleeding from each syllable that fell from your lips now. "please,"

bruce's fingers uncurled around your jaw momentarily, before slipping away entirely-- only to be replaced by equally as strong, but more slender and feminine digits-- talia pouncing on the opportunity to twist your head and capture your lips; locking them against her own.

she tasted like all-spice doused in cocoa powder-- even the faintest traces of black berry seeping into your senses. you vaguely remember bruce holding out the wine bottle you and talia had both shared; something about the undertones, aromas, final notes.

the stickiness of your lip-gloss clung to her lips as she softly groaned against you-- tongue darting outwards to taste your fattened flesh, before attempting to pry your mouth open.

you obliged, letting her appendage slither into your mouth and wrangle your tongue. nothing about the kiss was chaste or fleeting- talia's mouth moving against yours almost greedily, entirely messy and unbecoming.

beside you, bruce had sat backwards into his couch. one foot across his knee, the ice within his cup rumbled as it clattered against the glass, swirling gently within the expensive liqour he continued to nurse. if it wasn't for this and the subtle drum of his fingertips against his dress pants, you wouldn't have believed he was there. there was no sound to his breathing, not any indication of another individual within the room-- as if he had completely mastered the ability to blend in with the world; remain unseen and silent.

the thought of bruce watching you and talia wordlessly, as if not even there, made your cunt throb.

still tilting your jaw upwards, talia continued to kiss you heavily-- absorbing every inch of you that she could, seemingly attempting to fuse you both where you attached. her fingers coiled around your jaw and throat, squeezing-- holding you impossibly close, your breath quickening and shortening at her action. pulling apart momentarily, you felt her breath fan across your lips-- lashes fluttering softly against the silk of her skin.

"have you thought about this before?" she asked, so low-- you almost missed it.

you swallowed, chasing her lips. "yes," the vibration of her approval simmered against your flesh.

from beside you, the clink of bruce's glass emptying into his mouth carried throughout the room. he whispered, anticipation buzzing beneath his skin. "thought so."

talia grinned into your kiss, the eagerness you were exuding especially entertaining. she tore herself from you, pressing kisses-- messy, wet-- to the corner of your mouth, along your jawline and down your neck. "such a greedy girl," she mused, "go give bruce some attention now; don't you think we've left him out of the fun?"

nodding hazily, your irises remained glued to the now swollen fat of talia's lips-- only her hand guiding you to face the older man.

bruce's tie had been yanked away from his neck, his white shirt unbuttoned at the very top-- defined shoulders and collar-bone on display. his skin glistened underneath the dim lighting from the lamps, and the pale blue of his eyes looked haunting.

he was irritatingly handsome, suit coat long abandoned. your cunt throbbed again, talia's nails scratching at your neck before digging into your skin-- urging you towards her husband.

bruce unfolded his legs, a silent invitation. clambering atop the couch, you found yourself suddenly straddling him-- both of your thighs pressed tightly against his hips, grounding you to bruce's large form.

he cleared his throat, hands immediately snaking their way up your arms and towards your neck. his thumbs swiped idly at the skin beneath your ears as he cupped your jaw. "such a sweet girl," he purred, "i don't think i'm the one that should get the attention tonight."

leaning forward, your jaw went slack ever so slightly as bruce pressed his mouth to your throat-- right to your pulse-point, suckling at your skin sporadically, inhaling you.

you were gasping as his teeth drew across your skin-- biting enough to sting, but never to hurt. soothing over the dips with his tongue, bruce hummed against you.

"mr. wayne--" you tried, palms burning where they rested at his shoulders.

"it's bruce," talia answered, allowing the man to remain attached to your skin. instead of splaying across the top of the couch like before, she had rounded the furniture and planted herself neatly beside the both of you, watching. "i think we're long past formalities."

the shortest beginnings of a chuckle from bruce pulsed at your neck where he was kissing, biting, licking-- pleasure radiating off of both of you in waves.

in a sudden movement-- bruce had flipped you onto your back, your frame connecting with the couch harshly. the man, however, paid little mind to you as his lips continued to dance across your skin, trailing downwards from your jaw and throat to your shoulders and collarbone and sternum.

big palms dipped underneath your shirt, raising it enough for the man to pepper kisses along the curve of your breasts, exposing your skin and raising goosebumps along your body.

talia sucked on her teeth from beside you, before she nudged closer to your frame-- soft skin coming in contact with yours. she hummed approvingly at the sight of her husband lowering and settling himself between your legs-- his fingers now hooking into the waistband of your pants, and slowly peeling them off of your legs.

he hadn't even bothered to remove your panties-- exhaling shortly before pressing his mouth to your cunt, tongue dragging along the fabric.

"oh!" you yelped at the sensation, hips bucking immediately against bruce's face. his hands had slipped to your waist, keeping your bottom half pushed steadily into the couch.

"stay still," he tutted, words mumbled by your dampening panties and pussy.

not to be forgotten-- talia leaned forward to connect her lips to your temple, a silent request for your attention. once your eyes had made contact with her own, through thick and fluffy lashes did she speak, "such a loud girl," she breathed, "but you don't want to wake my beloved boy, do you?"

you shook your head no, legs quivering softly as your thighs clenched around bruce's frame.

"exactly," talia agreed, "so i think i'm going to put that pretty little mouth of yours to work."

manicured nails snuck underneath the strap of her dinner dress-- and slowly, she slipped out of the top half of her outfit. to your surprise, she hadn't been wearing a bra. her light brown nipples peaked underneath the newfound exposure of cold-- before she took the fleshy part of her tit in her hand, and guided it to your mouth.

suckling immediate, your eyes fluttered and shut-- the salty taste of her skin invading your senses. the woman exhaled loudly, one of her hands going to scratch at the nape of your neck. "mhmm," she sighed, contently.

the slightest of flickers from bruce, still busied entirely at your pussy, was made apparent as he reached a hand out to caress his wife's leg-- hand trailing upwards to her inner thigh, before he pulled away and placed his attention back to you.

he groaned into your cunt, dipping underneath the fabric of your now ruined underwear, pulling them aside to get himself flesh to your body. the noises coming from his tongue at your slit, drawing achingly slow circles, were nothing short of vulgar.

your tongue continued to trace talia's nipple, lapping and suckling at the skin-- her gasps and hums of pleasure sending shocks to your pussy. it clenched and sobbed at the noises she emanated, and once bruce stuck a digit past your hole-- your back arched off of the couch, hips tilting into his face.

talia's hands wrapped around the back of your head lovingly-- though she was not gentle as she forced your mouth to remain steady at her tits. "c'mon," the woman encouraged, leaning further and closer into you as if to ease your efforts.

you moaned around her skin-- dutifully switching to the other breast, a trembling hand of yours coming upwards to cup the spit soaked one. beneath you, bruce continued his ministrations, mouth latched onto your clit as he pumped two fingers now, vigorously in and out of you, curling as they bottomed out within your dripping cunt.

the married couple, too, moaned. bruce at the taste of you finally on his tongue, as if he had been waiting-- and talia as you rolled and circled her stiffened nipples within the warm confines of your mouth.

bruce's tongue flattened along the length of your pussy, dragging himself up and down and up again-- before talia's second hand curled into his hair and yanked his head away from your core. the man blinked up at his wife hazily, lower half of his face coated in your slick.

talia hummed deliciously at the sight. "bruce," she exhaled shakily, peeling you off of her breasts, "i'd like to taste her too."

he obliged wordlessly; tugging talia gently down to the ground beside him, you watched carefully, mouth slightly agape, as the two slotted against each other like puzzle pieces. talia's plump lips locked around bruce's, her tongue poking through his own lips and into the chamber within his mouth-- both groaning and gasping and moaning at the actions, taste, sight of all of it.

talia called your name, which came out muffled against her lover's mouth, "you taste brilliant," she praised. breaking the kiss, talia stuck her tongue out to lick bruce's jaw towards his mouth-- savouring the taste of your pussy on his face. "but i think i'd prefer if i got it straight from you, sweet girl."

bruce moved his body ever so slightly to allow talia to take his place-- her hands finding the flesh of your thighs, dragging your hips closer to her face. she peppered kisses along the curve of your waist, letting them trace lower and lower until they met your clit.

she pressed a kiss to the sensitive nerve, smiling slyly, before blowing cold air onto your cunt. "such a pretty girl," she mused, latching herself onto you.

you sighed, content at the feeling of somebody on your aching extremity once again-- your arousal practically leaking out of you in demeaning waves.

from behind the woman, bruce cleared his throat-- steady hands finding the fabric of talia's dress, only to rid the clothing from his wife's frame.

"beloved," he mumbled, leaning forward to paint kisses delicately along the expanse of talia's strong back-- "you'll let me warm up with you, right?"

talia nodded lazily from in between your legs, one of her hands leaving your thighs to peel her own panties-- all she was adorned in by now-- to the side; exposing her to him. "you needn't ask, bruce." she whined into your cunt, her tongue continuing to sloppily trace your clit and dip inside your hole.

gasping, you watched as bruce undid his belt-- an oddly harsh sound against the melody of your shared moans with talia-- and freed himself from both his slacks and boxers.

you hadn't known what you were expecting when you had seen the older man; but something akin to delight shot from your head to the tips of your toes, seeing bruce's exposed cock.

he was thick, heavy within his hands; curved and flushed a pretty shade of pink. pearlescent beads of pre-cum already gathered from his tip, and he sighed longingly as he gave himself a few pumps-- before aligning himself with talia. the woman hummed, pleased, at the feeling of bruce grinding himself against her cunt.

you, too, moaned as if you could feel it-- pussy clenching, yearning for the same type of treatment. desperation was clearly clawing at your senses-- as your hands had even found your own breasts, molding and caressing at the flesh and flicking at the stiffened nipples even beneath the fabric of your bra.

at your actions, you heard bruce chuckle. a deep, erotic sort of sound. "i'll get to you, sweetheart," he promised.

but before you could respond-- before he could say anything else-- bruce pushed himself inside of his wife. inch by inch, you observed as talia's cunt swallowed bruce's cock-- as she gasped against your pussy, as she arched into her husband's touch.

they both moaned in tandem as he bottomed out within her, talia's cunt clenching desperately around bruce's cock. "that's it," he groaned softly. "you take me so well, beautiful, every time."

talia's jaw had gone slack at your pussy-- and for once, you hadn't even minded. not as talia looked so impossibly ravishing as bruce began to thrust in and out of his wife, and as he looked so disgustingly infatuated with talia.

you moaned softly as the sound of skin slapping began to bounce off of the lounge's walls-- filling the space and holding tight the arousal dripping from the corners of the room and bleeding into everything it could touch. waves of heat scorching the surface of everything within the room-- your minds, your bodies, and your souls all included.

slowly but surely, talia had begun to eat you out again-- this time, with a renewed vigor. using one of her forearms to balance herself against your frame, she brought her free hand to your cunt-- using a precarious thumb to roll tight and efficient circles onto your clit. "we want you t-to feel good," she shuddered, eyes fluttering shut momentarily as bruce's cock massaged her g-spot, "can you do that for us?"

nodding dumbly, your hands snuck their way properly now underneath the fabric of your bra-- fingers easily locating and pinching your hardened nipples. you rolled and rolled and rolled-- pleasure washing over your frame like ecstasy. you were gasping, breath stolen from your lungs as talia increased the pressure of her thumb along your clit. her tongue hooked just past the entrance to your cunt-- and your eyes were rolling into the back of your head.

bruce's pace was quickening (perhaps desperately) behind talia. he drove himself in and out and in again, balls slapping against his wife's ass as he hissed and cursed quietly under his breath. and suddenly-- as if indulging, as if he was shy but could not stand it any longer-- he raised a hand to spank her. it was harsh and clipped, his palm already leaving a searing mark against the plump fat of talia's rear. she moaned whorishly into your pussy, so out of character for the woman you (thought) you knew-- and her hand only sped up its ministrations. "please," she pleaded, big brown eyes blinking up at you, glassed over with watery tears of pleasure, "need you to cum, pretty girl. i need you to finish all over my face before i let bruce have his way with you,"

her words sent your gut fluttering-- your pussy clenching and strangling talia's tongue, soaking and dripping downwards onto her jaw. "don't stop," you gasped, heat pooling delightfully within your core.

"she won't," bruce huffed, cock pulsing within his wife.

talia nodded, keeping riiight where you needed her most-- though you could have sworn the strong woman rolled her eyes at her husband's commentary, ever so slightly, even as he remained buried deep inside her cunt.

your orgasm crept up on you, barely allowing you the gift of time to register the prickling of goosebumps along your skin; the shivers coursing through your body, the twitch and thrash of your legs and hips-- until your pussy was spasming and drooling all along the older woman's face. talia remained steady in her motions-- nursing you through your orgasm as if she was still trying to bring one forth and unto you.

bruce had stilled his movements, only inside his wife now by his tip-- and he watched intently as you continued to cum aggressively. big palms ran across talia's back, as if he could soothe you through your orgasm by stroking talia.

you shook until your body had gone slack from pleasure. vaguely, you thought-- when the fuck was the last time i came that hard?

"was that good?" bruce questioned, voice low and rumbled. he was now fully out of his wife-- his cock looking almost painfully hard as it glistened with talia's slick.

"m-mhm," you croaked out, chest still heaving and legs still twitching intermittently.

talia sat back and onto her knees, delicately wiping your cum off of her face with the back of her hand. "well, i'd hope so."

bruce let his fingers dance along talia's spine, up to the nape of her neck-- before he leaned down to press a chaste kiss to his wife's lips. he savoured the taste of both of you on his mouth, faint traces of wine seeping into the edges of his senses-- before he pulled away and dedicated himself to you.

bruce wayne crawling towards you was not a sight you had ever expected to see-- but one that was most certainly not unwelcomed. he positioned himself in between your legs once again, though you watched his biceps curl underneath the fabric of his dress shirt as he pulled you flush to his hips. "good thing i get to have my turn now," he whispered against the shell of your ear, "because i want you to cum that hard again-- just on my cock instead."

you shivered. full body, electric. your cunt was practically already oozing all over bruce's lower abdomen, his v-line taut and pronounced against the softer flesh of your thighs and core. his lips secured themselves to your jaw and neck, dusting kisses across your skin in a terribly gentle form of foreplay. below, his hips rocked steadily-- for now he was grinding himself against you as he had done talia earlier.

a hiss escaped your mouth as the tip of his dick caught on your clit; bruce took this as encouragement, and reached in between your sweat slicked bodies to wrap his hand around his extremity and slap it against your pussy.

"do you think you can take him, pretty girl?" talia cooed, suddenly beside you. she had slipped back onto the couch, body heat radiating onto your frame as she slinked closer to you-- no different than before except for the fact now that she was entirely bare. her body shimmered underneath the ambient lighting of the lounge, her curves and muscles and beauty marks ever so prominent in such a rousing environment.

you opened your mouth to speak, only to be caught off as bruce pressed into you. your jaw went slack, the feeling of his cock beginning to stretch your cunt out ever consuming. the veins along his dick pushed against your insides, carving themselves into your body-- molding yourself to bruce in ways, although fleeting, purposely permanent.

talia laughed, soft and delicate. one of her hands found its way to your scalp, scratching and soothing as she murmured against your head, "i know," she crooned, "isn't he just so fucking big?"

bruce was pulsing into you slower than he had done his wife-- empathetic of the fact that this was the first time you were taking someone of his size. still, it was a slow and torturous dance with too much and not enough; the words in your brain blurring into a pathetic mesh of moans.

you tried to agree, you really did, but all you could do was exhale shakily. talia snickered again from behind you, though of course there was no malice in her amusement. your grip on what now, you realized was her wrist (along with bruce's hand that rested on your hip) was iron.

"doing so good," bruce praised, brows furrowing as he buried himself deeper within you, "such a perfect girl."

the praise shot to your cunt, and you felt yourself flutter around his pulsing cock.

talia continued to rub soothing circles into your scalp, her mouth pressing breathy kisses to your hairline softly-- all the while she muttered praises of her own, agreement that bruce was bigger and better than anyone else; sympathy because weren't you just their poor girl? you've been needing this for such a long time, haven't you? such a shame we didn't get to have you sooner.

"but it's alright," bruce gasped softly, bottoming out within your aching pussy, "because we get to have and take care of you now."

your pretty irises rolled into your skull for the upteenth time that night as you felt bruce begin to move. he drove himself out of you slowly, at first-- as if he had some sort of restraint he had to adhere to-- but the second you moaned and whined and bucked your hips, pleading, "please, bruce, please fuck me," the man hadn't stood a chance.

his lower stomach repeatedly ground into your clit every time he was sheathed within you fully; the friction making your toes curl and back arch away from the couch. talia would sigh, would coo, would kiss at you absentmindedly-- drawing your attention away from bruce momentarily, because shouldn't she have some fun too?

in the heat of it-- with your legs clenched tightly around bruce's hips and his cock throbbing inside of you-- talia snaked her hand down your stomach and towards your clit, rolling just as she had before.

the combination of bruce's cock kissing and massaging your g-spot and talia's fingers at your clit was almost too much. pleasure and euphoria was beginning to blind you, and your legs quivered around bruce's frame in a fair warning of your second orgasm.

bruce, ever in touch with your body, gripped one of your calves tightly-- only to raise it, and bring your leg to his shoulder. he turned his head softly, black locks clinging to his dampened forehead, to press a kiss to your ankle bone. the new position had him deeper than you had thought was possible, and your entire body thrashed from underneath the married couple.

"don't cum yet," bruce spoke jaggedly, "i know you're close, sweetheart, but i know you can wait for me."

talia nodded from above you, fingers still abusing your clit. "we know you can," she echoed, "you've shown a history of being good at listening-- hasn't she, beloved?"

bruce nodded towards his wife, adam's apple bobbing as a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. "she has," he exhaled, "such a good girl for us."

your bottom lip was surely bitten raw-- for you had had it caught in between your teeth to stifle your moans, stifle your pleasure, hold off your orgasm because of course you would listen to bruce and talia.

but it was getting difficult-- your pussy was beginning to spasm with the first waves of your orgasm that you could not suppress, and the sweetest of mewls were falling from your lips. so much so, talia took pity on you-- and pressed her lips to yours.

you moaned and hummed freely against the kiss, savoring the taste of you and her within her mouth. she, too, groaned softly at the contact-- her circles at your cunt going slack for a moment, only to pick back up in pace.

bruce's pace as well, quickened. the repetitive motion of him thrusting in and out and in again, entirely too thick and yet not enough was making both of you insatiable. "fuck," he groaned-- and your cunt pulsed, because bruce wayne swearing was far too fucking attractive for you to handle.

"i want to cum," you begged suddenly, words tumbling out of your mouth, into talia's and the air around you all, "please. i- i've been so good, please,"

never had you ever considered begging for anyone else like this-- the act much too humiliating to consider when fucking just anyone else.

but this wasn't just anyone else. they weren't just random people you had decided to hook up with.

bruce groaned incoherently as he moved his head again to bury his mouth and nose against your ankle-- teeth suddenly digging into the flesh of your calf to muffle moans (moans! your cunt had bruce wayne moaning like a pornstar!) as his cock jumped inside of you.

again and again and again-- did his tip find and make love to your g-spot.

this was bruce wayne and talia al-ghul you were fucking. of course you were going to beg.

"please," the plead fell from your mouth in a broken, sob.

"i love it when you beg," talia mused, her breath fanning across your lips, "sound like such a good girl."

she swallowed, and through teary eyes did you watch her throat bob softly. her fingers-- two, now-- rolled and circled your clit incessantly, different than before. they fucked you now with a purpose. to draw something very intentional out of you.

bruce was fucking you like that too-- intentional. his tongue darted outwards to taste the salt of your calf to your ankle, and his voice vibrated tantalizingly against your skin. "i'm going to cum," he announced, shuddering, "and i want you to cum now too, a-alright?"

the announcement of his own orgasm coupled with talia's intense movements was more than enough to make your cunt flutter once, then twice-- then uncontrollably and terribly powerfully as your orgasm knocked the wind from your lungs.

your nails were piercing subtle moons into talia's wrist where your hand still remained; the same thing happening to bruce's arm where your grip on him was also just as tight.

you couldn't think of anything logically-- not with your cunt fluttering hopelessly around bruce's cock, not with talia scratching at your scalp gently and peppering kisses along the fat of your face and along your jaw.

not with bruce's dick suddenly spilling pump after pump of cum into you-- his cock pulsing repeatedly within your weeping pussy. the man was gritting his teeth, still moaning into your skin, grip entirely too tight along your waist where he still continued to drag you onto his appendage.

"bruce--!" you gasped, thighs quaking as his thrusts grew unrelenting.

"i know," he breathed, icy irises squinting down at where you both still remained connected, "need to fuck it all out, make sure all of my cum gets inside of you."

talia giggled along your skin, licking a stripe upwards from your chin to your mouth. "such a demanding man," she cooed, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips, "my beloved can get so greedy once he sets his eyes on something he wants."

from above, bruce spoke-- voice harsh as the remainders of pleasure bled from each syllable. "you say that like you aren't a persistent woman, my dear,"

"well of course i am," talia whispered, hand leaving your hand to press against bruce's stomach-- effectively getting the man to pull out of your sopping cunt.

all three of you watched as bruce's cum began to ooze out of you-- a thick load, mixed with your own arousal and cum. dark lashes beat against talia's cheek as she got up from the couch and took bruce's position in between your legs; even taking one of your legs up and onto her shoulder, offering a gentle kiss to your ankle like her husband had.

bruce himself didn't move very far-- as he was still close enough to plant a kiss to talia's hairline. the woman leaned into his touch, a thousand unspoken words travelling between them, until their shared gaze fell upon you once again.

talia cleared her throat, hooking one leg over your hip-- allowing both of your pussies now to only be a few inches apart. she lowered herself down, and it was impossibly lewd-- the way bruce's cum clung to her cunt as it trickled out of you. her voice was low, seductive-- the same tone you had grown used to hearing as gotham's moon hung high above the sky.

"because now it's my turn to fuck you properly, isn't it?"

© PLUVOiA 2026

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