bakery recs

Bruce Wayne hated bad press.

Not because it damaged Wayne Enterprises, because Lucius usually fixed that before it became a real problem. And definitely not because Gotham’s elite whispered about him over expensive champagne either, because Bruce had learned years ago that rich people would gossip about anything if they got bored enough.

He hated bad press because you wrote it well.

Not tabloid garbage, not shallow billionaire hit pieces filled with lazy commentary and recycled headlines, but articles sharp enough to make people uncomfortable, pieces that dug beneath the polished charity galas and photo ops and exposed the ugly disconnect between Gotham’s suffering and the city’s wealthiest man pretending another fundraiser counted as activism.

Your latest article had been particularly brutal.

The article had gone live at 6:12 AM.

By 7:00, every major Gotham outlet had reposted excerpts.

By 8:30, Wayne Enterprises stock had dipped two percent.

And by noon, Bruce Wayne himself had apparently read it three separate times.

----

Bruce Wayne does not save Gotham. He curates it.

There is a difference.

One requires sacrifice. The other requires branding.

For years Gotham has treated Bruce Wayne like a symbol of civic generosity, the charming billionaire heir photographed beside hospital wings and scholarship funds while reporters eagerly document another smiling donation beneath carefully arranged lighting.

The city calls him compassionate because compassion is easier to market when it wears tailored suits and buys buildings with its last name engraved above the entrance.

But Gotham’s wealthiest son has perfected a version of philanthropy that prioritizes visibility over permanence.

Last Thursday, while residents in the Narrows were still clearing floodwater from apartment buildings the city deemed “structurally inconvenient,” Wayne Enterprises hosted its annual preservation gala downtown beneath imported chandeliers and a floral installation rumored to cost more than the average Gotham household earns in two years.

Inside the gala, donors drank champagne beside ice sculptures.

Six miles away, children slept in water-damaged shelters.

Wayne Foundation representatives later confirmed that emergency aid was distributed to affected neighborhoods by Friday afternoon, complete with media coverage and coordinated press releases.

Convenient timing.

Bruce Wayne has built an empire on being seen caring about Gotham, but visibility has never been the same thing as accountability. Charity offered after cameras arrive is still charity, but it is also performance, and Gotham has mistaken performance for heroism for far too long.

Because the uncomfortable truth beneath Wayne’s carefully maintained image is this:

Gotham does not need another wealthy man funding damage control after tragedy strikes.

It needs someone willing to prevent the tragedy before it becomes profitable to mourn publicly.

And perhaps the cruelest part of Bruce Wayne’s legacy is not that he fails Gotham entirely.

It is that he convinces people that incremental kindness from billionaires should feel revolutionary in the first place.

-----

It spread fast.

By the next morning every media outlet in Gotham had picked it up, and suddenly Bruce Wayne was trending for something other than being photographed falling out of clubs with models draped over his shoulders.

Which was why you nearly dropped your drink when your editor leaned against your desk and casually informed you that Bruce Wayne himself had requested a private interview.

Specifically with you.

“No assistants?” you asked slowly.

Your editor grinned. “No PR team either.”

“That’s suspicious.”

“That’s journalism, good journalism. Means you got to him.”

“No,” you muttered, staring at the forwarded email on your screen, “that’s a setup.”

Still, two days later, you found yourself walking through the front doors of Wayne Tower wearing your nicest blazer and the expression of somebody entering enemy territory.

The receptionist practically melted the second she saw your name on the appointment list.

“Mr. Wayne is expecting you.”

That somehow made it worse.

You expected a boardroom. Or a conference area. Something sterile and corporate where he could smile politely while a legal team watched from the corner.

Instead, they brought you to the penthouse office at the very top floor.

And Bruce Wayne opened the door himself.

It was irritating how attractive he was in person.

You already knew that, obviously, Gotham practically documented the man like he was a national monument, but photographs didn’t capture the size of him properly, or the way his voice settled low and smooth when he spoke directly to you.

“You came.”

You blinked once. “Well.. you did invite me.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face, subtle enough that you almost missed it.

“Right,” he motioned for you to properly enter. “Come in.”

The office was massive, all dark wood and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Gotham, but somehow it still felt strangely personal. His jacket was tossed over the couch instead of hung up properly, files scattered across the desk like he’d actually been working before you arrived.

Bruce gestured toward the sitting area. “Drink?”

“I don’t take beverages from men, especially those who are trying to sue me.” You smiled, despite the slight bite behind your words.

That got an actual laugh out of him, low and rough.

“I’m not suing you.” He shook his head while pouring himself a glass.

“You should,” you replied. “The article was mean.”

“You think it was unfair?”

“I didn't say that. I think it upset you.”

Bruce sat across from you then, elbows resting against his knees slightly as he studied you in silence for a second too long.

It was unnerving.

Most powerful men interrupted constantly, especially men with reputations like his, but Bruce just watched people, quiet enough that it forced them to keep talking.

“You don’t like me,” he said eventually.

You crossed your legs. “Professionally?”

“Personally.” He corrected without a breath. Your eyes narrowed at that as you took him in. Though you had never spoken to him directly, he was so far looking like everything you had heard.

“I don’t know you personally.”

“You write like you do.”

The air shifted a little after that. Not hostile exactly, but heavier somehow.

You had expected defensiveness. Anger maybe. Instead he seemed calm in a way that felt more dangerous, because every question he asked sounded casual while somehow managing to feel intensely direct at the same time.

“You think I’m shallow.” His eyebrows quirked slightly, allowing himself to lean back instead of sitting in such a defensive manner as he had moments earlier.

“You cultivate shallow.”

“You think the playboy act is fake.”

You held his gaze. “Isn’t it?”

Bruce smiled faintly then, and something about it made your stomach tighten. “That depends who’s asking.”

God.

That was annoying.

Because suddenly this did not feel like an interview anymore.

You glanced down at your notebook mostly to regain control of your own brain.

“So why exactly did you ask for this meeting?” you asked. “Because if it’s just to stare at me while I insult you, I should probably start charging consultation fees.”

Bruce leaned back into the couch slowly, one arm stretched along the back cushion behind you, not touching, but close enough that you became painfully aware of the space anyway.

“I wanted to know if you actually believed what you wrote.”

“I did.”

“Even the part where you called me Gotham’s most emotionally detached philanthropist?”

You smiled despite yourself, a small, amused breath escaping you. “Especially that part.”

Another pause.

And then, infuriatingly, Bruce looked pleased. “You’re different in person,” he noted quietly.

“You sound disappointed.”

“No,” he murmured. “More so... distracted.”

The tension hit so suddenly it almost felt embarrassing.

Because you should not have been reacting to him like this.

Not when you’d spent months publicly criticizing him. Not when half your career currently revolved around dismantling the mythology surrounding Bruce Wayne.

And definitely not when he was looking at you like he already knew exactly what effect he was having.

You cleared your throat. “Do you flirt with every woman who says mean things about you?”

His tongue poked out to run across his bottom lip, while his eyes found something in the room that wasn't you for just a moment before meeting yours once more. “Only the interesting ones.”

“That line probably works often.” You shook your head. This was absolutely feeling like a trap, and you'd make sure your editor knew you were right. You were not going to let Bruce fucking Wayne flirt himself out of your opinions.

“It hasn’t worked on you yet.” The yet lingered after the words died in the air between you two.

You hated that your face felt warm.

Bruce noticed too. You could tell by the way his eyes dropped briefly toward your mouth before returning to your eyes again, slower this time.

The silence stretched.

Outside the windows Gotham glittered in the dark below you, but inside the office everything suddenly felt close and overheated and strangely private.

“You know,” you said carefully, “this is a very manipulative PR strategy.” You shifted, your legs uncrossing briefly as you adjusted your blazer, before your right leg tightly rested atop your left.

Bruce tilted his head slightly. “Is it working?”

Your laugh came out softer than intended. “That depends,” you replied. “Are you this arrogant all the time?”

“No. I'd like to call myself generally humble. I only act like this when someone keeps looking at my lips.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

And the worst part was that he didn’t even look smug about catching you. If anything he looked more interested now, gaze heavier, sharper, like the tension between you had finally become something undeniable instead of hypothetical.

You shut your notebook sharply and decisively. “Right.. that’s enough interviewing for today.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked down to the motion before lifting again.

“Leaving already?”

“You are a workplace hazard, and I'm not letting that jeopardize the career I've built for myself.” You shook your head with an annoyed huff. This was not how you wanted this to go. You wanted to get him to say something that would prove everything you've ever written to not just be convenient coincidences but rather cold hard truth.

As much as you hated to admit it, you were underprepared. You chose not to believe the idea that he was actually charming (when he wanted to be).

This time, when you turned to look at him after slinging your bag onto your shoulder, his smile was slower.

“Come back tomorrow,” he said.

You stood carefully, trying very hard not to think about how close he was now. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re curious.”

He stepped forward then, not enough to crowd you fully, but enough that the space between you narrowed into something charged and dangerous.

“And because,” Bruce added quietly, “I think you want to find out whether you hate me as much as you thought you did.”

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

Those words still ring hollow, a repeating drone of his voice as you watch the familiar city pass by the windowpane. It is Gotham, but not. Unfamiliar stores fill the streets, similar roads but not quite, small inconsistencies that are enough to remind you that this isn't your home.

That the person in the driver's seat beside you is a complete stranger.

"Who am I to you?" You question, casting your glance back to that stiff, perfect posture of his as he makes a turn towards his apartment.

That hug from earlier, if you could even call it that, still lingers like a shadow, casting goosebumps over your skin whenever the memory overstayed its welcome.

You spot the whitening of his knuckles, the pads of his fingers squeezing into the steering wheel before the colour returns, as if his composure never faltered.

"You were my assigned partner." He answers briskly.

Were. There's finally one consistency, at the very least. To your relief, the version of you here didn't seem to get along with him either.

Your small amusement is quickly diminished at the rise of another concern of yours. If there was another version of you running around this city, you can't even begin to fathom the potential fractures of reality if an encounter truly happened.

You're already playing a huge risk in letting this Damian assist you. Still, you had no one else.

Your comms had contacted him, not that it was to any surprise of your own once the initial panic died down. It wasn't likely that you still had a connection to your own world, much less an existing channel with your Damian. It was pure luck that you still had use for the device at all. Or at least, you hoped you could consider it luck.

Your gaze lingers over his features. The likeness between him and your Damian was uncanny. The same nose bridge, freckles, and even that faint scar running down his jawline. It was all so familiar that you had to snap yourself out of it when you found your body conditioning itself into safety, as if forgetting he's a stranger.

"Well, I hope you'll let bygones be bygones." You answer wryly. "There wasn't anyone else I could contact. If you can help me find a way back home, I'll be out of your dimension in no time."

The silence grows terse. A shift has occurred, even if you're unsure on the why. You had only stated the obvious. Perhaps his moods were in line with what you were familiar with after all, and that is no soothing relief if it meant having to face that same temperament that landed you here.

"I'm already offering my help." Damian answers after a moment, as if he's finally settled for a response he was satisfied with.

"I hope so." You mutter, eyelids falling shut in your exhaustion. The sight of the city was making you nauseous. "It's kind of your fault I ended up here. The other you, anyways."

He hums, finger tapping once against the steering wheel. "Typical."

This Damian has an apartment akin to a serial killer's. The barest necessities, minimal decorations—it's as if every surface has gone untouched. If you hadn't seen it with your own eyes when he unlocked the door with his thumbprint, you would've assumed no one had ever stepped foot within these walls.

"Ever heard of decoration?" It lands wrong, and you internally wince. It's difficult, to not fall back into that same push-and-pull when you see Damian's figure in your peripheral vision. To not be mistaken with familiar company.

He watches you for longer than he should. He keeps doing that, the staring. "There's no reason for me to do so." He answers eventually.

Your brows furrow. Something about his responses from the moment you met him unnerved you, as if he's leaving his words purposely vague. Clues buried within that mask of his, where an unanswered story that didn't belong to your reality lingers in his.

"Where am I currently in your dimension?" You decide to settle at the sofa, stretching out your limbs. "If she's still in Gotham, I need to be careful not to be seen."

Ever since you arrived, your body has been aching horribly. It hadn't been this obvious when you had arrived, but now, it's stinging down to your nerves. Maybe the adrenaline had finally worn off, and you're left to deal with a body unequipped to the frantic mess your mind is trying to sort out.

"It won't be a problem." He answers, lips pursing into a thin line. "She's gone."

Your head tilts questioningly to meet his gaze, but he avoids yours. Pulling open his kitchen drawer, there's a taut tension in his body as if he's been expecting your question and dreading it all the same.

Gone could mean anything. Out of the city borders or—

Your eyes flicker down to his disappearing hand, and find his reappearing fingers gripped around pain ointment. Your stretch pauses halfway, the strange alertness of being noticed without your permission sending a chill down your spine.

Forcing your hands down back to your sides, you eye him warily as he makes his way round the couch, stopping before you. His hand extends, lifting his offering silently.

It's unfamiliar, and even if you try your hardest to reason to yourself, that this isn't the Damian you know, it doesn't make it any easier to allow him to assist you. You half expect mocking, a glimpse of his smirk when your gaze flickers to the ointment held out in front of you.

A low breath escapes his lips, and you expect him to give in. To understand that you don't require more of him other than his specific assistance to send you home—only for him to lower himself.

Damian Wayne—even if he isn't the one you're used to—is kneeling down to meet your gaze. Your breath stops, your chest seized tight as you stare at him, unable to hide your surprise.

He doesn't falter, his fingers mindlessly dipping into the ointment before placing the jar by your side. His free hand goes to grip your wrist, tugging gently to expose the bruises trailing along your arm from your fall.

"If it is me you have come to for assistance." He mutters with a click of his tongue. "Then, I expect you not to be stubborn."

You swallow, your jaw ticking as you find your tongue heavy with a lack of an adequate response. His unwavering concern, this intensity can't be tied solely to you. There has to be a reason for why he is looking at you this way.

"What did you mean?" You ask quietly. "By gone?"

His fingers, still coated with the ointment, brush gently over your thudding pulse. His gaze finally lifts, but you can't read him. There's a pull to his gaze, and the answer reveals itself by the time you recognise what is held within his eyes isn't irritation or indifference. It was grief.

"She's dead."

It's a strange feeling to know you're stepping into a world where a version of you used to exist. A sick form of good luck, a technical elimination of complications.

Except that it's only made everything more complicated. You had no idea on how to deal with the Damian in front of you now that the truth's been revealed.

When he first admitted that he wasn't the Damian you knew, you had quickly assumed that whatever dynamic he shared with you from this dimension was a parallel to the one you shared with your Damian. Forced tolerance, a begrudging partnership. No, you had needed to assume it so. Anything different would have shattered this fragile alliance you had with the stranger sitting across you, because despite everything you felt about your Damian—you relied on him as a partner.

Now, you weren't sure if you could trust the Damian in front of you. You had assumed that if he answered your questions, you would have cleared the air—but it has only raised more.

You can feel his attention while you're thinking. You swear with the intensity of his gaze casted onto you which you pretend not to notice, it's as if your existence only materialised when his eyes are on you. There's a strange urgency in his unblinking stare, as if to remind himself that you're still in front of him.

It's too much. It was the same back when he first saw you as well. Damian hasn't mentioned his strange reaction since, and his lack of an explanation for why he had embraced you clues you on nothing still, on what you meant to him.

"I'm not her." You mutter after a moment. You don't know why, but you feel you have to say it.

There's some form of attachment he must've had with you, and you couldn't let yourself be tangled into the mess of what's been left behind. This isn't your world, and the last thing you needed was a blur of that line.

"I know." He answers quickly. Without pause, as if he's been repeating it to himself before you had even verbalised it.

Your hesitance must be palpable because he lets out a sigh not long after, heavy from his chest.

"I didn't offer you my help because I think you're—" He swallows, pain etched into the lines of his grimace. "I understand that you are alone in this world. That some mistake of mine from your end caused this. I am taking responsibility for it—to bring you back. There is nothing more to it."

You watch him as he did to you, noting a delicate fragility to him you've never seen before. You had been so wrapped up in your situation, that you failed to notice the frantic quality of his gaze or the exhaustion plaguing his features. As if being around you—drained him from the impossibility of seeing you alive and breathing.

"Okay." You answer eventually. "I believe you."

His shoulders, tense and taut, finally loosen slightly at your response.

"Do you—" Your voice is plagued with exhaustion, and you struggle to find the words, the composure to hide your desperation. "—have any idea on how I'll be able to get back?"

Relief flickers briefly in his gaze, replaced with a familiar efficiency that slots over the dark pool his eyes held mere seconds ago. This, you were used to. Whenever he was asked to perform a duty, that was when you both cooperated the easiest.

"If it were me, I'd predict that there will be a two-way mechanism." He suggests automatically. So, he had been considering his own theories this entire time.

Leaning in, his elbows pressing against his thighs, he continues. "An entry will not be possible without a tunnel. To find the connection and restart it as you had before in your dimension, it should trigger an opening."

"I also considered the possibility of a tunnel." You frown, your fingers drawing a thin, edged line across the sofa's fabric. "The only problem is that when I arrived, before contacting you—I looked around the premise. I really tried."

"There was no opening." You admit, dread digging slowly into your bones.

"Perhaps it will only be activated if it was triggered in the same process as before." He suggests.

"...Doesn't that rely on Damian—" You falter, meeting his gaze. "—my Damian restarting the trigger on his side?"

He nods, even as his lips purse slightly at the mention of the other him. "Your only chance depends on him coming to the same realisation we have."

You draw a short breath. "Shit."

Damian doesn't hesitate when you ask by the third hour of silence—to accompany you back to the construction site when the passing hours has done enough in driving you insane.

You hate waiting. Your Damian knows that. This Damian seems to know too.

He follows you like a silent shadow, tracing your steps and overlooking the same rubble caused by your fall as you try to find an anomaly. Anything that proves to your stubborn anxiety—that you are actually doing something to feel less trapped.

"There is nothing here." He states.

"You don't know that." You wish your voice sounded stronger. "I wasn't in my right mind when I landed. I might identify something I missed."

His jaw ticks once, but he doesn't stop you. He doesn't argue—and that unnerves you. The Damian you know doesn't hesitate when picking a fight, and frankly—you miss that. You needed something to distract you—and he was merely standing there like he was watching a phantom.

"I thought you said you would help." Your voice breaks.

Fuck. Swallowing back your revealed fright, you finally slump down onto the dust-covered concrete, pressing your palm against your eyes.

You hear a shuffle, the fabric of his coat landing heavy next to you. You uncover your eyes, catching him as he crouches beside you. His gaze meets yours head-on—and you nearly drown in the weight of it.

"There's no relief in digging through a dead-end." He mutters, peering over your features. "It'll only worsen the thoughts."

You grow quiet. You didn't need a verbal confirmation, not when just his gaze alone tells, that he wasn't only talking about your situation. Your chest heaves, the scent of concrete filling your nostrils.

The silence stretches, an uncomfortable sensation of helplessness filling the air.

"...Do you like pizza?" He asks after a moment.

Blinking once, you must've misheard it. You can't help the snort that escapes you, the sound broken and unsteady. "What?"

"I dislike it." He mutters. "The ones in Gotham. It's too much grease, and lacking of any true nutrients."

That... sounds very Damian of him.

You raise a brow, and his lips purse together. Letting out a regretful sigh, he gestures with a tilt of his head. "There's an adequate franchise down the street."

Lifting himself off the ground, he holds out his hand towards you. "Since this dreadful day has been awfully unproductive, I suppose a meal like that is befitting."

Your gaze flickers between his hand and that unfamiliar, warmth in his eyes. Of how you had been in a similar position mere hours ago when he had offered you pain ointment. Of how he has been consistently extending his hand towards you, accompanying your side—ever since you entered this dimension.

This time, you take his hand.

Strangely enough, the fluorescent lights of 'Gotham City Pizzeria' and the smell of floor disinfectant—combined with the peculiar sight of Damian lifting a soggy pizza slice with a grimace did lift your spirits. If this was your dimension, you would have bothered with taking a picture to capture the sight of him clashing with an environment so strongly, but you couldn't afford to let this rare moment of normalcy be dimmed by that reminder.

"Should I be concerned that the Damian Wayne in this dimension consumes Gotham pizzas?" You murmur, wiping a streak of tomato at the corner of your mouth.

His lips quirk up slightly. "Even I have my faults."

Clearing his throat, he murmurs. "Your turn."

You raise a brow, confused.

He leans back, dusting his hands against the napkin. "I haven't learned anything about you since you arrived."

Oh. You had assumed that he didn't want to. Outside of the boundaries of your circumstance, he hasn't really pushed much further other than details he needed to have, to piece a solution together.

"What do you want to know?" You shrug.

His lips tilt upwards again, more intently this time. "Do you like pizza?"

Your smile lifts instinctively. "I do, detective. How'd you guess?"

His smile strains a little, and you realise why.

"Ah." You murmur.

"No." He stops you before you can retreat. "Don't stop on my account. I want to know what you like."

You swallow, fingers running over the crust flakes coating your thumb. You suppose you could answer, there wasn't any harm done. "I do like pizza. It's the only thing that's comforting enough after a long night of patrol. I think when I enter a familiar place at an hour like this, when there's no one else around, it's like the world closes in to exist in just this spot, y'know? I get to forget about my worries for a little while."

He nods, listening to you speak as if he intended on memorising every word. Like he may miss the chance to do so ever again.

"So, why'd you pick this place?" You return the question.

"...As I told you before, I'm not fond of it."

"So, why are you here?" You push.

A slow exhale escapes his mouth. "I suppose, it was like you said. Comforting—in a sense, to be surrounded by something familiar."

You can see him struggling, on what to say and what to keep buried. This provided company of his—it's like you're digging into a wound he's openly showing you.

"What else do you like?" He reiterates.

Your smile reappears, almost easing. "Need a full catalogue?"

"Yes." He answers almost immediately. It takes the breath out of you, the humour still stuck on your tongue with the way he looks at you, all-consuming. "I would."

"I suppose... I could tell you things I never told anyone." You whisper almost conspiratorially. "Something tells me you'll keep quite a good secret."

His lips lift, curving a small dimple by his cheek. "I swear."

"I guess..." Leaning your cheek against your palm, you take your time in truly looking at him. "I always did like your eyes."

He blinks, not expecting your answer. "My eyes?"

"Yeah." Your grin comes easier to you now, seeing him uncharacteristically flustered. "Made me unreasonably jealous at times. Green eyes like that, and you spend half the time glowering."

He scoffs lowly, but it holds no bite. "I wasn't aware there was a way to utilise them."

"No, you do it right when you're not thinking too hard." You murmur, lost in thought. "When you don't pretend to be strong, your eyes go soft. Just around the edges."

The moment those words leave you, you realise you're pushing too far, saying something so intimate, it should have never been verbalised.

He watches you, and to your dismay, he does it right then and there. The sharpened edges around his gaze softens, and so does Damian.

"You're direct." He mutters, almost fondly.

You swallow, averting your gaze. "So I've been told."

"I like that."

You shift your focus back to him immediately, a soft thudding in your chest. He has never averted his gaze. Rarely, you realise, does he pull his attention away from you. It's like he's treasuring it, the small impossibility of this conversation, of your presence in this pizzeria illuminated by the neon lights.

"Do you feel like you're dreaming?" You ask. "It feels like I know you even though I shouldn't."

His lips quirk. "It is a fair exchange for reality, if I get to meet you."

Your heart is thudding louder now, and you don't find it instinctive anymore to avert his gaze, no matter how much the depth feels like drowning.

"A once in a lifetime phenomenon." You declare. "Let's not waste it."

Gotham's cityscape takes a less intimidating turn in the weeks following your exploration with Damian, as the hidden beauty within begins to reveal itself. The confusing streets become interesting puzzles, a guessing game on what road could be an alternative to the ones you frequent in your dimension. When night falls? That's when this Gotham truly sings, coming alive.

Without the late nights being reserved for the sole purpose of patrol, Damian guides you within the ins-and-outs of alleyways, leading you through slot machines, bars that still had the hum of human company despite the late hour. Eventually, you both land on a rooftop that lets you oversee the entire city.

It's terrifyingly easy to enjoy his company when you're not busy pretending otherwise. There's a symphony to your shared steps, the trailing of his shadow that plays out like a familiar, comforting rhythm.

"It's different." You mutter almost excitedly. The faint buzz of exhaustion from the late hour leaves you increasingly lax, your hand tugging at his sleeve towards the Wayne Tower in the distance. "Ours is all red hues and sharp angles. I like yours more."

He hums, sounding amused. His gaze is still trained on you, not focused on your pointed finger towards the building at all. Letting out a huff, your hand, numbed by the freezing wind, lifts to cup his cheek.

He blinks, a rare vulnerable expression crossing his features at your touch.

"Stop looking at me." You gesture, trying to tune his head towards the cityscape. "You're missing out."

"No, I'm not." He answers honestly.

You blink, hand faltering over his cheek, but he raises his own to cover yours.

"Sorry." He murmurs, lashes lowering with his gaze as he closes his eyes momentarily. "Allow me to be a little selfish, just this once."

Your fingers shake in response, but you don't remove your hand.

"That's not very fair of you." You mutter.

"I suppose I have never practiced that trait well." Opening his eyes, you're faced with that tenderness, the one that leaves you breathless. "Does it make me hateful?"

"No." You answer honestly. "You've always been bad at that."

"At being fair?" He asks.

"Making me hate you." You admit quietly.

His gaze softens imperceptibly. "I suppose we're both not very good liars."

The touch of his cheek burns your skin. This is dangerous, your mind faintly warns you. You promised yourself to never hesitate in your decision, not even after meeting him. You were always meant to go home.

He spots your hesitance, and his warmth falters. His lips set back into that familiar, distant line as he lets your hand go.

"I apologise if I over-stepped." He says before you even have time to clear the air.

"No, that isn't it." You wince, drawing your hand back to scratch at your cheek. "I was just thinking. Maybe—it isn't so bad if I could stay a little longer. There's no guarantee on when the portal will open again, so it's not a ruled out possibility."

Your suggestion is a toss into the wind. A complete silent, interpretation that maybe that's what he'd like as well.

You don't even have time to process the slight hope in his gaze, the consideration of your words before something—no everything seizes. Your body collapses to the ground, the pain of your atoms glitching, seizing to exist, and reforming again, is nearly indescribable.

A near howl escapes your bitten lips as you crumple towards the floor, only for Damian to catch you in his arms, down on his knees in front of you. Your fingers grip tight around his wrists, steading yourself as your vision blurs in and out. By the time you've strained your neck to look back up at him, you see the pain contorting his expression, wiping it loose of all composure.

"I—I'm okay." You breathe out, even as you can feel how cold and clammy your skin has become.

He doesn't answer. He merely stares, a rush of emotions flooding too fast through his mind for you to read, before it falters. His grip is your only anchor, but he's trembling too.

"This isn't a good sign." He states, dread falling over his features. "You must return, soon."

"So, you're saying—" You recall his words faintly. "The longer I stay in this dimension, my body will begin to disintegrate?"

Those technical words, theories that sound ridiculous on paper, thread thinly in a reality where your body was now a self-destructive timer. He gives you a short nod, his dark circles illuminated by the hologram of his research. Despite it being your life on the line, he looks wrecked.

What had started out as a happy night, ended with the reminder that you're not only endangering yourself but him. He's faced losing you once, and your existence in this dimension that should have never happened—he might go through it all over again if you don't find the portal in time.

"Damian." You call out, spotting the weak composure he's trying to display. "Look at me."

He refuses to listen, or maybe, he's completely blocked everything out with his gaze trained on the coordinates and running calculations. Standing up from the couch, you move slowly towards him to not startle him. Your hand briefly touches his arm, and he flinches.

"Damian, we've been over this." You speak as calmly as you can. "There's no opening unless it's opened from my side."

"Then, why hasn't he done it?" He snaps.

You blink, taken aback by his reaction.

"I can't—" He swallows, jaw clenched as he stares at you with a raw agony. One he's been hiding from you since you arrived, that you had caught a brief glimpse of when he first embraced you in his panic. "I won't fail you again. I refuse to."

"Damian." Your brows furrow, hands intertwining with his to force him to feel your touch. "I need you to breathe."

His chest heaves, and you recognise a panic attack before he's even verbalised it. Pulling him towards the sofa, you force him to sit, hands still connected with his.

"It isn't fair." Damian shakes his head. "Nothing ever is. Either way, it feels as if I'm losing you all over again."

Your breath trembles in his admission, and you can do nothing but sit here and listen.

"It was my fault." He confesses, grief-stricken. "A mission gone wrong—and my arrogance. I had overestimated the ambush, and we were cornered."

His body goes still as he drowns in his memory. "You hadn't hesitated stepping in the way. I could do nothing but watch."

"I am unworthy for many things." His voice lowers, with such an encompassing belief in his words. "But not being able to save you? That is a punishment I will never recover from."

"To lose you again." He mutters, broken. "I won't know what to do."

"Damian." You whisper. "I'm scared too."

He looks up at you then, and tears are welled in the corners of his lashes.

"But I'm glad." You emphasise, squeezing his hand. "That it's you, that you're the one here with me."

He blinks, barely able to process your words. "Why?"

"Because you have been by my side, from the moment I arrived." You answer genuinely. "Even if it hurts you, and I know it does. You stuck around, and you got to know me. You didn't have to do that, not when it costs you everything to do so."

He swallows, his expression shattered as he listens.

"I would have never known this side of you, if you hadn't found me." You push forward. "And no matter how terrifying it is to be in a whole other dimension without knowing if I'll make it home, it doesn't change that I'm glad I met you."

He breathes out, as if your words were a sucker-punch to his gut. His eyes trace over your features, a hidden longing unravelling the longer he carried out his intent focus, wanting to capture everything.

"Can I be selfish one more time?" His voice is a quiet plea, and you don't resist to how weak it renders you.

You nod gently.

Leaning in, his fingers tremble as he reaches up to brush away a stray strand from your cheek. His warmth lingers over your skin, eventually brushing over your cheekbone as his gaze pours into you. He looks at you the same way he had countless times before, and you had never been able to put it to words. Till now.

When his lips touch yours, it feels like a goodbye. A wish made impossible, fulfilled for only a mere moment. It's softer than you ever expected, gentle in a way you had never been treated from anyone else before.

When you open your eyes, you watch his expression carefully draw back into his composure. He's doing it for you, picking up the pieces that's broken so you won't have to face it.

"Let's get you home." He promises, and you believe it.

As the days pass by, with your body experiencing more frequent glitches, Damian's kindness runs a deeper wound above your heart. Whenever you insist that you're fine so he can focus on his work—he merely accompanies you by your side like some personal torture he inflicts on himself. Whenever your body seizes into another episode, split between the fractures of reality—he's there, waiting for you to reach for him so you can feel real again.

He listens with a seared focus now whenever you tell him stories, of yourself—of your world, like he's running out of time. You both are.

It's the seventh day, when the daily scans of the construction site run by Damian finally begin to detect increasing abnormal activity from where you landed.

"The debris movement seems to reverse every time I run the scan." He mutters. "As if there's a disruption in the space."

You swallow dryly, eyeing the replay he's showing you. "Do you think it could mean.."

"Yes, I'm certain." Damian nods firmly. "The portal is being triggered on the other side. The only concern now is when we should be at the site."

This... is it. Despite everything you've prepared and anticipated for, the obvious fact that you should be relieved you have a chance of making it home—the realisation comes with a bitter-sweet note.

Damian doesn't comment further past the facts. He merely focuses on the hologram screen, inputting commands to verify an estimate window to make rounds at the construction site. Despite calling himself selfish, you had never seen him so composed, silent on his true thoughts of this discovery.

"In two days." He answers, staring unblinkingly at the figure. "We won't miss it."

That settles it. In two days... you're going home.

"I hate waiting."

"I am aware." Damian murmurs.

"Stop agreeing with me." You sigh.

"Alright."

Your head snaps, an unamused expression taking over your features.

His gaze flickers from his device to meet yours briefly, and his lips quirk up slightly. "Sorry." His voice doesn't sound apologetic at all. "You've made it too easy."

You can't help but scoff, chin leaning against his shoulder. "This is worse than the glitches."

"Have I mentioned that you're a horrible liar?" He mocks.

"Numerous times." You hum, eyeing the scan with a narrowed glance. "What if your calculations are wrong?"

"I ran over them one thousand and fifty-three times." He frowns. "The chance for error are near zero."

"Wow, from the looks of it—you seem rather eager to get rid of me." You tease.

"Was I that obvious?" He shrugs.

"Who's the bad liar now?" You tease.

He opens his mouth, ready to produce some quick retort—but something catches his eye.

Shifting your gaze to follow his, you catch movement from where the ground had been stagnant. The rubble—is beginning to move in an anti-clockwise direction.

"Now." Damian stands abruptly, a hand wrapping around your waist to lift you to your feet.

The shift in the atmosphere as a distant rumbling occurrs beneath your feet, it's much more aggressive than you expected. Damian tugs you back, just in time before a fracture cracks in the ground.

"The portal." You recognise, eyeing the glow beneath the fissure, something dreadfully familiar.

Your breath is almost winded, coming up short as you stare at the formation in trembling anticipation. Your gaze whips to Damian, your heart slamming against your ribcage—only for your words to fail you when you meet his expression.

Broken, that's all you saw. The same way he had seemed when you first met him.

"Damian." You call out, hesitant, but he shakes his head.

"I never got to tell you." He starts.

Your brows furrow. He had been nothing but honest since you got here. There isn’t a wound that he hasn’t uncovered in front of you, no vulnerability he hasn’t revealed. You know him, because he had let you.

"I want you to know that I am glad." He confesses, his voice picking up in pace. He sounds terrified that he won't be able to finish what he's started. "That I got to know you. There wasn't a moment where I regretted it, not even for a second."

"I must tell you." His voice cracks. "That I'd choose you, in a hundred lifetimes, no matter what reality, I'd always choose you."

The words are lost on your tongue. I'd choose you too. He has to know, even when the tears well up in your eyes.

He holds you tight, as if he's trying to sear this very embrace into his memory. "At least, I'll know now that somewhere out there, the person I am in your world was able to bring you back. That a version of me didn't lose you."

"I know it's selfish." He whispers. "But I wish I could keep you."

Contrary to his words, he lets go of you the moment he says it, his arms parting from your frame to remain firmly at his side. He's restraining himself, you realise. Damian, the very image of self-control, is barely keeping himself together. He’s letting you go, and in doing so, he’s saving you.

"Thank you." He murmurs in goodbye, casting you a solemn smile. "For sparing me the mercy of meeting you again."

"I hope he understands just how fortunate he is." A bittersweet smile graces his lips. "That he'll cherish you, and protect you always."

You think you ask him to wait. For more time. You remember briefly on how your hand extended towards him, before the portal had pulled you in. It was silent after that, and the loss of something indescribable hits you by the time the world comes back—roaring to life.

Tumbling onto the ground, you choke out a breath, saliva coating your lips as your fingers press numbly into the ground.

You're home. A quick glimpse of your surroundings is enough to confirm the familiar machinery, the abandoned lab. Yet, flashes of Damian's unmoving gaze before his frame completely disappeared, staring at you like he wanted to commit you to memory.

How could he have called it mercy, when he was so shattered?

Your tears slipped, and you feel a strange gap in your chest.

A rushed call of your name echoes before you can even name the emotion that consumes you. The syllables barely forms in your mind, as your head whips up in a daze. Your tear-stained expression is broken, completely unhidden—when you see Damian. Your Damian.

"Damian." Your voice croaks out. The name sounds strange on your tongue.

He freezes, unsure on how to process this version of you. Whatever he expected when he got you back, he must've never anticipated this. The version that has just lost him, and a part of you always will.

Pushing yourself to your feet, you stumble in your steps before collapsing into him. You're convinced he'll push you away, as he always does.

What you didn't expect was the steady warmth of his arms wrapping around you. Tense, but protective—as if he were trying to fend off the inner turmoil that's consuming you.

"It's alright." He mutters, voice stiff but his grip doesn't falter. "You're safe. I am here."

That breaks a silent sob out of you, and you bury your face into his chest. He doesn't push you for answers, nor does he distance himself. He remains planted exactly where he is, grounding you with his presence while you mourned for something that should have never been yours, and what you should have never lost.

He is embracing you so tight, it gave you a violent sense of déjà vu. The lines are blurring, and you can't find it in yourself to be angry when you know you should be.

"I am sorry." He mutters, voice breaking in composure. "I did this—I am sorry. I failed you."

"No, you didn't." You answer, your voice hoarse. "You brought me back."

It was the truth, broken into a hundred pieces.

In time, you will tell him. Of how he protected you even in another dimension. Of how that version of him will forever know that in another reality, he had saved you. That there was a Damian who didn't experience losing you.

Of how you'll never forget him. Even when he's out of bounds, but forever engraved into your existence, a memory that should have never existed.

But for now, you'll let yourself rest, knowing that you're home.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

If you're being honest, you didn't really agree to be his sugar baby because you wanted anything specific. For yourself, that is.

All you do is sit across from him at that low-tiered dining room table, in a place far more classy in ambience than you ever believed possible. With sterling clear champagne flutes that bear tranaprent bubbly.

They are immaculately perfect enough that the wide-eyed consternation you feel can be seen reflected perfectly back. You're not one for drinking—the meniscus of your libation has remained exactly the same.

You suppose that Mr. Wayne isn't either: his drink remains entirely untouched, his gaze riveted upon you. How very like the flotsam that collects on the water, foaming over in deep, precarious iridescent blue; his eyes bore into you.

It is as if they are trying to reclaim every detail of you to commemorated memory. His hands, broad and rough-knuckled—a fact that surprises you, to see this rich Gothamite be no stranger to hard work—fan straight on the top of the table.

Whereas yours are bunched on the joint of your knees under the fine linen tablecloth, palms sweating as you approach this contract together with him.

"Why are you interested in this, Mr. Wayne?" You ask, trying to affect your voice with the confidence that you do in front of your students. The self-assuredness you shore up for them is apparently depleted here, before this man who has so much hanging in the balance for you.

"I was interested when you chose my services. And for the reason you gave," He says.

"Most people who do this kind of thing aren't so—"—At this, his eyes flash a radiant intensity over the rim of his water goblet—"—Altruistic with that they want this for."

You make a pursed smile, trying to maintain self-composure in marked manner. Trying to make yourself not appear to be roiling in the nervousness that is coursing over you.

"I don't mind. I've worked other jobs to make ends meet as a teacher before." You reply with the casual maintenance of cadence that you hope shows. "I don't mind doing this, either."

"Most sugar babies don't do it to buy pencils and notebooks for their students," Mr. Wayne replies, his brow cocking up in trite disbelief. "They usually go a little more…"

He pauses for lack of a better word, though you can certainly supply the concepts yourself—of designer bags, of expensive cars, of exotic trips. Sure, they sound nice, but you're already shaking your head in disagreement with him.

"Well, maybe I can buy the nice spiral-bound ones I've been eyeing over in the department store," You return, allowing your smile to become more genuine in quality.

As Bruce permits himself a swallow before settling down the glass. It allows you one more moment to appraise the span of his hand. To wonder how it would feel it draped over your body in terms of goods and services exchanged.

"So I'm your DonorsChoose if we enter this together?" Bruce asks dryly. This summons an unexpected laugh from you in off-kilter rhythm—you didn't think he'd have a sense of humor about this.

"Absolutely you will be." You respond. A little more like yourself at the extension of familiarity, you dare out into the unknown. "But—I suppose you'll be reaping some of the benefits too."

You can swear that the sear of his eyes is practically incendiary when you say that. You clench your legs together to stem the flare of heat that rides up your body with stunning alacrity, trying to ignore the way that his knuckles tighten over the tabletop.

The main course hasn't even made its arrival yet—and yet he bears a kind of starvation that can't be quelled by food. You figure that now is as good as any time to make your advancement into his territory.

"Do you—"—You hate yourself for how weak your voice sounds in this moment—"—Are you interested in pursuing this with me?"

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't," Mr. Wayne says with such immediacy that you almost have to blink in surprise, manually restart the pacing of your heart to ensure that it doesn't stop abruptly. Dissociate from the plume of heat ascending to zenith in the tightening of your legs, your knees grinding against each other.

His hand inches closer to yours, so very close to the meridian where he skirts the boundaries of your space.

But he does not break it. After all, nothing has been set in stone yet.

"I am very interested in pursuing this with you," He continues; when he says your name, it's with such fluid ease as if he has vocalized it many times before. A flush spreads under your skin as you realize that he will, should if this relationship commences as is to be expected.

"But you should know—"—And his voice is genial but his eyes tell you everything that you need to know. That he wants you.

Your fingers brush against his and the electric shock that bolts up you isn't imagined. You know it's mutual. He continues to speak.

"—I won't be broken off with easily." He asserts, and his fingers are already yawning over yours, staking possessive claim. He is a man of economical words, but extravagant bearings—he means what he says.

"If you're not certain about this," He says, his thumb brushing over the ridges of your knuckles with such practiced intimacy, "Then you need to let me know now. And we can walk away from this with no hard feelings."

For some reason, you don't entirely buy into this declaration that he makes. But you are also steadfast in your purpose for this night.

"I know what I want." You state with the most surety that you've been able to muster this entire night. "And I want to do this with you, Mr. Wayne."

He only allows the span of a fleeting second to pass tautly between the two of you, to admire the way that your hands look enfolded together. And then those glass-blue eyes dart back up to you.

"If we're going to do this," his smile crooks in a rather roguish way, "Then you're going to have to call me Bruce."

It feels odd, awkward for you to do this. But you try your best. "Okay, Bruce."

"And," He says, "We may as well get started with seeing how compatible we are."

Something percolates anxiously in the pit of your stomach as you consider the implications of this statement. But the smile that he provides you is disarming.

He leans in, and as though pulled by gravitational tether—you move in towards him.

"I mean with a kiss." He offers you in husked whisper, chuckling at the way that relief plainly breaks on your face.

"Oh." You say, and you're certain that it's written in the articulation of your voice—but he doesn't hold it against you. "Are you sure?"

"Of course," He says, his hand already rising to find the span of your jaw. Brushing against you as he encourages you closer to the heat of his mouth. There's only a brief pause on your end as you hesitate.

You've never kissed a man before in such hurried fashion, a sharp exhale that is huffed against the terrain of his lips. His eyes are focused upon yours, that are appraising the real estate of his face to look at the handsome architecture of your—sugar daddy.

And then his mouth is on yours. There's something warm and sweet that sparks in the structure of your ribs, in the pull of your chest. It makes you cycle quick inhale as his mouth moves against you for more—and you reward him with it.

It's so short. It's a chaste, respectful one for such a lurid engagement that the two of you are proceeding into. When he leans back to look at you, you know that he is sated—but he is not satisfied. And surprisingly, neither are you. You don't realize until later that you've yet to let go of his hand, nor has he retreated tactile claim on your face.

"I—want to kiss you again." You say in halting means, unsure that it's your right to ask of it. "Can I?"

"Seems like we're on the same page," Bruce grins, and urges you towards him to close the distance once more.

Surprisingly, for a man who you've seen go through so many different paramours on so many different tabloids, Bruce is a gentle lover. He has the courtesy to take you to one of the penthouse apartments connected to the restaurant for exclusive patrons only. He offers you another opportunity for libation that you decline politely.

And claims your mouth with a kiss so intense that if it weren't for the fact that his hands were wrapped about the width of your body in implacable manner, you might stumble in your footing.

Either way, you have to hold to the finely starched folds of his suit jacket, breathe deeply as his tongue presses against the seam of your mouth. As it explores the nuance of your own, tasting the way your moan sighs into him.

His hands drape down your back, taking care to peel you from the best clothes that you could scrounge up for the occasion.

They become threadbare piles of fabric abandoned to the ground as he takes care to strip you of them. He soothes away the shivers that wrack up your body as you are left bare and exposed to him.

"Will we—"—You look up at him, certain that the uncertainty is written in your face as he regards you. "Do you want to fuck me?"

He smiles, his gaze ravenous as he takes in all of the details of your skin. As he runs a hand all-but-carnivorous in the way that his fingers explore the small of your back, summoning goosebumps that trail in aftershock after him.

"Not tonight." He says, and allows himself opportunity to kiss you again—something that you freely give him. Something sours in worry within you as he says that, but it evaporates with his following statement.

"Tonight," Bruce promises, "I just want to taste you."

You've never been one to be carried. But you suppose for the Prince of Gotham, you'll make an exception, as he takes you in the muscular expanse of his arms and settles you down on the bed.

As he descends between your legs that dangle over the far-reaching edge. As his breath ghosts over your heat that seems to spike in nascent peak, makes your legs twitch in nervous, jittery manner.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," Bruce orders you in low, corrugated note. The fact that you would have autonomy in the parameters of this relationship stymies you enough to prevent a response. And then his tongue inches in excruciatingly slow, slick motion over your clit.

You don't expect the moan, the protracted shiver, the way that your thighs tremble at the touch. He is already taking care to lope your legs over the plateau of his shoulders. Your fingers clench into the sheets as another rasping lick makes your fingers curl tighter.

"No," Bruce pauses the euphoric torment on you, murmuring the words into you, "Put your hands on me."

His eyes stare up at you from between your legs—it's such a profane, obscene sight—but the command is undeniable. Already, you're reaching to entwine them in his perfectly mussed coif of hair.

"Good," is all that Bruce says before his mouth descends upon you again, and he draws you against his tongue once more. You don't object as a jolt of pleasure darts up your body again, your toes curling at the wet, lewd noises that are elapsing from the work of his mouth. All you can do is close your eyes—and hold on for dear life.

You don't know how many times you come that night—you just know that Bruce Wayne is very, very talented with his mouth. That you are a sweaty, shaking mess in need of the in-suite shower that he lets you have run of the roost over.

And, when you emerge from the gusting steam of the restroom in bathrobe provided by staff—he is already readying to go. As though nothing ever occurred.

You know the functionality of this relationship. You know the means that the two of you must operate in. But to see him re-adjust his tie in the mirror—though you smile at the lingering look he gives you—you cannot help but admit that you are disappointed.

But these are inside thoughts that must remain internal.

So, all that you say instead is, "Are you leaving?"

"The suite is yours tonight." Bruce informs you. "I'll be doing some business at Wayne Tech late."

You think of that vaulted tower that looms high in the sky that he will depart to. And all you can do is nod as you fold your hands in front of each other, admiring the velvet feel of the soft robe that is your only defense.

He comes close, with bearings of someone who has something to say. His eyes hold yours in resolute manner, his hand already reaching in familiar way for the apple of your chin to bid him look up to you.

"I'll call you soon," He promises. "Have a good night."

When he kisses you goodbye, you can swear that the gesture feels far more than mere transaction. But you don't allow yourself to voice these thoughts. All you do is watch him go, and tumble into the ruined sheets that the two of you spent the past few hours introducing yourselves upon.

When you wake up, Bruce Wayne has fully paid your Classroom Fundraiser seven times over. You look at the screenshot and then the text paired with it that says Use the extra however you want.

In the privacy of the suite by yourself, you allow the indecipherable emotions to crest over you. Finally, the smile you've kept hidden reveals itself.

The two of you fall into very amiable fashion. He invites you over to some lavish location where you are awed by the scenery, impressed by the food—and learn one indisputable truth.

Bruce Wayne is generous both in bed and out of it.

The second time the two of you rendezvous, you are treated to veal and red-bodied pinot noir with music quartet playing in the background. Then, Bruce takes you to the hotel across the street and spreads you open so that he can have dessert.

But this time, he elects to be more hands-on.

When his fingers curl into you, paired with the lave of his tongue at your clit, it's all you can do but to arc your head back into the sheets and cry out his name. To let him pump those wide fingers into you, summoning such indecent noises from you as you beg and whimper for more.

As he watches the way that you react to the pressure of him as he hits the back, and devours the way you tremble as you come. As he dares the stretch of his body over you, fully clothed—and kisses you in carnivorous way, allowing you to taste your orgasm on your soft palate.

The next day, Bruce pays for three field trips that are provided to your school by mysterious anonymous sponsor. And you try to ignore the buoyancy that glides over you when you receive a message on your phone during your prep period. Graded book reports fall momentarily by the wayside with that familiar chime that summons you in Pavlovian designs.

I want to see you again tonight. Is all that comes from your contact aptly titled Bruce.

And so you send back a simple, Where to?

Your curiosity is rewarded when you arrive at stately Wayne Manor in driven escort provided by stiff-upper-lipped butler. Said butler opens the car door for you and becomes informative docent. He is very knowledgable as walks you down the boulevard to the sprawling mansion with its well-maintained topiaries and perfect cobblestone path.

The interior is no less breathtaking albeit Gothic in nature, with its high-arching ceilings, its cathedral-style stained-glass windows. With its lush carpetry and gilded, wall-to-wall private portraiture—many which feature a dark-haired man who you have become very familiar with as of late.

"In here," the Butler guides you to a door from which warm light bleeds through in blushing, arterial manner. "The food is ready for your arrival."

In here is rather drab understatement for the decadent undertaking that has been made for your arrival. The dining room already stuns without the fine trimmings to the long-yawning dining table, the formidable feast, the crackling fireplace. But you can only focus on the man who rises from patient seating to cross the heady distance to you.

When he says your name, it is with such undercurrent that you cannot ignore the giddiness that hums through you. And when he kisses you, you cannot deny the strident blaze of emotion that consumes you. So you kiss him back, allowing him to linger around the territory of your mouth with the talent that his tongue has demonstrated before.

When he pulls away, it is with clear regret that he could not extend the kiss for longer. But the contrition is short-lived and replaced with ardency.

"I'm glad that you could come," He says, and offers his arm in gentlemanly way for you to crook yours around him. Though the feast extends from table end to table end, there are two chairs seated side-by-side so that the two of you may dine together.

You wonder if this was the butler's discrepancy or Bruce's design. But he is retreating the chair across the fine marbled tile for you to sit. So you let him do so, and join you at a side that is beginning to feel incomplete without him.

But this introspection remains, as always, unvoiced.

"Your home is beautiful," You reply with utmost sincerity, affording yourself another glimpse of the grandeur that surrounds you both. Bruce takes the fawning compliment in stride. It is clear through the taut wiring of his body that he has other matters on mind.

"What did you want to bring me here for?" You ask, and feel brave enough to dare out, "Other than the obvious."

He allows wicked trace of smile to curve the trajectory of those full lips. "That'll be later. Right now—I wanted to ask something of you."

"What's that?" You ask, allowing bemusement to guise the fear that you already feel brimming in the forefront of your mind. That you are yesterday's news—that this relationship has run its course.

"I want," Bruce says, his hand making wide swathe over yours, "Exclusivity."

You allow the staccato stutter of your heart to right itself. Permit yourself homoestatic breath for regulation. Will yourself to hold his hand back.

"Exclusivity?"

"I know our relationship is more transactional than most," Bruce informs you of this truth, "But I want it to be the only relationship you have."

"Meaning?" You ask—without guile, without coyness. Simple inquiry—something grows liquid and affectionate—and proprietary in the cant of his gaze. This is supplemented by the way that his knuckles tighten to white protrusion against the landscape of his skin. The way that his jaw sets in affirmation.

"I'm the only one that has you," Bruce says, "Emotionally, or physically. No other boyfriends."

The second addendum should draw you short—it should give you pause, that your sugar daddy is exacting such terms. But that would deny the fact that you're overwhelmed by burgeoning delight that blossoms from inside-out.

"Okay," Is all that you say without hesitation, covering your other hand over his. Watching the way that his nostrils flare at the gesture, his shoulders broaden in masculine design. The way his eyes turn dark and mercurial at once.

"I can do that," You inform him with a smile. This potentially betrays the joy that you feel. But you are presented with no further chance to voice anything else, for Bruce is coaxing you into the spread of his arms.

The two of you don't do a lot of eating that night—or at least, you don't. Bruce takes his fill between your legs, pressing you into the voluminous rug that expands before the fireplace. It's on the cusp of your first orgasm, though, that you plead alternative to this arrangement.

"Please," You beg as another torturous wave of pleasure washes over you, "I want you."

His eyes fixate upon you, the fire illuminating him in deep-ambered, infernal hues. He is angelic and terrible at once, the only thing betraying his composure the wild arc of his stare upon your naked body.

"Please fuck me," you beg, though this is a broken plea made by the way that his fingers have your back arching into the air. "Please, Bruce."

You watch the quick assessment of you through the haze of your euphoria, before a threshold is crossed and decision is made. His hand ascends to the tortoise-shell button that unites his collar, and begins to undo it, revealing himself to you.

You didn't expect the scars—fading, fresh, old, new—that litter the acreage of his ribs, the flat, toned stomach. That divot throughout the plateau of his chest. You're certain that the back parallels the rest, white-lined and crescent, jagged, serrated—all-encompassing.

You only feel your eyes widen as you take him in, as you sit up to find your footing on the heel of your hands. As he releases you to lick the exertion of your near-orgasm on the flat of his tongue.

"I didn't want to scare you off the first night," He informs you in husky intonation when he has sated himself. He shoulders himself out of his shirt to reveal arms that are in similar exhibition to what you have seen.

"I—"—You find yourself stymied for words and settle upon—"—Do they hurt?"

"Not all of them." He says—it's clear that one implicit boundary is to not inquire the source of them. You know better than to cross it. "Some days are better than others."

"Which one hurts right now?" You ask him. It is as if you are drawn into his heavenly orbit. Made to crawl in willing subjugation on hands and knees to him across the rug that splays under your tread.

He watches you with what you might classify as wry amusement, before he makes another decision to determine the night's evolution.

"This one," He whispers, pointing to an X that is demarcated on his left pectoral, near the bifurcation of his sternum. The muscle is tacky to the touch with the roaring fire beside you both. But it is warm and pulses with the beat of his heart as you press your mouth to it in a kiss.

As you feel the tense breath that circulates through his body at your gesture. You hold onto the span of his thighs to support yourself as you press additional kiss for good measure. Then, you spare glance to levy up his way through the span of your lashes.

"Where else, Bruce?" You ask. He is less reticent this time as he points to the ridge of his collarbone where ruddy scar makes notch down the bone. You climb the columns of his arms for support, allowing his hands to grasp the small of your back to guide you.

You press your mouth to him, feeling the way that he draws still, though he is radiant with the heat of life. His hold becomes far more covetous, the pads of his fingers sinking tightly into you. Enough to make you gasp against the nuance of his skin.

You are seated on his lap now, held in the caging of his arms as you pull back. "Where else, Bruce?"

He claims your mouth with a kiss that speaks where the pain has silenced all else. Though his mouth, his desire is animal in nature, he is gentle as he leads you back down to the floor.

When he sinks his cock into you, you know you don't imagine his groan that is drawn rigid with need. Nor do you deny the moan of pleasure that escapes you as he spreads you further open, sucking a bruise into the vulnerable juncture of your neck.

The students can tell that you're happier, more cheerful—not that you weren't before, but kids are honest with their thoughts.

"You got a man?" One of your more audacious kids asks. "That's how my mom acts when she's got a new boyfriend."

"Turn to Chapter 4 on page 65," is all you say, though you ignore the furtive side-eyes and cheeky smiles they share.

Staff members notice, too. One of them pulls you aside during a PLC meeting with a question guised as another.

"Who's paying for these trips?" They ask, arching a knowing brow. "I know where you are on the pay scale."

"PTA fundraising has been pretty good this year," is all that you shoot back with cavalier ease.

You take care to voice this one night, when you and Bruce collapse on the panoramic backdrop of his bed after a rather passionate round. After all, the two of you have started to spend nights together.

Even though he's only your sugar daddy, there's something very natural about the way you've become used to being entangled in his arms as you go to sleep. Though, of course, he's always absent in the early morning.

"People are starting to talk," You chuckle. "You know what happens when people gossip."

Bruce seems consumed by a singular thought as he shifts the duvet over your shoulder, loitering his hand over the curve of your cheek.

"Maybe you should say that we're dating." He says—something that makes you draw pause.

"Dating?" You ask, thinking about the way that it feels on your tongue. The way that it blossoms incandescent in the housing of your chest. The way that it brings shy, lilting smile to your face—drawn in parallel by him.

"I won't mind." He says with such sincerity you cannot doubt its veracity. "Easier than saying the alternative."

"Hmmmm," You tarry on this thought for the duration of an instant. "No one will believe me."

"Maybe we should go on a few more public outings," Bruce offers, "To sell the point."

"Careful—"—You grin with teasing angle—"—You keep me out and about, you'll have to promote me from sugar baby to concubine."

You find yourself laughing at your inept choice of words, though Bruce is silent as the grave.

You wave disarming hand. "Okay, poor choice of words. Something else."

"Yes," Bruce says as he lures you towards him, "Something else."

When he kisses you, his arms wrapping around you—something feels different as he clasps you against the implacable wall of his body. But drowse already draws your eyes closed, so you make sure to give your farewells.

"Goodnight, Bruce." You say and press a gentle kiss against the divot that marks the location of his heart. How lucky you feel to have access to it.

Bruce says your name in parting to sleep, along with a murmured intonation that is buried in the crown of your head. But you don't hear it—you're already lost to sleep.

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Wally leaned down behind you. “I thought it was just gonna be the two of us,” he whispered, his breath fanning against your ear and making you shiver. It'd been so easy to lean back and press yourself against him.

“I know, but then Damian looked so sad when I said no, and then Dick was in town so…” you whispered back.

“Damian? Sad?” he asked, unconvinced.

“Well, he’d never admit it, but I can tell.”

Wally groaned, his hands sliding down to your hips. “Baby, you’re just hella weak.”

His touch sent heat coiling low in your belly into knots he could unravel if he wanted to. 

“Am not,” you argued, voice hitching while you held up a black suit. “How’s this one?” 

He hummed, resting his chin on your shoulder as he looked at it. “I dunno. Looks like every other suit in here.”

Dick stopped beside you, eyeing Wally practically all over you. You'd given him hell after spreading false rumors and even forced him into going to this gala as punishment. However, he seemed happy to come. Too happy.

"How bout a pink tie?" Dick offered up, his knowing eyes looking straight through Wally, which unnerved you. Did he still think you guys were together?

"I'm wearing pink," you told Wally. This was probably a bit too much for just friends. With him, it was always too easy to slip into this pretend. His touch, his words, it all made you braver, made you dream of a life where he'd patch you up when you were too tired or hold your hand and press kisses all over your face.

"Yeah? Kinda figured you would." Wally grinned.

"See?" Dick spread his hands in a 'I'm right' sort of way. "It's perfect.

"Yes, if he wanted to embarrass you," Damian added disapprovingly, while he came over with a handful of other ties. Your heart warmed at how seriously he was taking this. 

Wally shrugged. "I'll wear pink."

"Do not indulge her—

Dick put a hand over the youngest's mouth. "Shhh, let the romance play out."

"This is a poor excuse for romance. He is practically slobbering all over her like a dog." Damian's words came out muffled. 

Wally awkwardly cleared his throat while he took a step back. Immediately, empty air rushed around you, replacing his warmth. You silently cursed your brother for saying anything. 

"I was told you liked dogs," Wally muttered.

"Well behaved ones, yes," Damian responded in a very princely manner. You muffled a laugh. That wasn't true at all. You've seen him take in unruly animals, ones that tore up vintage couches, left trails of dirt all around the manor, making Alfred (the human) question every life decision that led him to this.

"Anyway…" Dick broke you out of your thoughts, and you swore you saw him nudge Damian with his elbow.

Damian sighed. "Come, sister, we must find you an appropriate…everything." 

Your eyes darted to Wally instinctively. "But we—

"Your suitor will be fine, come," Damian stated, his hand grabbing your arm.

You waved at Wally as your brother dragged you away. “We’ll be back…I think…”

Wally watched you go, his eyes not leaving you until the crowded streets took you away from view.

"What was that about?" Wally turned to see Dick standing there, arms crossed, expression unreadable—so different from the way he acted around you. It was as if you really did brighten any room you walked into. Or maybe that was how he felt about you.

“Alright,” Dick said, raising a brow. “What’s going on with you, man?”

Wally blinked. “What do you mean?”

"C'mon, I know you, you're not the type to hide your feelings. And it's obvious to everyone but her. Hell, even Oliver's talking about this. Oliver."

Wally's brows furrowed. "Wait, what?"

Dick exhaled like he couldn't believe he had to spell it out. "Everyone knows you're both in love."

"Oh, that." Wally rubbed the back of his head.

“You think she’ll reject you or something? Trust me, she looks at you like you're her whole world?” 

Wally’s lips curved up absentmindedly at that. The effect you had on him would get him in trouble one day. And he had a feeling that day was near.

His smile faltered, gaze dropping to the polished floor. “It’s not that simple."

He raised his head to look at his friend. “And what if Damian’s right?”

Dick gave him a look that said 'What the hell'. "About what?"

“Like…what if we’re incompatible?” he said quietly, using Damian's words. It was easier than admitting the fear curling in his chest.

Dick squinted. "You're taking Damian's words to heart?" 

"They're close," Wally gestured to the shop's entrance helplessly, where the current Robin had dragged you away.

That drew out a laugh from dick "Holy shit," he said, while he struggled to breathe. Wally stands there with his head tilted in confusion.

"He's jealous," Dick explained, after recovering from his laughing fit. However, he still had a big grin on his face that made Wally feel a bit silly for ever taking anything the kid said seriously.

"I know he doesn't act like a kid, but underneath…all that," he waves his hand around," he's still a kid."

Wally stared. "Yeah, alright."

"Great," Dick patted his shoulder. "Tell her you love her. She deserves that much—you both do."

“You're surprisingly chill about this,” Wally said, slowly.

Dick snorted. “Don’t worry, it's Bruce and Damian who'll give you enough hell. Consider this a mercy."

———

Nerves prickled over your skin. The chandeliers you once admired felt more like a trap today as they sparkled all over the ballroom. The rest of your family was scattered around. Jason, who was chugging down flutes of champagne, had said he was here for the drama. You'd ignored him, pulling up the skirt of your dress so it wouldn't drag and moving onward, and deeper into the suffocating glamor.

Wally was late. That much you knew. Where he was, however, was a complete mystery. And pride stopped you from texting. You'd done this without him; you didn't need him. Yet, with eyes following your every move, you'd never felt more alone.

Heavy footsteps approached behind you. Years of training kicked in. A cold hand pressed against your back. Relief rose in your chest so quickly, you barely registered how cold it was.

You turned, ready to complain. "Wally—

You faltered. "Oh, it's you."

"What's up, shortcake?" Roy grinned boyishly, and probably way too cheerfully to be considered innocent. He was wearing a suit, messily at that, like he hadn't bothered to clean up. His tie was done wrong, and habit crept over you, reminding you of all the times you’d fix your younger brother's ties.

"Have you seen Wally?" You asked, getting closer and letting your hands fix his tie. People whispered, but you paid them no mind. The crooked tie took priority. 

He rolled his eyes. "Is ' Wally ' the only word in your vocabulary?"

You ignored him, your brows furrowing. "Why is the knot so tight?" you complained, trying to loosen it.

For the next five minutes, the two of you bickered as you tug him around, trying to fix his tie. At one point, he tried to get Jason to save him, but the latter took out his phone to record, so Roy seemed content to let you do whatever was needed to free him. 

Throughout it all, Wally would slip into your mind. Would he wear the matching tie? Would he even show up? When he'd dance with you, would it be like what you dreamed it'd be? 

You were so distracted that you didn't even notice Wally appearing.

"Thank fuck," Roy mumbled in relief. "Take your girl, West, she's just as crazy as the rest of her kind."

"My kind?" you asked Wally, who, you noticed, was wearing a pink tie. Your posture straightened, and your eyes lit up.

"Bats," he explained, his eyes shooting daggers at the other redhead standing too close to you.

Roy put his hands up. "I'm harmless." He slowly backs away and disappears into the crowd like he was fleeing a crime scene.

You shifted closer to Wally. His eyes flicked back to you, where they belonged. The tension in his shoulders eased and his eyes softened as he gazed over you.

"You're beautiful." He whispered, hand reaching out for yours.

Your throat bobbed. The air in here felt warmer, the fabric of your dress too tight, but when his hand wrapped fully around yours, you realized it was just him making you feel like this. 

"I think you're beautiful too," you respond, just as quietly as if the world around you wasn't loud.

He grinned. "You had enough of me yet?"

"Nope," you tug him forward. He stumbled along, happily following you as you brought him to a balcony that was hidden from most people's view.

From here, all the scheming brothers and meddling friends were distant. He said your name, softly, pulling your attention back on him

You hummed, trying to quiet your racing heart while you leaned against the railings. A gust of chill air mussed your hair.

“Wanna know something?” he asked, his hand brushing through your hair, trying to smooth it back into place. But another gust blew it loose again, so he gave up and instead twirled a strand around his finger while looking at you intently.

"Falling in love is scary," he mummbled, "But you make it easy…you make everything easy."

Your chest felt full, like your body wasn't sure what to do with all this.

"I'm gonna cry," you said, eyes already going glassy.

"Shit—don't cry, babe." He panicked, pulling you into a tight hug. His scent, engulfing you, only made it worse. It made you want to cry more because he loved you. And you’d known for a while, unconsciously at least. It had always been there in the way you touched him back, spoke freely with him, and tried to hold onto him just a little longer every time he was near.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, pressing a small kiss to your skin there.

"I love you," you mumbled against his chest.

"I know," he said, one hand slipping back into your hair as if he couldn't help but want to touch you everywhere. 

"You have to say it back," you complained.

"What? That I love you? Everyone knows that, sweetheart." He tilted your head up so he could look into your eyes before letting himself kiss you, slow and sweetly.

Bonus: before the gala!

"You are sweating," Damian observed, his hands clasped behind him.

"Dick," Wally whispered, eyeing Damian while he tried to fix his tie for the hundredth time, "It's like having one of those devils over your shoulders."

His friend grinned, throwing an arm around his shoulders, "Does that mean I'm the angel?"

"fuck, I'm so screwed," Wally mummbled hysterically. "She's so effortless, I'm like…

"Dude, chill. With us as your wingmen, nothing can go wrong." 

"Todd has reported back," Damian spoke, suddenly, "Harper has arrived, he is speaking to her."

Slowly, Wally glanced at them with narrowed eyes. "What did you do?"

Dick shrugged, then pretended to check his watch. "Well, having a thing for gingers runs in the family. 

"That is only you and sister," Damian muttered with disgust.

Wally had gone still. Then, just like that, his hesitation was gone and he was rushing over to you.

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Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.

You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.

“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.

“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“

“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“

“Then go ask Lois!”

“Lois is in Gotham, I can’t ask Lois-“

“Then ask Clark, he’ll be happy to smell me-“

“I can’t ask Clark.” You’d whined. “Come on, please smell me-“

Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘

“It’s not a mating dance!”

“It seems like a mating dance-“

“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”

Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.

You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.

“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“

You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.

He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.

His eyes are black, and gleaming.

You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.

Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.

You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.

“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”

Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.

Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.

But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.

He looks dangerous.

And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.

But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.

“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”

Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“

Clark looks at you.

And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.

“You smell good.” He mutters.

He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.

“What the fuck is up with him?”

Nobody seems to be sure.

On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.

“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.

“There are no other words I could use, though-“

“Corrupt?”

“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”

You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.

“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.

“Dogshit.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“

“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“

“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.

“Yeah. Because I had a source.”

“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.

You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.

“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“

“Shut up, I’m excited-“

“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.

He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.

Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.

You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.

And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.

Today you keep it under control.

It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.

“It’s- Uh- Superman.”

You blink. “What?”

“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”

“I- You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“I can find someone else-“

“No, I- I’ve got it.”

He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.

You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.

But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.

You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”

He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.

“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.

Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.

He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.

He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.

And you have no idea what to do.

Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.

He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.

You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.

And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.

“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”

His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.

“Clark-“

“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”

You blink. “Back up?”

He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.

He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.

But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.

You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.

He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.

“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“

“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.

“You’re sick-“

“No. I’m not.”

“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”

He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.

“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”

That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.

His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.

And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.

It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.

The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.

But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.

“Clark- Please-“

He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.

“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”

You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.

And you look back. You can’t help it.

But all he does is stare at you.

So you walk away.

Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.

“Is he-“

“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”

You frown. “But-“

“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“

Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.

“Don’t go visit him.”

You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“

“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”

“But-“

“Don’t.”

“What if he needs something-“

“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”

“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”

Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Lois-“

“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”

She walks away without another word.

On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.

You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.

Don’t.

His door is right there.

Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.

Don’t.

You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.

But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.

You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.

Don’t.

But you want to.

Don’t.

He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-

Don’t.

Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.

And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.

He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.

You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.

Before Clark can open it, you walk away.

On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.

It’s a  distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-

You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.

This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.

It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.

He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.

He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.

Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.

You miss him.

Goddamnit.

Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.

You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.

He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this  sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.

You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.

You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.

Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.

But why is he home visiting you.

Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.

You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.

“Hello?”

Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.

He doesn’t look well.

Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-

Like Clark.

Just like Clark.

And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s  worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.

Or something else.

Without the glasses, there’s something else.

He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.

He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.

“Clark?”

“I’m here for your interview-“

You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.

He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.

Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.

His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.

“Clark- Wait-“

Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.

At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.

You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.

He’s burning at 150 degrees.

He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.

The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.

You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.

Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.

That time it was definitely your name.

Superman moaned your name.

You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.

Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.

It does nothing for hearing him.

And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.

It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.

Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-

Oh.

That’s… Big.

You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.

The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.

You still haven’t really dealt with that.

Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.  

And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.

To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.

When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.

You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.

Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.

Dear lord.

Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.

You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.

Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.

He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.

You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.

Clark is Superman,

And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.

His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.

“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.

This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-

You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.

He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-

No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.

But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.

The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.

If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.

And you’re not that strong at all.

Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.

You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.

When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.

He’s naked.

Fully naked.

And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.

He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.

But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.

And his cock. 

You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.

Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.

“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“

“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”

He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of  release on his thigh. He’d been humping  the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-

“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”

“Clark-“

“Stop saying it like that.”

You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.

His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.

“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”

Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.

“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”

You laugh softly, despite everything.

Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.

“Don’t laugh either.”

“I- I’m sorry-“

“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“

He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.

“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”

“No- That- That’s weird-“

“Kal-El?”

“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.

“I need to be able to call you something.”

“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”

That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.

“No, not- Not like that-“

“Not like what-“

“It’s just, when you talk-“

“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.

It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.

“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.

“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”

“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“

“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”

He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”

“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”

“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“

“You said I shouldn’t talk.”

“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.

“You better fix the wall, Kent.”

“I will. ‘M sorry-“

“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”

You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.

“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”

 That’s not  promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.  

“You know kryptonite?”

You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”

“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“

“Clark.”

“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.

“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.

His cock twitches. You try not think about it.

“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“

“It what-“

“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”

He trails off, words hanging in the air.

Saw you.

You activated the red kryptonite in him.

There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.

“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.

Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.

“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.

“Please don’t make me say it.”

You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.

“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“

“Can’t you?”

Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.

And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.

“You- You can’t mean that-“

“Why not?”

You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.

“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.

“You don’t have to pity me-“

“It’s not pity.”

He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“

“Who says it’s not how I feel?”

You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.

“Uhh… Steve?”

You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”

Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.

You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.

“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.

You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”

His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.

“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”

“No, you-“

“Don’t tell me what I feel.”

He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.

“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”

He nods, tight and controlled.

You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.

Not with fear.

With excitement.

“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”

And Clark snaps.

He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.

Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.

If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.

But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.

He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.

There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as  he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.

You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.

You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.

He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.

“Clark-“

“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“

He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.

“Smell so good.” He almost  whines. “So good.”

You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.

Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.

It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.

“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“

“You- You can’t-“

“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“

“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.

You don’t mind at all.

“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“We talked about this-“

“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.

You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.

And you feel it.

The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.

Oh.

Right.

Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.

“I need to get you ready.”

You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“

Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”

“How do you know-“

“Nose.”

“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“

“Not enough.”

He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.

“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.

That’s his agreement hum.

Your jaw drops.

“Are you serious-“

“I can’t help it.”

“You- You could wear nose plugs-“

“No. Like it too much.”

Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.

“You- Can’t move-“

“You should move-“

“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”

You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.

“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”

Clark grunts. You smile at the air.

“You came in bed last night.”

He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”

“About who?”

You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”

And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.

“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”

“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.

“Yeah? Like what?”

Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.

“A brat.”

A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.

And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.

“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.

Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.

“You- You can’t just say that-“

“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”

Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.

“Can you please look at me-“

“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.

“Clark-“

“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.

You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.

“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”

“I- I need to get you-“

“I’m going to touch you, okay?”

His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.

Enough.

You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.

“Sorry-“

“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”

He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.

You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.

The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.

He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.

You add a second, and squeeze at the base.

Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.

“Be- Be careful.”

You pause. “Does it not feel-“

“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“

Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.

You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.

And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.

You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.

Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.

“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“

He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.

You want to taste him.

When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.

“What- What are you-“

You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.

The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.

There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.

You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.

“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“

You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.

It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.

“Are you-“

You moan, and Clark gives in.

He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.

“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“

Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.

“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“

You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.

And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-

Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.

He’s cumming.

And he’s not stopping.

Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.

Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.

“If you-“

“Do that inside me.”

You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.

“I- I mean- Clark-“

He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.

“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”

His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.

“Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”

Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.

“Oh- Oh god-“

“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”

You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.

“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”

He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.

“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.

You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.

He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.

“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“

You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.

Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.

Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.

You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.

You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.

There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.

It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.

“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”

His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.

“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.

Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.

“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”

Well. If he needs it.

It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.

“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“

“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”

It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.

You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.

“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.

He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.

“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”

And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.

“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“

“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.

Clark hears it.

“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”

You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.

Maybe Clark could let you live with him.

Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.

Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.

That’s a good plan. The best plan.

There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.

“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.

You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.

“Don’t do that.”

Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.

He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.

“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.

You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.

He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.

Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.

He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.

His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.

You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.

Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.

“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.

“I liked it.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”

Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.

And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.

He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.

“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”

You nod. It’s all you can manage.

He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.

“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“

He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.

Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.

“Big.”

He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.

“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“

You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.

“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.

“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”

You blink, and his eyes widen.

“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“

Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.

“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.

Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.

“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”

Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.

“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.

Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.

You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.

He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.

Safe and attended to.

You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.

It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.

“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“

He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.

Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.

He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.

Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.

It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.

Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.

Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.

And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.

Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.

Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.

You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.

There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.

Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.

You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.

He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.

It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.

If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.

On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.

There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.

Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.

It’s an oddly romantic thought.

There are lots of those to go around.

Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.

“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.

“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”

“See it-“

“X-ray vision.”

“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.

Clark bows his head, almost in shame.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.

You shake your head. “It fine-“

“I wanted to-“

“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”

He blinks at you, then relaxes.

“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.

“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”

Clark laughs at that, and you beam.

It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.

“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.

“I-“

“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“

“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”

He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”

You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.

“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“

“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“

Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”

You laugh. “Bring it on.”

✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦

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“Yeah? I must’ve gotten lucky then,” he mutters, his breath fanning over the top of your head.

Your throat bobs at the proximity. His scent engulfs you, forcing you to acknowledge your rapid heartbeat.

“You’re shirtless?” you ask weakly, heat pooling low in your belly.

He hums sleepily, then his hand moves to cover your eyes.

“Don’t look. Ignorance is bliss,” he replies.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Helping.”

“You’re doing a shit job.”

“And you have a funny way of saying ‘thank you,’” he teases, his lips close to your ear.

“Dick.”

“Yeah?”

“No, uh… your thing is touching me,” you mumble, wishing you could disappear entirely.

Or grind against him?

“Don’t call it my thing.” He shifts slightly so it isn’t pressing against you.

“Should I name it?” you joke.

He says your name like you’re the nuisance.

“Hey, you’re the one who sleeps naked,” you mutter.

“Baby, you’re the one who snuck into my bed.” His arm tightens around you, his nose nuzzling against your cheek. “You couldn’t sleep?”

You close your eyes. “No.”

His hand slips under your shift, pressing against your stomach. You bite back a sound.

“Want me to wear you out?” He presses a kiss to your shoulder.

Your eyes fly open. Every nerve in your body is on fire.

“I… we should sleep,” you blurt out.

He snickers against your shoulder. “’ Kay, if you say so.”

“I do.” Your hand curls into the sheet. 

You feel him smile against your shoulder. The silence between you is unfamiliar. You’re used to the back-and-forth, the banter that keeps you on your toes and stops you from saying something stupid. 

"I think I love you," you blurt out, immediately burying your face into the pillow, hoping it swallows you whole.

His arm around you tenses. His hands move and turn you over so you're forced to face him. "Dick," you complain, your hands covering your face.

He mutters your name. You peek through your fingers. A strand of hair falls over his eye as he looks down at you wide-eyed. 

You open your mouth.

"I know I love you," he says before you could, blue eyes staring intensely into your own. 

You close your mouth. 

"I've known for a while," he admits, eyes flickering to your lips.

Your heart stutters. “That you love me?”

Dick smiles, forehead resting against yours. “It's kinda pathetic at this point.”

Before you can overthink it, you kiss him, and he kisses you back like he’s been waiting forever.

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