True to the name!

Being a bi guy, Robert could take any client. When he wasn't fighting crime he was pocketing a few hundred a day absolutely railing someone. Not always, though. Lots of clients were just lonely. Needed someone to talk to. Sometimes Robert walked out of a hotel room completely untouched, save for a long hug. The irony hardly lost on him because this was, in fact, a crime.

Shouldn't be, though.

Nothing wrong with needing some heat for a while. Or a shoulder.

The split between "lonely" and "horny" was irregular, often converged. You were an interesting blend of it. The first time was nervous, and you chickened out. You'd just gotten out of a long relationship and you missed having someone. You hated sleeping alone. You met your lost love before you even started your life, so you were never without them. Until now.

You seemed lost. And he wasn't surprised. You had never been alone before, it was driving you insane, but you also...well, you weren't a prude, per se. You tried to explain it but got all tongue tied. He laughed and assured you he's a professional. You don't have to justify anything to him. But it seemed like something you had to say out loud. Maybe just for you.

You weren't sure if casual was your thing, much less with a stranger. You ached for companionship but also had this determination to stay single long enough to be okay. Your friends' idea. They didn't want you hopping from lover to lover because you didn't want to be alone. Wise friends.

So, you figured. Maybe this would work. Robert wouldn't expect anything of you, mooch off you, or be an unsafe person for you. He was getting paid to do a job. Just. The job was a bit more intimate than a typical one.

Though, nervous, shaking, so unsure if you could even do this, he declined your offer to just pay him for nothing and leave. "C'mere," he'd said.

You spent the rest of the night in the hotel room with him, in his arms, watching TV. Fell asleep, even. Fully clothed. Just needing something more than a release. He felt bad taking two fifty from you for just a cuddle session, but you insisted on no discount. He had bills to pay, too, you said.

You didn't have sex until, if he remembers right, your sixth meeting. Everything between that was just comfortable chatter, lying together, and he kind of became a really, really expensive Netflix date for you. He started bringing you dinner just so that he didn't feel so bad about draining your finances for no sex, but, this was what you wanted. For now, at least.

You could only afford him twice a month on a good day, so that particular night took a while to build up to. He even broke his golden rule close to the event; meeting you at your apartment instead, where you're more comfortable. He shouldn't have. It just made everything feel too close. He tried to ignore it, and that night, he wanted to gently tell you he'd like to go back to meeting you at the hotel, but he knew something was wrong when you opened your door.

You ran into your ex. It was a bad, bad day. They'd already moved on. You asked him what was wrong with you, after telling him your life story. And, mind, this wasn't something he thought with disdain. He didn't listen because you paid him.

He liked you a bit more than he should, actually. He didn't break his rule from a customer service angle. He broke it because he saw someone that reminded him of himself, someone who wasn't getting what they needed. Someone he wanted to give that to.

He knew this meant he was in trouble, but he came inside anyway.

You said you knew you weren't the hottest person, but wanted to know, from a professional, what was wrong. Because you've tried dating since and nobody swipes. Nobody looks at you. You approached someone that seemed intrigued the other night, but they'd been looking past you. You cried. You asked him if you were really this unloveable.

And, well, fuck. That really hit him in the chest.

Robert saw nothing wrong with you. And the fact you really thought you weren't worth attention...

He felt a little guilty, but he tracked down your ex after that night.

Stopped himself from crumpling the fucker's car with the suit.

But, back to that night -- you were crying, apologizing for "being pathetic", and he took it slow.

"Can I just kiss you?"

You nodded. Let him in.

And it escalated.

Within the hour you were screaming his name, and yes, he did this as a side gig. Yes, it was not his first, or even third orgasm of the day. But. He liked you too much. So it was the most notable one. It was the first time he broke his other rule, and he stayed the night. Fucked you again that morning, no extra charge. Kissed you too deep. Held you too soft.

Knowing it would be another month, probably, before he saw you again, Robert told himself that was enough time to reel this right the fuck back in before he got himself into something too complicated, because he couldn't juggle freelance hero work, freelance sex work, and a significant other that probably would want him to stop all at the same time.

Because right now, you were obviously fine with the fact he was sleeping with a lot of other people. But Robert himself avoided romance because of this. Because he, at his core, was all-or-nothing about it. He could either fuck for extra money, or have a stable partner. There were absolutely people who wouldn't care and he could do both. But this was a him thing. If he had someone, he wouldn't bring his A game anymore.

He'd save it for you.

And he needed the money. No other job was this flexible. Or paid this much. His plan always was: fuck around now, settle down later.

Weeks flew by and it really felt like you called him only days later, but it'd been two months. Car trouble, you said. Couldn't afford shit, and the worst part was the repairs didn't even work. So now you were paying off a credit card, had a dead car in your parking lot, and leaving for work at 4am because it was a two hour walk.

But still, you scraped up some cash for him, because you really needed to forget for an hour, and in your agreeable words, "even broke people deserve to have fun."

He showed up with his tools, fixed your car, then fucked you silly in the back seat after a thank-you hug got a little too heavy. Good thing it was 1 in the morning, though he's sure some night owls saw what you two were getting into under the shadows of the oak tree that loomed over the sidewalk.

And you looked at him a little different, just for a second.

You shouldn't have called a, God, you don't even know the respectful term. You shouldn't have called Robert. Ever. You were in it bad, now. He brought you such lovely dinners, held you so good, and by God could he make you come like you've never felt before. Always so professional, always safe. Condoms and dental dams, plenty of lube, and all the passionate kisses you could handle.

It's been a year since you got his contact info from a friend-of-a-friend and he's fucked all the stress from your body about twenty times.

You add up all the PayMe transfers and cringe, though.

You have spent a lot of money.

But it's good; no, incredible dick. And he smells good. You can't get enough of his voice. And this is when you realize, it's gotta stop before you break down again.

So. You settle for your toys. You call him one more time; on your birthday, just because. You deserve at least one more spectacular night. At a treat. And then you delete his number.

You can't fucking fall in love with your...organic maintenance man. He is not doing this because he loves you. This is his job, and now you've crossed the line he drew at the start of this. People sometimes get this way, he'd told you; they feel like there's more to it, but there isn't. It's work. It's work he likes, but it's work. The professional boundary must remain, or he takes you off the list.

You felt so embarrassed over it, you didn't even want to tell him why. You just took yourself off the list instead, and went about your life.

Robert thought he'd never see you again. You abruptly stopped contacting him. It was not customary in his work to reach out to old customers like hey, we haven't banged in a while, all good?

He assumed you found someone at last, and left it at that.

Maybe with a little too much sadness.

Life went on. He did something stupid. Got into a coma. Headbutted a reporter. Stopped a crime ring. He didn't have to run his side gig anymore. And to be honest he was too tired to dick down five people a day, anyway. He chucked the burner and nobody was ever the wiser. Except for the guy in the mail room at SDN. But they had a professional, silent understanding. Past is the past.

But here he is now, in a goddamn Trader Joe's, dropping the pint of ice cream he just picked out, because it's you. Right across from him. Staring at the popsicles. You look like you've had a rough day; dare he say, you may have been crying in your car before you came in here, even, and he can't help the shocked laugh that gets your attention.

"Holy shit." You step back, eyes wide.

You blush. But you hug him like he's just an old friend you went to school with and not the guy who punched you through a mattress every couple of weeks. You ask him how he's been, desperately dancing around the hidden question -- do you still, you know...? -- and he nods as he adds his frozen treat to the basket, shrugging a little. "Got a regular job. Pays enough, so I don't need to...fix cars anymore."

You laugh so knowingly, the blush working into permanence. He asks you how you've been, and your face falls. "Same old, same old. Well. I, uh. Don't have a mechanic anymore so, worse, actually. But I'm getting by. Surviving. Got a better job. Got a dog."

You're still lonely. He can see it. He can nearly feel you yearning, and he wonders so many things, but he can't just whip out a conversation about the ins and outs (heh) of fucking at a bougie grocery store.

He tells you about Beef. You show him pictures of a ridiculous muppet you adopted from the humane society named Kahootz, which makes him laugh. It's some kind of wire-haired mutt with a natural mohawk, a crooked jaw, and one blue eye. Robert wants to meet this dog immediately.

"She keeps me from going nuts," you laugh. "She's hilarious. I've got a soft spot for the 'ugly' ones. She'd been there for four months. I said what the hell. Everyone needs some love."

You ask him if he's got someone. "Almost, once. It was too complicated, though. What about you?"

The look on your face tells him you didn't consider he would ask, or maybe you were making conversation without thinking, because you get a little sheepish. "I, uh. I just kinda, gave up on that. Wasn't worth all the trouble. Spent enough going on dates to nowhere, I should've just called y--" You stop yourself with a stifled laugh, looking around.

Robert snorts, but now he's curious. "Why'd you stop at all? Were you okay?"

Blushing again.

It's cute. He tries to make his face behave, but he bites his lip just a little.

"I, well. Um. It was." You puff air. "The whole, no feelings thing, wasn't working for me. I'm just, I was kind of forcing myself to be a way I just can't be, you know? I was starting to. You were gonna take me off the roster anyway, let's just say that."

God.

Everything's just rushing back to him.

"I actually missed you," he mutters. His body does what it wants, stepping closer to you.

You're speechless.

"You wanna...get dinner?"

"Uh. Oh. Y-yeah! Yeah!" All your laughter is nervous, and that blush is creeping up your ears now.

Robert checks the time. "Like. Now? I've gotten pretty good at cooking."

A paper thin veil. Robert will put this ice cream back and abandon all his plans tonight just to take you to the Italian place across the parking lot, but if you come home with him...

"I." You swallow.

"Too fast?" He cracks a smile. "Coffee?"

"N-no," you start, then catch yourself. "I mean, to the too fast, it's just, I'm surprised--"

Nobody's around.

He kisses you. Just a quick, simple thing. Maybe he lingers a little bit. Maybe you moan a little. Still, he'd rate it PG.

"Tomorrow?" He asks, figuring...maybe you need to sleep on it.

You agree. Trade numbers. He sends you his address. And Robert, he knows you. He remembers you, at least. You might not show. You might chicken out. That's okay. He's patient. Bring Kahootz, he adds. Beef needs a friend.

You heart react it. That's a good sign, right?

He doesn't want to press you. It's been a long time. He sends you a cute picture of Beef the next morning, you chat a little bit between work breaks, and he doesn't ask if you're still coming. He just prepares.

Kahootz is even cuter in person, and you, well, you've always been special to him. Robert oddly viewed you as one that got away, for a while. A client he got too close to, in a way he thought was one-sided. And you both laugh about how that's how both of you felt.

But this couldn't have happened any other way. How the hell would he have kept you around when he went full revenge and hunted down Shroud? Nearly died? Went through that self destructive phase of damn-near suicidal recklessness? No. It's good, he thinks. It's good you show up now.

Dinner is tense for all the best reasons.

Clark can only stare at the flimsy drywall, taking a heavy gulp in an attempt not to just…look. "They're…passionate?" He points out, questioning, only to be met with a withered glare.

"No woman would ever make those noises for a man unless they're being paid to." You refute.

"I…see." Clark clears his throat, holding a loose finger up to point at the offending noise. "Do you think it's a…"

"Hooker? Yes. Great one by the sounds of it."

"Right. I didn't realise there was a baseline." His statement hangs in the air, heavy with his genuine and innocent observation.

"In what sense?" You pry, the noises from across turning far less interesting now.

"Uh. I don't know. The louder a lady is when…you know. The better the intercourse is?" Clark looks up to the ceiling thoughtfully. Shaking his needless curiosity away.

"You're thinking about something."

The broad-shouldered man jolts, turning to face you in the wake of your blunt statement. "I…I'm not sure what you mean."

"You've got that look on your face," you say simply. Then, playfully whip your sleep mask at him — it lands against his chest with a thud, a mocking noise as his heart rate picks up. "Spill."

"I — gee," Clark relents with a sigh, slowly standing up, albeit unsteadily, before plopping onto the bed next to you. The motion sends the mattress dipping low under his heavy weight, forcing you to slide closer to him.

"It's not so much a thought…but an observation."

When he turns to you, your gaze is already on him. All wide and curious. His head snaps away from your innocent stare, "when you and I…are intimate."

He continues after a beat, "you're sort of…loud," then, his hand comes up to loosely point to himself, "so... that means you feel good. With me."

The words land as a brief shock to you. Not at the implication, but that Clark had actually formed that specific thought just from an off-handed comment.

Your answer came in the form of a gentle swat to his hand, paired with a shy, honest look, "…don't do that. Makes you look dorky."

Clark's lips break out into an easy smile, his head bowed to chase your eyeline. "Aren't you going to ask me what I'm thinking about now?"

"Not interested." Your rejection comes swiftly, punctuated with a dramatic slump onto the comforter. Though the quirk at the corner of your lips gives your actual thoughts away.

"Oh, come on," Clark's voice drops to that familiar, negotiating lilt. The bed dips further, with his elbows secured over the pillow you hid your face in. His warmth behind you inched closer. "Ask me."

You look over your shoulder suspiciously, "hurry up before I change my mind."

His lips curl into a wide, dimpled smile.

.

.

.

'Let's see how honest you can be without making a single sound.'

It was a stupid, impulsive challenge thrown out there. One that was potentially dangerous to their cover. Possibly — no, completely unnecessary for two people who were only in a motel room to stake out an elusive contact.

The logic was hard to fight. It was a bet to be quiet. So the pact was formed in the wake of the soft rustle of sheets, the gentle hold of Clark's palm at the base of your lower back. You bit down on your lip hard at a tug that forced you flush against Clark's chest, with your thighs draped over his thicker ones. Instinctively, you arch into him.

His gaze tracked your movements, intently raking over your twitching thighs. Clark's head lowers, his lips searching for a spot — a spot he knew would incite a shiver from you. The kiss beneath your ears did just that, squirming helplessly to the mercy of his teasing touches.

A whimpered sound choked on the way out of your lips as his hands slid beneath the fabric of your bottoms, a whisper of the fibres gracing the heavy, hot air in the room. His warm, bigger palms still at the outside of your thighs, urging your hips upward.

"You're doing a really good job," he comments, reverence felt in the manner his nose still chased the curve of your jaw.

The springs of the motel bed squeaked at the shift, adding your sweats to the pile that was Clark's makeshift bed on the carpeted floors. He doesn't make it easy for you in the slightest. His mouth finds purchase on the column or your throat, and toward your pulse.

"Mm'tryin' to keep — ugh — quiet!" Your voice is barely above a rasp, trying to nudge his face away in a weak attempt, "don't…"

Your soft whine was the very first crack in your resolve, in your promise to keep quiet. It only seemed to spur Clark on even more, his mouth clumsily finding yours, catching the corner of your lips before they slot just right.

The quiet room filled itself with the urgent, wet smacks of your combined desperation, whimpers that spilt into each other's throats. Clark's free hand slid up your ribs, his thumbs skirting beneath the curve of your breasts. Deliberately, his thumbnail rake over where your nipples slowly hardened.

"Ah!"

The sound spills from your lips before you can stop it, and you turn to bury your face in the pillow. "Nnh. Not bein'…fair." You mutter, petulantly, with your face squirmed into softness.

He laughs suddenly, warm against your pulse.

"Who said anything about being fair?" Clark's nips at your earlobes, placing open-mouthed kisses unabashedly despite your squirming.

You writhe beneath him, frustrated. With a determined tug, you pull him down more. In a soft tone, barely there, you whisper his name into the shell of his ears. It'd run louder than any whine or moan you'd given in an ode to your pleasure.

The reaction was instantaneous. His rigid body, which was once intent on teasing grinds, melted into you. The hard lines of his erection stiffened in a demanding manner, urging you to spill all your little whimpers into his ears.

"Just…like that." He pleads, eyes fluttering shut when your tongue drags past the shell, probing into the soft curve.

"Clark…Clark. Clark."

Each whispered whine of his name threatened to unravel him entirely. Clark's deftly shucking his trousers off just enough to free his aching cock, resting the hefty weight of it on your bare cunt, soaking with arousal that he pulled from you painstakingly.

"You…You have to be actually quiet. Okay?"

You nod sharply, steadying your hold onto his biceps.

Clark's careful.

At first.

Easing his thick, hard cock into your eager walls was the easy part. Especially with how easily you opened up for him, sucking him in — begging for more.

But then he snaps his hips into you. His length disappears deep into your belly, making you feel so fucking full and overwhelmed at the same time that you squeal.

Clark's palm spans over the lower half of your mouth. Muffling the ends of your whine. "Oh, sweetheart —" he coos, his voice cracked in remorse. You blink up at him, hazily and uncoordinated, looking at him like he'd given you blue balls.

"You can't — …" Clark shakes his head slowly. His hold is unrelenting over your soft lips. "Breathe through your nose. Okay? Trust me."

Your stifled whimpers are efficiently muted by the warm press of his palm, subjecting you to the controlled thrust of his hips. Each one met with the creaky protests of the mattress. Clark's breath comes out gradually ragged against your neck, the sweat from his skin mingling with your own.

It seemed to be doing something to him on a chemical level. Feeling the warm vibration of your needy grunts into his nerve endings, paired with the rhythmic pulse of your cunt that was the only other indicator of how turned on you were.

Clark's eyes are scewed shut, as though every one of his senses were attuned to the noises. To the sounds of your arousal, to the ones of the sticky, hot connection below. Your cunt clenched around his length, harder with each stroke of his thick thip in your twitching walls.

His head pulls back in time to meet your fucked out gaze as he's met with the telltale signs of your oncoming release, "shit. I'm — please." He manages, pulling his palm away from your reddened lips, where a slight string of your drool clings to him.

He brings his dampened palm down to your clit, rubbing you in idle circles.

"Ngh! Clark!" You squeak, digging your nails into the taut muscles of his arms. That gave you the tip you needed before your body arches off the bed, into him, in a quivering intensity, coming hard around his cock.

Clark follows suit, his own body seizing, shuddering gutturally as he takes on the wave of pulses from your walls, filling your belly with his hot, potent cum.

You lift your head up, only barely, lips chasing the warmth of his pulse, blissed out in an undeniable wash of addicting pleasure that the man above you pulled from you successfully.

It's short-lived, though. Especially when an insistent, loud bang resounds from the walls above both of you.

The woman at the front desk smiled down at her computer. “Welcome. We’re so happy to have you with us for the wedding weekend. I see we have you and Mr. Whitaker in an ocean-view king.”

There it was, not a knife exactly, but the universe tapping one perfectly manicured nail against a bruise.

“Just me,” you said.

The receptionist looked up. She was good at her job, which meant she did not wince or ask questions. Her smile only softened by half a degree, which was somehow worse because it was tasteful.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll update that for you.”

“Great. Thank you.”

You were being very mature. You were being elegant. You were not going to cry in a lobby that had a signature scent.

The receptionist glanced back at her screen. “There’s also a couples’ welcome package attached to your reservation. I can have that removed.”

A couples’ welcome package. Of course.

Champagne, probably. Strawberries. Maybe something involving rose petals. Maybe a massage voucher with both your names printed in resort calligraphy, because apparently heartbreak needed stationery.

You opened your mouth, though you had no idea what was going to come out.

“Keep the champagne,” someone said behind you. “Lose the man.”

You turned.

Clark Kent stood a few feet away, holding an iced coffee and looking unfairly comfortable in a pale blue linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was a little wind-tossed. His smile was warm enough to make your carefully assembled composure wobble.

Beside him, Bruce Wayne lowered his sunglasses just enough to look at you over the frames.

Bruce Wayne, because apparently the resort had decided to start throwing hazards at you in pairs.

He was dressed in white linen and dark trousers, because of course he was. Billionaires did not simply attend destination weddings. They appeared in them, already lit correctly, as if the sun had been briefed on their angles beforehand.

Clark smiled. “You made it.”

You stared at him for half a second too long, then remembered you were supposed to be a person. “That depends. Is there still time to flee?”

“Technically, yes,” Bruce said. “But Maya would hunt you down in bridal shapewear, and nobody wants to see that.”

The laugh came out before you could stop it. It was real, and Clark’s face did something soft and pleased that made you immediately regret giving him anything so vulnerable.

The receptionist looked between the three of you with professional discretion and the unmistakable glimmer of someone who had just been handed better gossip than the room upgrade situation.

“Would you like the package adjusted?” she asked.

“Yes,” you said.

“No,” Bruce said.

You turned to him.

He slid his sunglasses into his shirt pocket. “The champagne can stay. The strawberries can stay. Anything monogrammed can be burned.”

“That seems dramatic.”

“It’s a destination wedding. Drama is included in the resort fee.”

Clark stepped closer and reached for one of your suitcases. “We’ll walk you up.”

“I can carry my own bags.”

“I know.”

“That usually means you let me.”

“Not today.”

The way he said it was gentle, but there was something underneath it that was not pity. It was interest. Attention. The kind of attention that made your stomach flip before your brain had time to file a complaint.

Bruce took the garment bag from your arm as if you had handed it to him.

“I didn’t agree to this,” you said.

“No,” Bruce said. “But you were about to, and I’m saving us all time.”

Clark gave him a look. “That sounds less charming out loud.”

“It sounded charming enough.”

“To you.”

“To several people.”

“You cannot count people who are paid to agree with you.”

Bruce glanced at you. “Would you like to be the deciding vote?”

Instead, you said, “I think I need the champagne.”

Clark’s smile deepened.

Bruce looked satisfied. “Good answer.”

The elevator was mirrored on three sides, which felt aggressive. You stood between them with your arms empty for the first time since leaving the airport and tried not to look too closely at the reflections: Clark’s shoulders, Bruce’s profile, your own oversized T-shirt hanging halfway to your thighs, loose pants wrinkled from the flight, and the obvious fact that both men had arranged themselves around you like this was normal.

“You know this is going to start rumors,” you said.

Bruce pressed the button for your floor. “Good.”

Your head turned. “Good?”

“People ask fewer sad questions when they have interesting answers to invent.”

Clark sighed. “What Bruce means is that if anyone sees you arriving with us, they may be less likely to corner you about your ex.”

“That is what I said.”

“That is absolutely not what you said.”

“It was the streamlined version.”

“It was the scandal version.”

Bruce’s gaze met yours in the mirrored wall. “Do you object to scandal?”

You felt heat climb your neck. “I object to becoming wedding gossip before I’ve unpacked.”

“Reasonable,” Clark said.

Bruce did not look convinced. “Ambitious.”

Your room was beautiful because, apparently, the resort had committed to being emotionally inappropriate in every possible way. The balcony opened onto a sweep of blue water and white sand; the bed was enormous, and directly in the center of everything sat a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries beside a card that said, “Welcome, lovebirds.”

“Oh, go to hell,” you said.

Clark made a small, startled sound that was almost a laugh.

Bruce crossed the room, picked up the card, and turned it face down. “I’ll have that removed.”

“It’s paper. I can survive paper.”

“I have no doubt.”

“You’re still glaring at it.”

“It knows what it did.”

This time, you did laugh. It made the room less awful. The champagne remained. The strawberries remained. Your ex’s absence remained too, sitting invisibly on the other side of the bed like a suitcase nobody wanted to unpack, but Clark was placing your luggage by the closet with careful hands, and Bruce was inspecting the welcome tray as if it had personally offended him.

Clark turned back to you. “The welcome lunch is in an hour.”

“Wonderful.”

“That sounded like you’d rather walk into the ocean.”

“I packed a swimsuit. I like to keep my options open.”

Bruce glanced down at his phone. “Maya is currently interrogating the wedding planner about the florist, so you have at least forty minutes before anyone notices you’re not downstairs.”

“Why do you know that?”

“Daniel texted for help.”

“And you came here?”

“Exactly.”

Clark coughed. “In fairness, Daniel’s exact text was ‘Please distract Maya’s bridesmaids so nobody else asks about the ceremony fans.’”

“That makes no sense.”

“He’s under a lot of stress,” Clark said.

“He’s marrying Maya. Of course he is.”

Bruce looked up. “You helped make the seating chart, didn’t you?”

“I helped color-code the emotional risk levels.”

For the first time since you entered the room, Bruce looked genuinely delighted.

“Did you,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes. “Do not make that voice.”

“What voice?”

“The voice of a man who has discovered a new way to be insufferable.”

Clark looked between you, smiling into his coffee. “This is nice.”

For a moment, nobody said anything. The room felt warmer than it had a second ago.

Bruce broke it first. “We’ll let you change.”

“That is the first reasonable thing you’ve said.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Clark lingered at the door after Bruce stepped into the hall. “We’ll see you downstairs?”

You glanced at the bed, the champagne, the facedown card. The weekend waiting for you downstairs felt large and loud and packed with people who would be kind in ways you might not survive. Then you looked at Clark, who seemed genuinely hopeful that you would let him sit beside you.

“Yeah,” you said. “You’ll see me downstairs.”

He looked pleased enough that your stomach performed a small, embarrassing acrobatic maneuver.

🦇 🥂 ☀️

By the time you arrived at the welcome lunch, you had changed into a sundress, repaired your makeup, and decided that spite was a perfectly respectable form of self-care. If you were going to be newly single at a destination wedding, then you were going to be newly single with lip gloss, earrings, and a dress that made you look like you had not cried once in the past seventy-two hours.

This was, technically, false advertising. You supported it anyway.

The lunch was held on an open terrace shaded by white umbrellas, with the ocean glittering beyond the railings and Maya glowing near the head table like a woman who had spent eighteen months planning a wedding and was now vibrating at a frequency only brides and small dogs could hear.

“You’re here,” she said, rushing toward you.

“I’m here.”

She hugged you carefully and tightly at the same time. “I’m so glad.”

“I would have come even if I had to crawl through customs.”

“You looked like you did.”

“Thank you. I suffered for your love story.”

She laughed, then pulled back and did the thing with her face. The soft thing. The “oh, honey” thing.

You pointed at her. “Do not.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I am allowed to care about you.”

“Not in public. You’ll ruin my mascara and your own wedding timeline.”

Maya pressed her lips together, trying to behave. “Fine. I will care about you later in a controlled environment.”

“Thank you.”

Her eyes slid over your shoulder. You did not have to turn around to know who had arrived behind you. You could tell by the way Maya’s face changed. She looked like a woman who had just remembered she loved romance, chaos, and being right.

“Interesting,” she said.

“Maya.”

“What?”

“Do not say “interesting” like you’re about to make it everyone’s problem.”

She smiled sweetly. “I would never.”

Clark appeared at your side with a glass of something cold and citrusy. “Peace offering.”

You accepted it. “For what?”

“Whatever Maya just said.”

“I said nothing,” Maya said.

Bruce joined you, sliding his sunglasses into his pocket. “A rare and commendable choice.”

Maya pointed at him. “You. Be nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

Everyone looked at him.

Bruce sighed. “I am frequently useful.”

“That is more accurate,” Clark said.

Maya’s gaze moved among the three of you, delighted in a way that made you nervous. Then Daniel called her name from across the terrace, and she turned instantly from meddling friend into bride with a mission.

“I’ll be back,” she said.

“That sounded like a threat,” you said.

“It was.”

Lunch should have been awkward. Wedding people loved questions. They loved “how did you get in,” “where are you staying,” “are you excited,” “who did you come with,” “how do you know the couple,” “isn’t this place romantic?” It was like being pecked to death by well-meaning birds in cocktail attire.

But Clark sat on one side of you and Bruce on the other, and the awkwardness kept turning into something else.

Clark leaned in when you spoke. He laughed at your jokes. He reached past you for bread and let his arm brush yours, then looked not remotely sorry when you glanced at him. Bruce was worse, because he acted like he was above flirting, which meant every time he did it, he made it sound like a legal ruling.

When Maya’s aunt leaned across the table and asked, “And where is your young man, honey?” Bruce picked up his wine glass and said, “Regretting his choices, presumably.”

Clark nearly inhaled his water.

You stared at Bruce. “That is not an answer.”

“It is the most generous one available.”

Maya’s aunt blinked, then looked at you, then at Clark, then at Bruce. Her expression changed so quickly that you could almost hear the social math happening.

“Well,” she said, lifting her glass with a tiny smile. “His loss, then.”

You should have wanted to sink under the table. Instead, you took a sip of your drink and said, “I’m becoming more comfortable with that interpretation.”

Clark looked at you like he was trying not to grin. Bruce looked proud.

By dessert, you were almost having fun. Actual fun. Maya was glowing. Daniel was emotional and pretending not to be. Clark was telling a story about Daniel in college that involved a laundry room, a missing shoe, and a campus security officer named Brenda who apparently held grudges, while Bruce added occasional details with the air of a man fact-checking a congressional hearing.

When lunch ended, people scattered toward the beach, the bar, and the pool. Clark came to stand beside you near the terrace railing.

“Do you swim?” he asked.

You looked at him. “Is this a pickup line?”

His ears went faintly pink. “Maybe.”

You felt your smile happen before you could stop it. “That was honest.”

“I panicked.”

“Adorable.”

Bruce appeared on your other side. “It was not.”

Clark gave him a look. “You weren’t invited into this conversation.”

“I was standing eight feet away.”

“That doesn’t make you invited.”

“It often does.”

You looked between them. “Do you two always bicker like this?”

“Yes,” Clark said.

“No,” Bruce said at the same time.

Bruce adjusted one cuff. “Only when he is wrong.”

Clark smiled at you. “So yes.”

The thing you had noticed before but never allowed yourself to examine sat down between the three of you and made itself comfortable. There was something between Clark and Bruce. History in the way they irritated each other, affection in the way they pretended not to soften, and a charged familiarity that made every argument feel like it had another conversation tucked beneath it.

You had wondered. Of course you had wondered. Anyone with eyes would have wondered. You just had not expected to be standing between them while they wondered back.

Bruce nodded toward the pool. “I reserved a cabana.”

“Of course you did.”

“It has shade.”

“I gathered.”

“And champagne.”

“You are making a strong argument.”

Clark smiled. “You don’t have to come.”

Bruce looked at him. “Don’t undermine the champagne.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You finished your drink. “I’ll come for the shade, the champagne, and the opportunity to watch you two argue in swimwear.”

Clark’s mouth opened, then closed.

Bruce looked delighted. “Excellent.”

🦇 🥂 ☀️

The poolside cabana was absurd. It had gauzy white curtains, thick cushions, a low table covered in fruit, chilled towels, bottled water, champagne, and a small vase of flowers that seemed wildly unnecessary unless the cabana was planning to propose. It sat at the far end of the pool, private enough to feel exclusive and public enough that everyone could absolutely see who had been invited into it.

You stopped just inside the shade. “Did you buy the pool?”

Bruce took off his sunglasses. “Only temporarily.”

Clark set his bag down with the air of someone who had given up apologizing for Bruce Wayne in public. “He’s joking.”

“Is he?”

Clark paused. “Probably.”

Bruce smiled.

You changed in the pool house, which was tiled in white and blue and smelled faintly of coconut sunscreen. For a moment, you stood in front of the mirror with your bikini in your hands and stared at yourself.

It had been a long time since you had dressed for the possibility of being wanted. That thought was so sad and so irritating that you almost laughed. You had dressed up plenty in the last four years, but somewhere along the way, being seen had become something you did for photographs rather than pleasure.

Outside, Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne were waiting in a cabana Bruce had probably acquired with one phone call and zero shame.

If they were going to look, you decided, they could look.

When you came back, Clark was pretending to listen to Daniel.

That was flattering.

Bruce noticed you first. He was stretched out in the shaded cabana with a drink in one hand, sunglasses on, looking like the sort of man who had never once had to fight for a pool chair in his life. When he saw you, his conversation with Maya’s cousin died so abruptly that Maya’s cousin turned to see what had happened.

Then Clark turned too. His eyes moved over you once, quickly enough to be polite and slowly enough to be honest. Then he looked back at your face with the expression of a man who had just remembered he was standing in broad daylight at someone else’s wedding.

You hooked a finger under the strap of your bikini, adjusting it mostly because your hands needed something to do. “Subtle.”

Clark blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Bruce lifted his glass. “In Kent’s defense, he forgot how to speak.”

Clark glanced at him. “You stopped mid-sentence.”

“Yes, but I did it with dignity.”

“You absolutely did not.”

You stepped into the cabana, trying not to smile and failing badly. “Is this where I’m supposed to thank you for the shade?”

Bruce’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. “Eventually.”

Clark made a sound that might have been a cough if either of you felt like being charitable.

You took the lounger across from Bruce and pretended your skin was not warm from anything except the sun. Clark sat beside you, leaving a polite amount of space that somehow made the space feel less polite.

Bruce reached for a bottle of sunscreen from the table and held it out to Clark. “Before you start twitching.”

Clark looked offended. “I was not twitching.”

“You were spiritually twitching.”

“I’m from Kansas, not a public health campaign.”

“You once lectured Daniel for fifteen minutes about UV index.”

“He was turning red.”

“He was bored before he was burned.”

You accepted the sunscreen from Bruce, laughing. “Thank you. I think.”

You started with your arms, then your shoulders. The angle at your back was awkward, and you felt Clark’s attention land there so quickly it was almost funny.

“Do you want help?” he asked.

Bruce leaned back, one arm stretched along the back of the lounger. “There it is.”

Clark ignored him.

You held the bottle out. “Sure.”

Clark’s expression changed. It was such a small thing, just a slight pause before he took the sunscreen, but it sent a ridiculous flutter through your stomach. You turned and gathered your hair out of the way, grateful for the chance to look somewhere other than his face.

His fingers touched your shoulder.

Warm. Careful. Larger than they had any right to be.

He spread sunscreen over your upper back in slow, even strokes. It should have been ordinary. It was sunscreen. It was daylight. It was a pool full of wedding guests and Maya’s second cousin yelling about margaritas somewhere near the bar.

It did not feel ordinary.

Clark’s hands moved over your skin with concentration that made your toes curl against the stone. His thumbs swept along the base of your neck, then down your spine, stopping at the line of your swimsuit. He was being respectful. Maddeningly respectful. You were beginning to resent him for it.

Bruce watched from across the cabana. He had taken off his sunglasses, which seemed important.

You looked at him while Clark’s hands moved over your back, and Bruce’s mouth curved as if he knew exactly what he was doing by letting you see him watch.

“You’re enjoying this,” you said.

Clark’s hands paused. “Me?”

“Both of you.”

Bruce lowered his glass. “Yes.”

Clark laughed, soft and slightly embarrassed. “Bruce.”

“What? She asked.”

“You could pretend to be normal.”

“I could also buy a vineyard. Neither seems relevant.”

You turned back around when Clark finished and took the sunscreen from him. “Thank you.”

His eyes flicked once to your mouth. “Anytime.”

Bruce stood. “Pool.”

You looked at his offered hand. “That was not a request.”

“It can be.”

“Can it?”

His smile widened slightly. “Would you like me to ask?”

You put your hand in Bruce’s. “I’m curious now.”

Bruce’s fingers closed around yours. “Dangerous.”

The water was cool enough to make you gasp when you stepped in. Bruce kept hold of your hand until you were steady. Clark followed a moment later, and if you had thought Clark in linen was a problem, Clark wet was an emergency requiring federal coordination.

You leaned back against the pool wall. “This wedding is becoming hazardous.”

Clark pushed water out of his hair. “Because of the sun?”

“No.”

Bruce settled on your other side, close enough that the water shifted warm between you. “Because of the champagne?”

“Also no.”

Clark’s smile went slow. “Because of us?”

You looked from him to Bruce. Both of them were watching you now. Openly. In broad daylight. While wedding guests played drinking games twenty feet away and Maya’s aunt pretended to read a magazine from behind sunglasses.

You should have felt cornered. You felt adored.

“That is a leading question,” you said.

Bruce’s knee brushed yours beneath the water. “Answer it anyway.”

Before you could, Maya appeared at the edge of the pool wearing a sunhat, a linen wrap, and the expression of a woman who had decided bridal power could and should be used for evil.

“There you are,” she said.

You blinked up at her. “I’m literally in the pool.”

“Yes, and I have been extremely generous in allowing whatever this is to continue uninterrupted for twenty-seven minutes.”

Clark coughed.

Bruce looked at her over the top of his sunglasses. “Whatever this is?”

Maya pointed at him. “Do not billionaire your way around me. I have a rehearsal schedule.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You absolutely would.” She turned to you, and her smile became terrible. “You look relaxed.”

“I was.”

“Good. Stay that way for another hour, then come to the ballroom so we can practice walking in a straight line.”

“I have many skills, Maya.”

“Yes, and based on what I’m seeing, standing between groomsmen is apparently one of them.”

“Maya.”

“One hour,” she sang, and left before you could splash her.

Clark laughed first. Then you did. Even Bruce smiled, small and private and pleased in a way that made your heart do something deeply inconvenient.

🦇 🥂 ☀️

The rehearsal itself was supposed to be simple. It was not.

You were paired with Clark for the processional, and Maya had not apologized for that either. Bruce, who had been paired with another bridesmaid, looked at the wedding planner’s clipboard as if it had betrayed him.

By the third rehearsal walk, Daniel looked ready to elope retroactively, Maya was whispering threats at a bouquet made of ribbons, and Bruce had apparently decided that being separated from you by eight feet and one bridesmaid was a personal insult.

When the wedding planner called for another reset, he stepped into your path before Clark could offer his arm.

“Balance,” Bruce said.

The planner looked up from her clipboard. “Excuse me?”

“The aisle may photograph better if the groomsmen are rearranged by visual weight.”

Clark’s mouth twitched. “That is not how photography works.”

“It might.”

“It does not.”

The wedding planner stared at Bruce. “Mr. Wayne, unless you are the bride, the groom, or the person signing my invoice, you are with bridesmaid four.”

Daniel lifted a hand. “Technically, he may be signing—”

Maya turned on him. “Daniel.”

Daniel lowered his hand. “I support the clipboard.”

You looked at Bruce. “Rejected by democracy.”

Bruce returned to his place with great dignity and absolutely no grace.

Clark leaned closer as you took his arm. “You’re enjoying his suffering.”

“I am.”

“Good.”

🦇 🥂 ☀️

That night, the rehearsal dinner glowed.

There was no other word for it. The courtyard had been strung with lights, candles flickering on every table, flowers spilling out of low glass vases like the resort had decided subtlety was for city halls. Everyone looked prettier than they had at lunch because sunset was generous and champagne made people forgive each other for travel delays.

You wore a slip dress the color of late summer and told yourself it was for you.

That was mostly true.

Then you walked into the courtyard and saw Clark lose the thread of whatever Daniel was saying.

He stood near the bar with Daniel and two other groomsmen, laughing at something until he saw you. The laughter fell away, his face softening into naked appreciation before he caught himself. Bruce noticed Clark first, then followed his gaze to you.

Bruce did not forget how to speak. Bruce became quiet, which was worse.

You crossed the courtyard toward them with your pulse too high and your dignity operating on emergency power.

Daniel grinned. “You look amazing.”

“Thank you.”

Clark opened his mouth.

Bruce said, “Careful. Full sentences are difficult for him right now.”

Clark shot him a look. “I was going to say she looks beautiful.”

“Eventually.”

You looked at Clark. “Were you?”

His gaze warmed. “Yes.”

That should not have affected you as much as it did, but Clark had a gift for making sincerity feel like a hand at the small of your back.

Bruce leaned closer, his voice dropping. “And if I said it?”

“I’d assume you had an ulterior motive.”

“I usually do.”

Dinner passed in candlelight, champagne, and the kind of speeches that made half the table cry before dessert. Maya cried into a napkin before the salads were cleared. Daniel cried during his own toast, which made Bruce look briefly panicked, as if public joy were a natural disaster he had not been warned about. Clark passed him a napkin without looking.

Your place card was between theirs again.

You did not ask who had done it.

By dessert, you had accepted that the rumors were no longer a side effect. They were part of the entertainment. People kept glancing over. Maya’s aunt watched like she had subscribed to a premium channel. It should have been mortifying. Instead, it felt like sunlight after being cold too long.

After dinner, people drifted toward the beach for the bonfire. You meant to go with them. Truly, you did. Then Bruce stopped near the passage that led to a side terrace and said, “Come here.”

You looked toward the beach. “The bonfire is that way.”

“Yes.”

You looked at Clark. “Do you have anything more helpful to add?”

Clark’s smile was gentle and entirely unhelpful. “The terrace has a better view.”

“Of the ocean?”

“Among other things.”

The terrace was tucked along the side of the courtyard, shielded by vines and open to the water below. The bonfire glowed down on the beach, laughter lifting into the night in soft bursts. From here, the wedding felt close enough to return to and far enough away to become someone else’s problem.

You leaned against the railing. “Is this the part where one of you explains what this is?”

Clark joined you on one side. Bruce on the other. There it was again, that warm impossible sense of being placed exactly where they wanted you.

Bruce rested one hand on the railing near yours. “That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you want us to explain or keep flirting enough that everyone else figures it out first.”

You laughed. “At least you know you’re flirting.”

Clark glanced at him. “He knows everything he’s doing.”

“Not everything,” Bruce said.

It was meant lightly, maybe, but the air changed.

You looked between them, at Clark’s careful smile and the sudden stillness in Bruce’s hand. That history between them, the one you had felt all day, seemed to pull itself closer.

“You two,” you said.

Clark looked at Bruce before he looked at you. “Yeah.”

It was such a simple answer for something that clearly was not simple at all.

“Yeah?” you repeated.

Bruce’s mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious. “We’ve known each other a long time.”

“That is the kind of answer people give when they want to avoid a better one.”

Clark laughed softly. “It is.”

Bruce tilted his head. “We’re private.”

“You’re complicated,” Clark said.

“We’re private and complicated.”

“That,” you said, “I believe.”

Clark’s shoulder brushed yours. “We weren’t planning this.”

“Were you not?”

Bruce did not even pretend. “Not in detail.”

Clark gave him a look.

Bruce’s expression remained shameless. “What? You asked Daniel twice whether she was still coming.”

“You asked Maya.”

“You were too slow.”

Your stomach flipped. “You asked about me?”

Clark’s ears went pink, but he did not look away. “Yes.”

“And you?” you asked Bruce.

Bruce’s gaze dropped to your mouth, then returned to your eyes. “Yes.”

It would have been easier if this had started as pity. You knew what to do with pity. Want was more dangerous. Want asked you to admit you had wanted back.

“I was with someone,” you said.

“We know,” Clark said softly.

“We also knew he wasn’t making you happy,” Bruce added.

You stared at him.

Clark sighed. “Bruce.”

“What? It was a relevant observation.”

“It was also an intrusive one.”

“He didn’t notice when she left rooms,” Bruce said, looking at Clark now, and the sharpness in his voice made your breath catch. “He noticed when he needed her beside him in them.”

For a moment, the terrace was quiet except for the ocean below.

Then you said, “That is…uncomfortably accurate.”

Bruce looked back at you, and something in his expression gentled.

Clark touched your hand, careful and warm. “We didn’t do anything because you were with him.”

“But now I’m not.”

“No,” Bruce said. “Now you’re not.”

You looked down at Clark’s fingers near yours. “And now?”

Clark’s thumb brushed your knuckle. “Now we’re asking.”

Your breath caught.

Bruce stepped closer. “If it’s unwelcome, say so.”

“It isn’t.”

Clark went still.

The admission should have terrified you more. Instead, it felt like setting down a heavy bag you had been carrying through three airports.

“It probably should be,” you said, looking at them both. “I got here today. I am technically emotionally unstable. I am wearing waterproof mascara as a precaution.”

Clark smiled, soft and bright. “Very practical.”

“But I noticed you before this weekend,” you continued. “Both of you. I just wasn’t allowed to do anything with that noticing.”

Bruce’s eyes darkened. “And now?”

“Now I’m noticing very loudly.”

Clark laughed under his breath, delighted and a little wrecked.

Then he touched your cheek.

He moved slowly enough that you could turn away if you wanted. You did not. His fingers rested warm against your skin, and when he leaned in, your eyes closed before his mouth touched yours.

Clark kissed like sunlight through curtains. He was warm, gentle at first, his thumb brushing your cheek as if he were trying not to startle you. Then you leaned closer, and something changed in him. His hand slid to your waist. His mouth opened against yours, soft and hungry, and the sound he made when you touched his chest went straight through you.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “Okay?”

“Yes.”

Bruce’s fingers curled around yours.

You turned to him.

Bruce looked composed right up until he touched you. Then the composure became something else entirely, a thin silk wrap over heat. He cupped your jaw and kissed you like he had waited all day and disliked waiting on principle.

His mouth was firm, controlled, devastating. The kiss was not rough, but it had certainty in it. You made a small sound before you could stop yourself, and Bruce’s hand tightened at your waist.

Clark’s breath caught behind you.

Bruce broke the kiss and looked past your shoulder. “Kent.”

Clark moved closer.

You watched Bruce reach for him, watched Clark go willingly, watched their mouths meet with the kind of familiarity that made your knees feel decorative. It was not a performance. That made it hotter. Bruce kissed Clark like he knew exactly how Clark would open for him. Clark’s hand closed at Bruce’s waist like he had been wanting to touch him all day too.

When they separated, Clark looked at you. “Too much?”

Your voice came out softer than you intended. “No.”

Bruce’s thumb stroked once along your jaw. “Use your words.”

Your pulse jumped. You were beginning to understand that Bruce liked certainty spoken aloud. Not because he doubted what he saw, but because he wanted consent with edges, clean and unmistakable.

“It’s not too much,” you said. “I want this.”

Clark’s eyes darkened.

A burst of laughter rose from the beach below, followed by someone calling Daniel’s name, and the world returned with horrible timing.

Clark stepped back first, though he looked deeply unhappy about being reasonable. “We should go back.”

You stared at him. “Should we?”

Bruce’s mouth curved. “She has a point.”

Clark looked between you with visible effort. “Tomorrow is the wedding.”

“I’m aware.”

“You’re a bridesmaid.”

“I’m also aware.”

Bruce leaned closer, his mouth near your ear. “He’s right. Unfortunately.”

A shiver moved through you.

Both of them noticed.

Clark looked like he was reconsidering every responsible decision he had ever made.

Then he kissed your hand, lingering just long enough to make it worse. “Tomorrow night?”

Your throat went dry. “Is that a promise?”

His smile turned slow. “If you want it to be.”

Bruce’s hand settled at the small of your back as he guided you toward the courtyard. “She does.”

You did not argue.

🦇 🥂 ☀️

The wedding day began with hairspray, steam, and the specific collective panic of women trying to make a schedule happen around one bride, six bridesmaids, two mothers, three opinions about lipstick, and a photographer who spoke in gentle tones but had the soul of a general.

Maya’s suite had become a bridal war room by nine in the morning. Dresses hung from every available surface, makeup bags covered the vanity, and someone was crying because the vows were beautiful even though Maya had not read them out loud yet.

You sat near the balcony doors in a robe, holding Maya’s bouquet while she had her lipstick touched up.

“You look different,” Maya said.

“It’s the lashes.”

“It is not the lashes.”

“Then it’s the emotional devastation. Very slimming.”

Maya’s eyes softened. “Are you okay?”

The answer was complicated. You were not over the breakup. Four years did not evaporate because two beautiful men kissed you on a terrace and made the world feel less humiliating. You were still hurt, still angry, still dreading the apartment you had to go back to and the conversations waiting beyond the resort.

But you were better than you had expected. You were wanted. That did not fix everything. It did, however, look very good in the mirror.

“I am,” you said. “Somehow.”

Maya squeezed your hand. “Good. Also, Bruce and Clark are orbiting you like very polite sharks.”

“They are not orbiting.”

Maya gave you a look.

You looked away first.

She smiled. “Oh, that’s interesting.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

The ceremony was beautiful. Maya had planned every detail with devotion and just enough terror to keep the vendors honest. The aisle was lined with flowers, the ocean moved behind the arch in great blue folds, and the sun had softened into late afternoon gold by the time the music began.

You walked down the aisle with Clark. Maya had not apologized for that either.

His arm was warm beneath your hand. He wore a gray suit that fit him perfectly, and when you reached the front, he gave you a small smile before taking his place with the groomsmen. Bruce stood one person beyond him, also in gray, also watching you with an expression that made the vows feel less like the only significant thing happening under the arch.

Maya cried. Daniel cried. Clark’s eyes looked suspiciously bright, which Bruce noticed and pretended not to.

Then came photographs. So many photographs. Eventually, the photographer pointed at you, Clark, and Bruce.

“You three,” she said. “Together.”

You almost laughed.

Clark moved to one side of you. Bruce took the other. Their hands found you with the ease of men who had decided pretending was no longer interesting. Clark’s palm rested at your waist. Bruce’s fingers brushed the bare skin of your arm.

The photographer lifted her camera, then paused. “A little closer.”

“Of course,” Bruce said.

Clark’s hand tightened as you moved in.

You kept your smile fixed. “This is subtle.”

Bruce leaned closer. “Subtlety was abandoned by the pool.”

Clark’s breath warmed your temple as he laughed. “He’s not wrong.”

The camera clicked.

🦇 🥂 ☀️

The reception took place on a terrace overlooking the water, beneath strings of lights and a sky slowly deepening into violet. Dinner was candlelit and loud. Speeches were given. Champagne was poured. Maya laughed with her whole body, bright and happy and so loved that for a little while, everything else became secondary to the joy of witnessing it.

Then the dancing began.

Clark asked first.

He held out his hand as the band shifted into something slow enough to be dangerous but not so slow that anyone could accuse him of intent. His tie was gone, his collar open, and there was a warmth in his expression that made your answer obvious before you gave it.

You took his hand. “You planned this.”

“I waited for a good song.”

“That is not a denial.”

“No,” he said, leading you onto the dance floor. “It isn’t.”

Dancing with Clark felt like stepping into a steadier rhythm than your own. His hand rested on your back, warm through the thin fabric of your dress, his other hand holding yours with easy care. He simply kept you close enough that conversation became private.

“You look happy,” he said.

“I am happy.”

His smile softened. “Good.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I know you had reasons not to be.”

The sweetness of that nearly hurt. You looked over his shoulder toward Maya and Daniel dancing at the center of the terrace, wrapped around each other like they had forgotten everyone else was there.

“I thought it would be worse,” you admitted.

“The weekend?”

“Being here. Being alone.” You looked back at him. “Then I wasn’t.”

Clark’s thumb moved once against your hand. “I’m glad.”

“You’re also responsible.”

“Partly.”

“Very modest.”

“I’m trying.”

You smiled. “Bruce would never.”

“No. Bruce would accept full credit and then pretend he didn’t care about it.”

Your laugh came easily. Clark looked at you as if he had earned something.

The song ended too soon. You expected him to let you go, but he held your hand for a moment longer, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth. Then Bruce appeared at your side.

“My turn,” he said.

Clark looked at him. “You could ask.”

Bruce turned to you. “May I?”

You should not have found that as attractive as you did.

“Yes.”

Clark released you with a small smile, his thumb tracing once over your knuckles before he stepped away. Bruce took his place as the music shifted into another slow song, this one darker, smoother, with a rhythm that seemed to enter your body through the floor.

Bruce was a good dancer. Of course he was. Bruce Wayne probably had lessons in everything, including how to hold a woman in public while making it feel like a private act.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

“I’m concentrating.”

“On dancing?”

“On not letting you know how good you are at this.”

His mouth curved. “Too late.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep being insufferable.”

His hand shifted slightly at your waist, and the small pressure sent a spark through you. “And yet.”

You looked up at him. “How long?”

His gaze did not waver. “Longer than we should have.”

“You knew I was with someone.”

“Yes.”

“So you asked anyway?”

“We asked Maya if you were happy.”

Your breath caught.

The dance carried you through another turn before you answered. “What did she say?”

“That it wasn’t her place to tell us. She also said that if either of us interfered with your relationship, she would make our lives unpleasant in ways money couldn’t fix.”

You laughed softly, but your chest felt tight. “That sounds like Maya.”

“So we didn’t interfere.”

“Until now.”

His eyes darkened. “Now there is no relationship to interfere with.”

The bluntness should have hurt. Instead, it steadied you. “No,” you said. “There isn’t.”

Across the dance floor, Clark watched the two of you with a glass in his hand and something unmistakable in his face.

Bruce followed your gaze. “He worries.”

“About me?”

“About everyone.” A pause. “But yes. About you.”

“And you?”

“I plan.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It is my answer.”

You smiled. “Terrible.”

Bruce’s expression softened by a fraction. “I want you. I want him. I want to find out whether the three of us can exist somewhere that isn’t a resort full of champagne and poor judgment.”

Your breath caught.

“There,” he said. “Better answer.”

“Much.”

Near midnight, after cake and toasts and enough dancing to leave your feet aching, you stepped out onto a side balcony for air. The music softened behind the closed doors. The ocean moved below in silver-black lines.

Clark found you first.

He came through the balcony doors carrying two glasses of water. His tie was gone, his sleeves rolled, and his hair had fallen slightly out of place.

“You keep rescuing me with water,” you said.

“It’s important.”

“It’s very sexy.”

He laughed, ducking his head. “I’ll take it.”

You accepted the glass and drank because he was right, unfortunately. “Where’s Bruce?”

“Giving Daniel a final warning about not losing Maya’s passport before the honeymoon.”

“That sounds romantic.”

“Bruce expresses affection through logistics and threats.”

“I’m starting to notice.”

Clark leaned beside you on the railing. For a moment, you stood together in quiet, watching moonlight break over the water.

Then he said, “I meant what I said yesterday. By the pool. On the terrace. All of it.”

You looked at him.

“I don’t want you to think this is only because of what happened with your ex,” he said. “You don’t owe either of us anything because we showed up at a convenient time.”

“I know.”

“I need you to really know that.”

The care in his voice moved through you more deeply than seduction could have. You set your water on the railing and turned to face him.

“I spent four years being faithful to someone who made me feel lonely while I was standing next to him,” you said. “I noticed you before I knew what to do with that noticing. I noticed Bruce too, which was extremely inconvenient.”

Clark’s mouth twitched. “Extremely?”

“He’s very annoying.”

“He is.”

“And beautiful.”

“He knows.”

“And kinder than he wants people to think.”

Clark’s gaze softened. “He knows that less.”

You looked down at your hands. “I’m not trying to use either of you to prove something.”

Clark’s knuckles brushed yours. “Then what are you trying to do?”

You looked up at him. “Choose something because I want it.”

The balcony door opened before he could answer. Bruce stepped outside with his jacket gone and his sleeves rolled to his forearms. The sight of him slightly undone by the long evening made something low in your stomach tighten.

He took in the distance between you and Clark, the glasses on the railing, the conversation still alive in the air. “Am I interrupting?”

“Yes,” Clark said.

“No,” you said at the same time.

Bruce’s brows lifted.

Clark looked at you with affectionate disbelief. “That was very telling.”

“I panicked.”

Bruce closed the balcony door behind him. “Should I leave?”

“No,” you said, too quickly again.

His attention sharpened.

You turned so your back rested against the railing, and you could see them both. “I want this. I want both of you. I wanted you before the weekend became complicated. The fact that you’ve been making it easier is wonderful, but that’s not why.”

Clark’s voice was rougher when he spoke. “Why, then?”

You looked at him. “Because you look at me like you’re glad I’m here.”

Then at Bruce. “Because you look at me like you’ve already decided I belong.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

Clark inhaled slowly.

Bruce stepped closer. “If we leave this balcony, we're going somewhere private. We will keep asking. You will keep answering honestly. If the answer changes, everything stops.”

Clark nodded. “And tomorrow, we talk. We don’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

“That sounds very reasonable.”

“I am capable of that,” Clark said.

Bruce glanced at him. “Occasionally.”

Your laugh came out unsteady.

Bruce’s fingers brushed your wrist. “Say it clearly.”

You met his eyes, then Clark’s. “I want to go with you.”

Clark’s smile was small, relieved, and heated enough to make your knees feel unreliable.

Bruce took your hand. “Good.”

They got you out of the reception with almost insulting efficiency. Clark spoke briefly to Daniel, who looked from him to Bruce to you, and with visible effort, chose the path of marital peace. Maya caught your eye from the dance floor. You expected questions, or at least a threat. Instead, she looked at the three of you, lifted her champagne glass in a tiny salute, and turned back to her husband.

🦇 🥂 ☀️

Bruce’s suite was larger than your room, because of course it was. It occupied the corner of the top floor, with a sitting room that opened onto a private terrace and a bedroom visible through double doors left ajar. The lights were low. The curtains moved in the ocean breeze. Somewhere below, the reception continued without you.

The door closed.

For a second, nobody moved.

The nerves arrived all at once. You wanted this. You wanted them. But wanting on a moonlit balcony was different from standing in a private room with Clark watching you like tenderness had teeth and Bruce looking as if every bit of restraint he owned had just been asked to justify its continued existence.

Clark noticed first. “Hey.”

You looked at him.

He came closer slowly. “Talk to us.”

“I want this,” you said at once.

Bruce’s expression softened by a fraction. “That was not in question.”

You took a breath, then another. “I haven’t done anything like this before.”

Clark’s mouth curved gently. “A destination wedding?”

You huffed out a laugh. “You know what I mean.”

“I do.” He reached for your hand and held it loosely, giving you the option to pull away. “Neither of us is in a hurry.”

Bruce came to stand behind you, close but not yet touching. “And neither of us is interested in making you perform confidence you don’t feel.”

The words steadied something in you.

“You always sound like you’re in a board meeting,” you said.

“I’ve been told it’s part of my charm.”

“By who?”

“People on my payroll.”

Then Clark kissed you, and your smile dissolved against his mouth.

There was less hesitation now, though no less care. Clark cupped your face with both hands, drawing you into him as if he had spent all night waiting to do it again. When Bruce touched your waist from behind, you gasped against Clark’s mouth.

Bruce paused. “Still okay?”

“Yes.”

Clark’s lips brushed your cheek, your jaw. “Tell us if that changes.”

“It won’t.”

“Tell us anyway,” Bruce said.

You nodded.

Bruce’s mouth touched the side of your neck, barely a kiss, but it went through you with embarrassing force. Clark felt your reaction and smiled against your skin before kissing you again. Bruce’s fingers tightened at your waist, and between the two of them, you forgot what you had been nervous about.

They undid you slowly. Clark drew the zipper of your dress down while Bruce kissed your shoulder. The fabric loosened and slid lower, catching briefly at your hips before Bruce helped it fall to the floor. You stood between them in your underwear and heels, your pulse racing as both men went still.

Clark’s gaze moved over you with open reverence. Bruce’s was darker, more controlled, but not less affected.

“You’re staring again,” you whispered.

Clark swallowed. “I’m trying not to overwhelm you.”

“You’re doing a terrible job.”

His laugh was unsteady. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t say stop.”

Bruce’s hand slid around to your stomach, pulling your back lightly against his chest. His mouth brushed your ear. “There’s that honesty.”

Your eyes fluttered.

You reached for the open collar of Clark’s shirt and tugged.

He came willingly.

The kiss turned deeper at once, your fingers slipping beneath the open collar of his shirt before fumbling with the remaining buttons. Clark took pity on you after the second one and finished the rest himself. Bruce’s hands moved up your ribs, stopping just beneath your breasts.

“Touch me,” you said.

Bruce exhaled against your neck. “Where?”

You turned your face enough to see him. “You know where.”

His mouth curved. “I want to hear you say it.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, but you had come too far to retreat into shyness. “My breasts. My waist. Between my legs. Anywhere.”

Clark’s eyes darkened.

Bruce’s hands slid up and cupped your breasts through the thin lace of your bra. You arched back against him, a soft sound slipping out before you could stop it. Clark kissed the sound from your mouth, his own hands settling at your hips as Bruce’s thumbs dragged over your nipples.

“Beautiful,” Clark murmured.

Bruce’s mouth returned to your neck. “Very.”

Your bra did not last long after that. Clark removed it with hands that trembled once, barely, and Bruce noticed because of course he did. You knew by the curve of his mouth against your shoulder. Then Clark lowered his mouth to your breast, and you stopped caring who noticed what.

He was gentle at first, lips and tongue and warmth, one broad hand across your back while the other curved around your waist. Bruce held you steady from behind, his fingers teasing your other nipple, his mouth on your neck. Pleasure gathered slowly, then faster, every point of contact becoming part of the same unbearable current.

Bruce was close enough behind you that you could feel the hard line of him against your ass before you reached back and found his thigh.

His breath caught. 

The sound made you bold enough to press back more deliberately.

Bruce’s teeth grazed your shoulder. “Careful.”

Clark lifted his head, lips parted, eyes fixed on your face. “What happens if she isn’t?”

Bruce’s hand slid down your stomach. “Then we find out how much trouble she wants.”

Your knees weakened.

Clark caught you at once. “Bed?”

Bruce did not release you immediately. “Words.”

“Yes,” you said, breathless. “Bed. Please.”

That did something to both of them.

By the time the back of your knees hit the mattress, Clark’s shirt hung open, and Bruce’s was loose at his shoulders. You sat because your legs had given up the argument. Clark stood between your knees, looking down at you with an expression so tender and hungry that your chest hurt. You touched his stomach, then his chest, feeling the heat of him beneath your palms.

“You’re unfairly pretty.”

Bruce made a sound behind you that might have been agreement.

Clark’s ears went faintly pink. “Pretty?”

“Gorgeous. Handsome. Devastating. Pick one.”

His smile flickered. “You still nervous?”

“A little.”

He bent and kissed your forehead. “Good nervous or bad nervous?”

“Good.” You looked at Bruce over Clark’s shoulder. “Very good.”

Bruce removed his shirt entirely. “Then keep going.”

You reached for Clark’s belt, but his hand closed over yours.

“Not yet,” he said.

Then he sank to his knees.

Bruce moved behind you on the bed, one knee bracketing your hip, his hands grounding you as Clark lifted one of your feet and slipped off your heel. He pressed a kiss to your ankle before setting it aside, then did the same with the other. The gesture should not have been erotic. It was. It was horribly erotic, made worse by the fact that Clark seemed entirely sincere about taking his time.

“You both have a patience problem,” you said.

Bruce’s mouth touched your shoulder. “You’re the first person to accuse me of that.”

Clark smiled against your knee. “We’ll try to do better.”

Then his hands slid up your thighs, and you forgot how sentences worked.

He looked up at you from between your knees. “Can I?”

Your breath hitched.

“Yes,” you said. “Please.”

Clark drew your panties down slowly, pressing kisses to your thigh, your knee, your calf as he went. Bruce’s mouth found the side of your neck again. By the time Clark settled between your legs, you were shaking.

His mouth touched you, and the room slipped sideways.

Clark ate you out like he had all the time in the world and every intention of using it well. Slow at first, maddeningly gentle, his tongue dragging through you with enough pressure to make you gasp. Then he learned you: the angle that made your thighs tense, the rhythm that made your breath catch, the place that made you reach blindly for him.

Bruce held you through it, one arm wrapped beneath your breasts, the other hand sliding down to part you more for Clark’s mouth.

“Look at him,” Bruce said, voice low at your ear.

You opened your eyes with effort.

Clark looked up at you from between your legs, mouth wet, eyes dark, one hand gripping your thigh. The sight tore a moan from you before you could swallow it.

Bruce’s hand moved between your legs, two fingers spreading you gently while Clark’s tongue circled your clit. “He likes hearing you.”

Clark made a rough sound of agreement against you.

Your hips lifted.

Bruce held you down. “I’ve got you.”

Pleasure built, deep and bright and impossible to outrun. Bruce’s mouth was at your ear, saying things you only half understood. Good girl. Let him. That’s it. Clark groaned against you when you started to shake, and the vibration pushed you over the edge.

You came with your head tipped back against Bruce’s shoulder and Clark’s name on your tongue.

Clark rose slowly, pressing kisses up your body as he came. When he reached your mouth, you tasted yourself on him and made an unsteady sound. Bruce’s hand slid into Clark’s hair and tugged him closer, turning the kiss briefly into something less coordinated and more desperate.

You blindly reached behind you for Bruce. “You’re wearing too much.”

His breath left him in something like a laugh. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Clark looked down at you, still breathing hard. “Bossy.”

“You like it.”

His smile softened into heat. “Yeah. I do.”

They undressed with less patience after that. There was something surreal about seeing them like this, two men you had spent years admiring from safe distances suddenly bare and wanting in the low light of a resort suite.

They looked at each other too. Clark’s gaze moved over Bruce with familiarity and hunger. Bruce let him look for three whole seconds before catching his jaw and kissing him.

This time, there was nothing brief about it.

You watched them kiss at the foot of the bed, Clark’s hand closing around Bruce’s waist, Bruce’s fingers at Clark’s throat, and desire moved through you so sharply that you pressed your thighs together.

Bruce noticed. Of course he did.

He broke the kiss and looked at you. “Impatient?”

“Yes.”

His smile was dangerous. “Good.”

Clark came back to you first, settling his weight carefully over you. Skin against skin was different. Hotter. More intimate. Your legs opened around him without thought, and his breath caught when his cock brushed against your thigh.

Bruce opened the nightstand drawer and set condoms on the bed within reach.

Clark kissed you again, and this time there was a tremor beneath his control. He reached for a condom, then paused when you took it from him and rolled it on yourself, his head bowing as if the sight might kill him. When he settled between your legs and held himself there, waiting, Bruce moved beside you, one hand on your thigh.

“Tell him,” Bruce said.

You looked up at Clark. “I want you inside me.”

Clark’s eyes closed briefly. “Damn.”

He pushed in slowly.

The stretch stole your breath. Clark went still at once, his jaw tight, one hand fisting in the sheets beside your head. You clung to his shoulders, overwhelmed by the heat of him, by Bruce’s hand steady on your thigh, by the fact that both men were watching your face as if nothing mattered more than what they found there.

“You okay?” Clark asked, voice strained.

“Yeah.” You shifted beneath him. “Just go slow.”

He nodded and kissed your cheek, your mouth, the corner of your jaw. “Slow.”

Clark filled you inch by inch, pausing whenever your nails dug into his back, whispering praise against your skin until you were not sure whether you were melting from pleasure or tenderness. When he was fully inside, he rested his forehead against yours.

For a moment, there was only breath.

Then you moved your hips.

Clark groaned. “Careful.”

You smiled faintly. “Everyone keeps saying that.”

Bruce’s hand slid higher on your thigh. “You keep ignoring it.”

Clark began to move, slow like he had promised and deep enough that each thrust made your breath catch. Bruce’s hand slipped between your bodies to find your clit, and the first touch made you jerk.

Clark stopped. “Too much?”

“No,” you gasped. “Don’t stop.”

Bruce circled gently. “Like this?”

“Yes.”

It became a rhythm between the three of you: Clark moving inside you, Bruce touching you, your body stretched and filled and coaxed toward the edge again before you had fully come back from the first time. Bruce kissed Clark over you, and Clark groaned into his mouth, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.

That was what did it.

You came around Clark with a cry you could not contain. Clark followed almost immediately, burying his face in your neck as his body shuddered through release. Bruce kept his hand on your thigh, grounding you both, his mouth pressed to Clark’s shoulder for one strangely tender second.

Clark was careful when he withdrew, careful when he disposed of the condom, careful when he came back to you and kissed you softly enough to make your eyes sting.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded. “Very.”

Bruce lay beside you, propped on one elbow. His expression had gone quieter.

You turned your head toward him. “You’re thinking.”

“I often do.”

“Dangerous habit.”

Clark laughed weakly and dropped his forehead to your shoulder.

Bruce’s fingers traced your hip. “Do you need a break?”

The question settled low in your stomach.

Clark lifted his head, gaze moving between you and Bruce. “You don’t have to decide now.”

You were tired. You were sensitive. You also wanted Bruce with a clarity that felt almost unreasonable.

You reached for him. “Come here.”

His eyes darkened.

Clark shifted to make room, but he did not move away. He lay beside you, one hand stroking slowly along your side as Bruce kissed you. Where Clark had been warmth, Bruce was heat under pressure. He took your mouth like he had been waiting through every second of Clark touching you and had counted each one.

“Still want me?” Bruce asked.

“Yes.”

“After him?”

You heard the question beneath the words, something older and sharper than jealousy.

You touched his face. “Because of him. Because of you. Because I want both.”

Clark’s hand stilled against your side.

Bruce looked past you at him. Whatever he saw there seemed to settle something in him. He kissed Clark over your shoulder, slower this time, almost bruisingly intimate. Then he turned back to you.

“Hands and knees,” he said.

Clark helped you turn, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as you shifted onto your hands and knees. Bruce knelt behind you, his hands smoothing over your hips, your lower back, your ass. Clark settled in front of you, bare and beautiful, one hand cupping your cheek.

“You still with us?” Clark asked.

“Yes.”

Bruce’s hand slid between your thighs, checking you with careful fingers. You shivered.

“She is,” he said.

Bruce rolled on a condom, positioned himself behind you, and paused with the head of his cock pressed against you.

His hand settled at your waist. “Say it.”

You looked at Clark, who watched you with heat and tenderness in equal measure.

“I want you to fuck me,” you said.

Bruce groaned softly. “Good girl.”

He pushed inside.

The angle was different like this, deeper almost immediately, and your arms nearly gave out. Clark caught your face in both hands, kissing you through the first overwhelming stretch as Bruce worked in slowly. You were still sensitive from Clark, still open and aching, and Bruce felt impossibly good, pausing whenever your breath changed.

“That’s it,” Clark murmured against your mouth. “You’re doing so well.”

Bruce’s fingers dug into your hips. “Kent.”

“What?”

“You’re going to make this very difficult.”

Clark looked past you, and whatever expression he gave Bruce made the man behind you inhale sharply.

“Good,” Clark said.

Bruce’s control slipped.

His next thrust was harder, not careless, but enough to push a broken sound from your throat. Clark swallowed it with a kiss, his hands steady on your face as Bruce found a rhythm behind you. Each thrust rocked you forward into Clark’s hands, into his mouth, into the heat of his body kneeling before you.

You reached for Clark, fingers sliding over his thigh. He was hard again, or still, and he shuddered when your hand closed around him.

“You don’t have to,” he said tightly.

“I want to.”

Bruce’s hand slid up your spine. “Let her.”

Clark groaned as you stroked him, your rhythm uneven because Bruce was fucking you too thoroughly for coordination. It didn’t seem to matter. Bruce reached over you to drag him down into another kiss, and Clark’s hand slipped between your legs, slick fingers finding your clit.

You liked it so much you could not answer.

Clark touched you steadily, and Bruce thrust deeper, and the last of your strength deserted you. Your forehead dropped against Clark’s abs as you came again, shaking so hard Bruce had to hold your hips steady through it.

Bruce followed with a low, controlled sound that broke at the end.

The three of you stayed like that for a moment, breathing hard, tangled and sweat-warm and stunned into silence. Then Bruce withdrew carefully, and Clark helped lower you to the bed.

You were not breakable. You were, however, boneless.

Clark laughed softly when you said so into the pillow.

Bruce left and returned with warm washcloths and water because apparently even sex did not stop him from being logistically aggressive. He cleaned you gently, and Clark held the glass so you would drink, then kissed your forehead when you glared at him for making you prove you could finish it.

“You’re both very smug,” you mumbled once you were tucked between them beneath the sheet.

“I’m not smug,” Bruce said.

Clark glanced over your shoulder. “You are extremely smug.”

“I’m happy.”

“That’s worse.”

You smiled into the pillow. “You two always like this?”

“Yes,” Clark said.

“No,” Bruce said at the same time.

Clark’s hand warmed your stomach. “We’re worse when we’re nervous.”

Bruce scoffed.

“You are,” Clark said.

“I don’t get nervous.”

“You reorganized the minibar before she got here.”

You turned your head slowly toward Bruce. “You what?”

Bruce’s expression remained composed. “The resort had stocked inferior gin.”

Clark laughed into your shoulder.

You stared at Bruce until his mouth twitched. Then the laughter got you too, quiet at first and then harder, until Clark was laughing with you and Bruce was pretending not to, which only made it worse.

Eventually, the laughter faded.

Clark kissed your shoulder. “Stay?”

Your chest softened painfully.

Bruce’s fingers paused at your wrist.

You could have made a joke. You could have said your room had a better view, though it did not. You could have pretended this was only about exhaustion and convenience.

Instead, you said, “Of course.”

🦇 🥂 ☀️

The next morning, the resort knew.

Technically, this was impossible. No announcement had been made. No one had seen you sneak out of Bruce’s suite because you had not snuck out of Bruce’s suite. The wedding guests were hungover, sunburned, emotionally depleted, and scattered across breakfast, the beach, and checkout. There was no reason for anyone to know anything.

And yet.

The room service waiter arrived at nine with coffee, fruit, pastries, and the expression of a man whose professional discretion was fighting for its life. His eyes flicked once to Clark, who answered the door in pants and nothing else. Then to Bruce, who was on the phone in a robe. Then to you, sitting cross-legged on the bed in Bruce’s shirt.

The waiter’s face did something heroic and blank.

“Breakfast,” he said.

Clark tipped him enough to buy silence or encourage folklore.

By ten, Maya texted you.

Maya: Alive?

You: Alive. Brunch. Don’t ask.

Maya: I am the bride. I can ask whatever I want.

Then, after three dots appeared and disappeared twice:

Maya: Actually don’t answer over text. I want facial expressions.

You groaned and dropped the phone onto the bed.

Bruce handed you coffee. “Congratulations. You have become the morning entertainment.”

“This is your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You said rumors would save time.”

“They did.”

Clark sat on the edge of the bed beside you, smiling into his coffee. “He’s not wrong.”

You pointed at him. “Do not side with him while shirtless. It’s manipulative.”

Clark’s smile widened. “Should I put on a shirt?”

“No.”

Bruce’s mouth curved against his cup.

Brunch was held on the same terrace as the welcome lunch, which felt excessive in a way that made you suspect the resort had a narrative department. You arrived between Clark and Bruce wearing sunglasses, a sundress, and the fragile composure of a woman who had discovered there was no graceful way to walk into a room after spending the night with two groomsmen everyone had already suspected you were spending too much time with.

Maya saw you immediately. Her eyes moved from you to Clark to Bruce and back again. Then she smiled slowly.

You mouthed, Don’t.

She mouthed, Later.

Maya’s aunt was less discreet.

“Well,” she said as the three of you approached the table. “You look rested.”

You choked on air.

Clark coughed into his hand.

Bruce pulled out your chair. “She slept well.”

You sat down hard. “Bruce.”

“What?”

Maya made a strangled sound into her mimosa.

By noon, checkout had begun. Your original return flight was not until the next morning, a final cruelty from the old itinerary. When you had first arrived, that extra night had looked like punishment: one more evening alone in an ocean-view room designed by people who thought heartbreak needed mood lighting.

Now, for the first time all weekend, the empty room did not feel like a verdict.

You stood on the path near the beach while the wedding party said slow, messy goodbyes around you.

Maya hugged you last.

“I’m proud of you,” she said quietly.

“For surviving your wedding?”

“For showing up. For letting yourself have something good.” She pulled back and studied your face. “It is good, right?”

You looked across the path.

Clark was helping Daniel load luggage into a shuttle, laughing at something he said. Bruce stood nearby in sunglasses, holding Maya’s bouquet because she had shoved it at him ten minutes earlier and he had accepted it with the grim resignation of a man who negotiated with senators but lost to a bride.

Your heart did something complicated.

“Yes,” you said. “I think it is.”

Maya squeezed your hand. “Then don’t turn it into punishment just because it came after something bad.”

Your throat tightened. “When did you get wise?”

“I got married yesterday. It came with the paperwork.”

You laughed and hugged her again.

After she left, the resort felt quieter. Guests disappeared into shuttles and taxis. Staff dismantled floral arrangements. The terrace where you had been photographed between Clark and Bruce looked almost ordinary in daylight. It was strange how quickly a wedding became evidence of itself: petals on stone, empty champagne crates, ribbon caught in a hedge, a life-changing day reduced to cleanup and invoices.

You returned to your room because you technically still had one. The couples’ welcome package was gone. In its place sat a small plate of fruit and a note from the resort manager apologizing for the reservation error. Bruce’s doing, probably. Or Clark’s. Or both, in their very different ways.

You stood in the middle of the room and tried to decide what came next.

That was when the fear returned.

It had waited until you were alone, which was considerate of it. You had wanted them. You still wanted them. But wedding weekends were strange little islands outside ordinary life. Tomorrow, Clark would return to Metropolis. Bruce would return to Gotham. You would return home to an apartment that still held the ghost of a relationship you had ended but not yet escaped.

A knock sounded at the door.

You opened it and found Clark.

He had changed into a white shirt and dark pants, his hair still damp from a shower. He took one look at your face and stepped inside without a joke.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

He closed the door behind him. “Okay.”

“I mean it. Nothing happened.”

“I believe you.” He came closer. “That doesn’t mean you’re fine.”

You huffed a humorless laugh. “You’re very annoying.”

“I’ve heard.”

“From Bruce?”

“Mostly.”

You sat on the edge of the bed. Clark crouched in front of you instead of sitting beside you, which was unfair because it put his face level with yours and made it harder to hide.

“I don’t know what this is once we leave,” you said.

Clark’s expression softened. “That’s what scared you?”

You looked down at your hands. “I don’t want to be the wedding story.”

“You’re not.”

“Clark.”

“You’re not.” His hands covered yours. “Last night wasn’t a favor. It wasn’t stress relief. It wasn’t us getting carried away because there were flowers and champagne and everyone was emotional.”

“It was a little champagne.”

“A little,” he admitted. “But I knew what I wanted before the champagne.”

Your eyes lifted to his.

Clark’s thumbs moved gently over your knuckles. “I wanted you at Maya’s birthday dinner last year when you spent twenty minutes arguing with Bruce about public transit and he looked happier than I’d seen him in months. I wanted you at Daniel’s promotion party when you fell asleep on the couch with your head on Maya’s lap and got embarrassed because I brought you a blanket. I wanted you when you belonged to someone else, and I hated myself enough for that to keep my distance.”

Your chest ached.

“Clark.”

“I’m not saying that to pressure you.” His voice remained steady, though his eyes were anything but. “I’m saying it because this didn’t start yesterday for me.”

The room blurred slightly.

You blinked hard. “Oh.”

His smile was small. “Yeah.”

The door opened.

Bruce walked in using the spare key card he absolutely should not have had.

You stared at him. “Did you just let yourself into my room?”

“Yes.”

Clark looked over his shoulder. “Bruce.”

“What?” Bruce closed the door. “She gave me a key.”

“I gave you a key last night because you said you’d have my dress sent up from your room.”

“And I did.”

“That is not blanket permission.”

Bruce considered this. “Noted.”

Clark sighed, but he was smiling.

Bruce’s gaze moved between you, taking in Clark crouched in front of you, your hands in his, your expression. The amusement faded.

“What happened?”

You looked at Clark. “Do you two rehearse this?”

“Yes,” Clark said.

“No,” Bruce said.

You let out a small laugh, and some of the tightness in the room loosened.

Bruce came closer, but unlike Clark, he did not crouch. He sat beside you on the bed, close enough that his knee touched your thigh.

“Kent gave the earnest speech,” he said.

“I did.”

“So I assume it was thorough.”

“Pretty thorough.”

Bruce nodded. “Good. I’m worse at those.”

You looked at him. “Are you?”

“Yes.”

Clark stood, but he stayed close.

Bruce’s hand rested on the bed beside yours. “I don’t know what this is outside of here either.”

That was not what you expected him to say.

He looked at you directly, no performance, no polished charm. “I know what I want. I know I’m not interested in pretending last night was only for one night. I know Clark will overthink this from every morally defensible angle, and I know you have an apartment to go back to and a life to rearrange because someone was careless with your heart before we ever touched it.”

Your breath caught.

Bruce’s fingers brushed yours. “I also know I would like to see you next weekend. And the weekend after that. Somewhere without a seating chart.”

Clark looked at him.

Bruce glanced up. “You too.”

Clark’s mouth twitched. “Good to know.”

“You were included.”

“You didn’t say it.”

“I implied it.”

You started laughing before Clark could answer.

Bruce looked offended for half a second, which only made it worse. Clark sat on your other side, his shoulder shaking against yours. You laughed until your eyes burned, and then you were crying a little too, which was embarrassing but apparently allowed because neither of them made a fuss. Clark wrapped an arm around you. Bruce took your hand.

For a while, the three of you sat on the edge of the bed in your too-beautiful room at a resort designed for people who arrived in pairs, and you let yourself be held by two men who had decided the math was better with three.

Later, when the sun began to sink again, and the last of the wedding guests had gone, you walked down to the beach with them.

The resort was calmer now. The ocean rolled in soft, foaming lines across the sand, erasing footprints almost as soon as they appeared. Clark carried his shoes in one hand. Bruce had complained about the sand once, then stopped when you looked at him. You walked between them near the waterline, your dress moving in the breeze, your fingers laced with Clark’s on one side and Bruce’s on the other.

“So,” you said, looking out at the water. “Next weekend.”

Bruce’s hand tightened around yours. “Yes.”

“Is this going to involve a private jet?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you object to the private jet.”

Clark groaned. “Bruce.”

“What? It’s practical.”

“It’s excessive.”

“Those are not mutually exclusive.”

You looked at Clark. “Do you object to the private jet?”

Clark sighed. “Morally, sometimes. Practically, less often than I should.”

Bruce smiled. “He’ll be there.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

“You rarely do.”

Clark looked over your head at him. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet.”

“And yet,” Clark agreed, softer now.

You looked between them, at the affection tucked inside the argument, at the history you had stepped into and somehow not disrupted. The fear had not disappeared entirely. You suspected it would return later, when you packed, when you went home, when real life asked what shape this was supposed to take.

But for now, Clark’s thumb moved over your knuckles, and Bruce held your hand like letting go was not under consideration, and the resort staff near the beach bar were absolutely whispering.

Bruce glanced toward the bar, then back at you. “They’re talking about us.”

“I know.”

“Does it bother you?”

Yesterday, it might have.

Yesterday, you had arrived alone and braced for pity. You had walked into a resort built for couples with one name too many on your reservation and a hollow place beside you where someone else was supposed to stand. You had expected sympathetic looks. Awkward questions. A weekend spent pretending not to care.

Instead, Clark lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles.

Bruce watched you with a smile he did not bother to hide.

You looked at the two of them and felt the bright, impossible shape of the rumor become something closer to truth.

“No,” you said. “Let them talk.”

🦇 🥂 ☀️

Your defeat in your circumstances was palpable, but you were determined to keep your sorrow to yourself. You thought they would be satisfied with your depressive acceptance, but they were determined to drag you out of that hole every time you tried to make peace with it. They wouldn’t even let you slowly rot away without their input, telling you it was this exact reason that they took it upon themselves to care for you. Escape was impossible; they made certain of it. You really tried to believe that you were just sparing yourself some pain by not fighting back. 

Monday nights were the nights they promised to make time for you. A day where they would come home from their day jobs and play pretend with domesticity and normalcy. You were expected to play house, too, dressing up beyond your pajamas and sweatpants. They still have yet to give you a real pair of shoes, though. 

You were sitting on the couch in between them, back nestled into Clark’s right side and feet outstretched into Bruce’s lap. They had positioned you the moment they sat down, hardly leaving enough space to breathe. The three of you were in Bruce’s study, listening to his old jazz vinyls as you nursed your drink. 

Bruce swirled a neat Whiskey in a glass, unsipped, as he rubbed the heel and ball of your socked foot with his free hand. Clark had a hot chocolate, same as you, that was sitting on the coffee table, untouched. His right arm was slung over your shoulder while his left hand held yours, kneading his thumb into your palm. You held your mug close to you, keeping your mouth busy in hopes of not cracking under the pressure of Clark’s stare. 

“How was your day, honey?” Clark asked with a soft smile, resting his head next to yours on the back couch cushion. 

You shrugged, continuing to stare at the roaring fireplace in front of you. What was there to say to them? That you had lain around the manor all day, dreading the minutes until they came home? That you were steeling yourself to refuse to speak to them for another day? Bruce cleared his throat, looking up from your foot, and rested your toes in his palm. They tolerated non-answers less than wrong answers. 

You looked over at Bruce, unable to hold your gaze with his before settling to look down at his lap. He had taken off his sports coat when he came home and was sitting with his dress shirt undone, three buttons and sleeves rolled up to his forearms. Clark had foregone his jacket and dress shirt entirely, wearing nothing but his slacks and his white undershirt. They both took their belts off in front of you. You were wearing a mockneck bodysuit and a long skirt with a pair of white socks. 

You had started the day with more clothes, too, that they slowly began to peel off you. There was no need for a sweater, Bruce had said. The fireplace was waiting for you. Did you really need stockings on? Clark had asked. Layers in the house weren’t necessary. Piece by piece, they dressed you and themselves down until you assumed nothing would be left. 

“Clark asked you a question,” Bruce said, sliding his hand up your leg to rest just under the hem of your skirt. 

You looked back at the fireplace and just sighed, setting your drink down next to Clark’s still steaming mug. Shrugging again and sighing, you rested your head against the cushion next to Clark and looked at him. You hoped your moping act would help them drop the subject – puppy eyes always worked on Clark.  To him, you had no bark or bite. 

Clark’s gaze didn’t linger on you. The look they shared had you feeling queasy. They were so hard to read, but you could always tell when they were thinking – especially when they were thinking the same thing. Your quietness had run its course with them. You’re sure you’ve only made it this far because Clark told Bruce to let you work it out yourself. But you’ve learned that Clark’s patience runs much thinner when Bruce is in his ear. They were planning on making you talk; you just didn’t know how. 

Bruce’s hand rubbed circles into your calf, slowly inching towards your thigh. He set his drink down next to yours, settling his free hand back on your foot. You closed your eyes and inhaled slowly, trying not to let panic seep into your bones. It was Clark who was touchy like this, yet he seemed content to keep his hands to himself for once and just watch. Bruce gently slid his hand under your sock, making it down to the ball of your foot before wiggling your sock off. You fought off a shiver of ticklishness and swallowed harshly. 

Clark pressed his forehead to yours, humming softly as he brought the hand he was massaging up to his mouth. He pressed a tender kiss on the tip of your pinky, still rubbing his thumb into the flesh of your palm. An easy smile reached his eyes as he kissed his way down your fingers. After he reached your thumb, he closed his eyes and placed your hand over his mouth, chastely kissing your palm. 

Bruce brought your ankle to his lips, placing a wet kiss there. His hand was warm and weathered, heating your skin up through the fabric. Your skirt slid down to your upper thigh as Bruce put your heel on his left shoulder. His hand caressed the backside of your calf, slowly inching closer towards your inner thigh. You shuddered as a chill ran all up your spine. You stretched your back uncomfortably, settling away from him. You were desperate not to let yourself melt into the false sense of security their arms offered. 

“Bruce’s hands always run cold, don’t they?” Clark mused, kissing your wrist. 

Bruce let out a throaty chuckle and nodded, pressing a kiss to your knee cap. He leaned closer, spreading your left leg over his right thigh and hooking his left arm under your right knee. You understood the game they were playing now. If you were going to play by their rules and win, you’d have to choose your words very carefully. 

“What are you doing?” You questioned quietly, looking at Bruce warily.

“Nothing you won’t like.” 

Clark maneuvered you to fully sit in his lap, facing Bruce, kissing up your arm until his chin rested on your shoulder. His arms held your waist in place as Bruce kissed down to your inner thigh. It was a test. You knew that they knew you understood that now. The only question was how far you were going to let it go. Bruce unclipped the body suit snaps over your panties, letting his fingers graze under the hem on your right hip. 

“Don’t…” You whispered, placing your hand over his wrist. 

Bruce looked up at you through lidded eyes, letting his lips brush against your hip. “Don’t what?” 

“Let him make you feel good?” Clark chimed in, taking your hand in his and away from Bruce. 

“Don’t touch me there.” You said with a little more confidence. 

“Here?” Bruce chuckled, placing a kiss over your navel. 

You inhaled softly, arching your back towards Clark’s chest. These were dangerous waters you were treading in. You’re certain that with all the surveillance Bruce did on you before they took you, he, at least, knew you were a virgin. Hell, you hadn’t even had your first kiss yet, and here Bruce was in between your legs, waiting to devour you. 

“What about here?” Bruce’s hand slid back to your ass, squeezing a handful of it in his hand. 

His callouses were rough against you as he kneaded your flesh in his hand. You shook your head, trying to dig your nails into Clark’s hand with no avail. 

“I…I don’t want you to touch me at all.” You finally confessed. You could only hope you told him what he wanted to hear. 

“Oh, honey,” Clark sighed sweetly. “If you wanted me to touch you instead, all you had to do was ask.” 

Clark took both of your wrists into his right hand as he kissed along your throat and wrapped his arm around your waist to press you flush against him. Bruce retreated and relaxed against the couch, content to abide by your interpreted wishes. Clark kissed up to your cheek, letting his pecks slowly inch towards your lips. 

“Wait!” You cried, turning to look at Clark with desperate eyes. “Wait, please.” 

“Have you decided you want Bruce after all?” Clark whispered, lips ghosting just barely above yours. 

“I…” What could you possibly say in your defense? “I don’t think either of you will want me.” 

“If that were true, we have a funny way of showing it.” Clark chuckled, chasing your lips slowly as you leaned your head back. 

“Don’t make assumptions.” Bruce said coolly. “If you want to know how we feel, just ask us.” 

“I’m not trying to, I’m just…being realistic.” You sighed. You’d never ask them, not wanting an even further look into their deranged delusions.

“Realistic?” Clark chuckled. “I’m just itching to jump your bones, and you think we don’t want you.” 

“You said ‘will want me’.” Bruce noticed. “Is there something you think we don’t already know?” 

You look at Bruce, swallowing nervously. Clark settled to press kisses along your temple and hairline, rubbing his hands up and down your waist. 

“No!” You defended. Secrets were a cardinal sin with them. “I’m just not sure you’ll want someone as…inexperienced as me.” 

“Think our boyscout is as innocent as he seems?” Bruce smirked. Your apparent gap in experience only made your stomach churn further.

“That’s just the way we like it, we’ll be your first and onlys.” Clark mused, letting his kisses move back down towards your lips. “You think our playboy can’t handle a virgin?” 

“We adore you, you know you can’t deny that,” Bruce replied earnestly. 

“I mean,” You laughed nervously, placing your hands on Clark’s chest to hold him back. “I haven’t even had my–” Clark’s eyes light up at the prospect.”My, uh, first kiss.” Your confidence died in your throat, barely finishing the sentence with a whisper. 

“That’s okay,” Clark smiled, all teeth. He looked like a predator waiting to strike at his innocent prey. “We can teach you.” 

Bruce’s hand softly stroked the underside of your calf. “Why?”

Clark maneuvered you off his lap, scooching you both over closer to Bruce. You sat shoulder to shoulder with them both, Bruce keeping your feet in his lap and Clark beginning to stroke your hand again. They let you take your time to answer, watching the gears turn in your mind, trying to find any excuse you thought they would find acceptable. 

“Well, you both know I’ve never had a boyfriend before…you two.” You stared at the fireplace in front of you. What were they to you now? Boyfriends? Husbands? Captors? Owners? 

“We’re your partners now, sweetheart. Nothing is ever going to change that.” Clark reassured. 

“You don’t need a boyfriend to have sex.” Bruce challenged, quirking a brow. Of course he knew all about that. You’d jab it at him if you thought it would make a difference.

“I’m not the hookup type.” You shrugged, feeling the discomfort of the topic rise in you. 

You weren’t less than just because you didn’t have the notches in your bedpost the way they did. You were doing your very best to refuse becoming one of theirs.

“Waiting for someone special?” Clark whispered in your ear. Naturally, Clark was more sentimental about these things than Bruce was. 

“The opportunity just never came up.” You replied. A lie of omission technically wasn’t a lie, but you knew it wouldn’t slide with them.

“You’ll have plenty of opportunities with us.” Bruce smirked. 

“Isn’t ‘I don’t know’ an answer?” You huffed exasperatedly. 

“Not if you don’t have a good enough reason,” Bruce said matter-of-factly. “You’re afraid.” 

“Now you’re making assumptions.” You spat back. 

“It’s not an assumption if it’s a fact, my love.” Bruce quirked a brow. “You’ve been afraid since you first came here.” 

Of course, you were afraid. But of what exactly? Afraid they would expect more than you could give? Afraid that you’ll be nothing more than a sex slave to them? Afraid that you were becoming complicit in your own captivity? Afraid it would hurt? Afraid it wouldn’t? 

You’d be damned if you showed them your fear. 

“It’s okay to admit that you’re afraid, sweetheart. You’re safe with us.” Clark soothed. 

“Have we done anything to show you otherwise?” Bruce asked. 

It was true. You knew it, and they knew it, and you hated that they knew you knew it. They’ve never been physical with you, never raised their voice, never neglected you. In any other circumstance, people would gush over what doting gentlemen you had. 

“Maybe she needs to see how gentle we can be with her.” Clark offered, picking you up bridal style with one arm and tucking you close to him.

You yelped at the sudden upheaval, wrapping your arms around his neck for stability. Bruce was quick to follow both of you as Clark led the way back to the manor’s master bedroom. Clark hummed a gentle tune as Bruce opened the door and beckoned you both inside with an outstretched arm. 

Clark sat you down at the edge of the bed. You folded your arms across your chest as you watched the two of them strip. Clark took off his shirt with one hand and stretched his arms towards the ceiling, fingers intertwined. He let out a pleased hum, sending you a smile. He made quick work to help Bruce out of his dress shirt and left him to remove his undershirt. Clark dropped to his knees and placed his hands on Bruce’s thighs, unzipping Bruce’s pants with his teeth. 

The burn from your cheeks spread all the way down to your chest. Your fingertips tingled with anticipation. You squeezed yourself tighter, swallowing harshly. Clark looked right at you as Bruce’s pants pooled around his ankles. He licked a long stripe against Bruce’s erection, smiling sharply when you looked up at Bruce nervously. 

Bruce ran a hand through Clark’s curly locks, tugging them to bring his head back. Clark looked up at Bruce expectantly and stood when Bruce cupped his chin to kiss him. The kiss was heated and passionate, teeth and tongues already knocking against each other. Bruce stepped out of his pants and kicked them away, leaving him shirtless in his black boxers. He held his hand against the back of Clark’s neck and reached his other hand to shimmy the man out of his slacks. 

Bruce slipped a hand into Clark’s white boxers, palming him and giving him a gentle squeeze. He groaned loudly into Bruce’s mouth and tugged on his bottom lip with his teeth. Clark looked at you while Bruce started to kiss down his neck, biting and sucking harshly on his skin. He motioned for you to come over with a gentle wave of his hand, holding it out for you to take. 

You stood up from the bed and waited for a moment, burrowing your arms further against yourself. If you showed that you would come freely when called, if you were willing to try, then maybe, you hoped, they would have mercy on you. 

You took Clark’s hand, keeping your other arm tight around your chest. He rubbed his thumb over your knuckles in a soothing motion and gave you a gentle smile. You were sure he could feel just how much you were shaking. You could no longer tell if it was from fear or anticipation; maybe it was a mix of both. Bruce’s free hand wrapped around your waist and herded you in between them. 

“You’re making her nervous,” Clark said, cocking his head at Bruce. “Her heart is racing.”

He gently grasped the hand covering your chest and pulled it away, placing it over his to steady you with his calm heartbeat. His palm draped the back of your hand, holding it in place. Bruce’s arms wrapped around your waist from behind, pulling you flush against his chest. His chin rested on your shoulder as he ghosted his lips up your neck and behind your ear. Clark brought your other hand up to his lips again, kissing your palm and closing his eyes. 

“Don’t worry,” Bruce whispered in your ear. “He doesn’t bite.” 

“Not unless you say please,” Clark murmured into your palm, looking back down at you as he kissed your wrist. 

Bruce’s hands slipped under the elastic band of your skirt, laying his palms flat against your hips. 

“You’re so tense,” Bruce said, rubbing circles with his thumbs into your hips. “Let us help you get comfortable.” 

He pushed your skirt down, letting it pool around your ankles. Clark grasped the hem of your body suit and pulled it up over your head, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. Bruce’s hands cupped you in between your legs, making you gasp as he ran a finger along your wetness. 

“You’re soaked, lovely,” Bruce smirked. “Did you like watching us?” 

You gulped, looking away from both of them. The heat in your cheeks burned brighter. Back to square one, you were at a loss for words. The men stepped away from you, taking their places on the large, plush bed. Bruce sat up against the headboard, propping one knee up and resting his left arm against the wood. Clark lay next to him on his side, propping himself up with his right elbow. Their eyes roamed you freely as you stood in the same spot they left you in. Your arms quickly found their place against your chest again. 

“Feeling shy?” Clark asked, tracing circles into the sheets with his index finger. “Come here.”

“Maybe she wants us to continue our little show.” Bruce mused, holding his right hand out to you. 

You stared at the ground as you padded over. It wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen before. It was nothing you hadn’t seen before, either. It never got easier when they stripped. 

You shakily took Bruce’s hand and crawled into the space in between them. Your arms were squished against their chest as you held your hands in your lap, twiddling your thumbs nervously. You stared straight up at the high ceiling, trying to count the folds in the canopy draped over the bed. It was a lovely shade of forest green, dark and inviting. A perfect shadow to hide in. 

Clark’s hand started tracing circles on your stomach. Bruce’s left hand came to rest on your tense shoulders, slowly easing them from being hunched up to your ears. 

“Beautiful,” Clark murmured, ghosting his lips over your shoulder. “Isn’t she, Bruce?” 

“Stunning. It’s a miracle no one got their hands on her before we did.” Bruce agreed, stroking a thumb under your chin. “Pretty girl like you deserves to be kissed, well and often.” 

“Our pretty girl,” Clark whispered, kissing up under your chin and nipping softly at your skin. “All ours.”

Clark dipped back down to your collarbone, leaving wetter kisses before licking a stripe up from your clavicle to your chin. All pretense of chaste affection was out the window – they were hungry for you, and Clark was tired of pretending he wasn’t. 

“Still feeling afraid?” Bruce asked. “We’ll take it slow, sweetheart.” 

Slow. They had no intentions of stopping. It was no longer an if; it was simply a matter of when. 

“I told you I’m not afraid.” You shot back, hardly able to believe yourself with the way you sounded. 

“Then show us.” 

Bruce’s right hand smoothed over Clark’s thigh. His hands were rough and scarred, knuckles hardened from years of fighting. Scars littered his body beyond his hands. His deepest scars were beneath the surface, somewhere deep and dark that not even you or Clark seemed to reach. You assume he’s never let anyone. Sometimes, you think he takes all the hits he does in order to remind himself of the real pain he refuses to let himself feel.

Bruce looked at you intensely as he palmed Clark’s erection. He was studying you. Your nervousness was one thing, he knew it well. But your bashful arousal was a new frontier. You kept staring at the ceiling, knowing you would crumble if you looked over at him. He was handsome in a way that made you nervous if you looked at him for too long, like a long-lost movie star from the Golden Age. His charm was effortless, a well-rehearsed charade that flustered you more than it seduced you. He exuded command that made it hard to say no to him, as if his disappointment would devastate you. 

Unlike Bruce, Clark didn’t have a scratch on him. His skin was smooth and flawless, as if he were carved straight from marble in the likeness of an ancient god. He was handsome in a way that was almost insulting. He could hide it well. His patience was almost as impenetrable as he was. It made him hard to read at first, but he’s let cracks of his other emotions seep through the longer you’ve been with him. You assumed he was too worried about frightening you with anything other than his fairweather optimism. Easy eyes and kind smiles with stupid dimples that put you at ease when you should be on alert. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. An extraterrestrial and uncanny Adonis.  

Clark moaned against your skin, letting his teeth graze you as he jutted his hips against Bruce’s hand. He was careful, cautious with you despite his desire. You hadn’t said please yet. Bruce slipped his hand into Clark’s briefs and pulled out his leaking erection. Clark’s right arm stopped propping him up as he slid it under your neck and settled on the pillows next to you. 

“Look at him,” Bruce instructed, tilting your cheek towards Clark. “Isn’t he so handsome?” 

Swallowing nervously, you turn to look at Clark. A small flush left his cheeks tinted pink. His eyes were shut in pleasure as Bruce continued to stroke him. His eyes were half-lidded as he looked at you. You nodded slowly in agreement.

“Hi, gorgeous,” Clark whispered, using the arm under you to turn your body fully onto his side towards him. 

He moved his hand from your stomach to cup your cheek. It seemed they were in silent agreement that Clark would take your first kiss. You wonder if they had this planned out. If they did, they weren’t keen on sharing their plans. The element of surprise served them well. 

“Hi,” You whispered back, staring at his lips. 

Who were you kidding, of course they did. They didn’t leave anything to chance. 

They didn’t have to do this for you, you thought. They didn’t have to let you take it slow. They didn’t have to wait until you were comfortable with their innocent affection. They could have taken you the first night they brought you back, and it would have never made a difference to them. They were giving you plenty of chances, and you have given them almost none. 

Clark’s hips thrusted into Bruce’s hands as he moaned again. He pressed kisses into your hairline by your temples, whimpering softly when Bruce squeezed him.

“Stop jerking your hips,” Bruce commanded, looking at Clark before resuming at a faster pace. “Hands to yourself.” 

Clark gasped and pressed his face into your hair, hips tense with obedience. Clark’s hands retreated behind his back, chest heaving. Bruce’s other hand settled on the back of your neck, stroking up the side gently. 

“See? He can behave himself,” Bruce reassured, whispering gently in your ear. “He’ll listen to you if you tell him what you want.” 

You placed your hand over Clark’s cheek and pulled back from him slightly to look straight at him. His eyes were heavy with need as he looked at you. His bottom lip was caught in his teeth as he bit back a moan. You could still be in control; you could make this happen on your own terms. 

“Clark,” You said shakily. You kept the last shred of courage you had and maintained eye contact with him. “If you want to kiss me, you can.” 

Clark hardly let you finish your sentence before he gave you a deep kiss, nuzzling his cheek into your hand. You gasped at his intensity, closing your eyes as you let him kiss you breathless. The second kiss was sweeter, softer. You could feel his restraint as he slowed down, groaning lowly against your lips. He was desperate to ravage you, but he was willing to go at your speed. That had to count for something, right? 

Bruce’s hand stopped pumping and grabbed yours, replacing it on Clark’s hardness. Clark whimpered against your lips, letting out a breathy gasp. He moaned out your name lowly, shutting his eyes again. 

Your movements were stiff and awkward, clearly unused to the motions. Clark didn’t seem to hold it against you. 

“Honey, ah!” Clark breathed out, gritting his teeth when you started moving your hand. “Making me feel so good.” 

Bruce’s hand slipped over your underwear, pressing his index finger against your wetness. 

“‘Course you’re not afraid,” Bruce mused, sliding his hand under the elastic band. “How are we supposed to trust what you say when your body is willing to tell us the truth?” 

Bruce’s middle finger brushed against your clit, causing you to tense your hips and flinch. You whined into Clark’s mouth, gasping when you felt his tongue brush against yours. Bruce’s hand on your neck kept you in place when you tried to move your head back. 

“Relax,” Bruce instructed softly. “Just open up.” 

You whined again, turning your head to the side. This was happening too fast; you weren’t prepared to deal with both of them for your first time. Clark’s kisses had left you lightheaded and malleable, slowly kissing away your doubts with each pass of his lips. They could twist your words, but you refused to let them twist your judgment. 

You pushed your hands against Clark’s chest and broke away for a breath, starting to feel sobs bubbling in your throat. You tried to suck in a few deep breaths and take a beat, but Clark dove back in for a wet kiss to your trembling lips, letting his tongue swipe against you again. 

You pulled your hands away from Clark and sat up quickly away from them, frantically breathing and pushing your hair away from your face. Tears were welling in your eyes as you let out hiccuping breaths. 

Bruce was quick to sit behind you, locking you in place between his legs. He placed his hands on your shoulder and brushed some hair behind your ear. Clark sat up in front of you, cupping your face with one hand and placing the other over your heart.

“Oh, baby. You’re okay.” Clark soothed softly. “Shh, you’re okay, honey.” 

Bruce rubbed soothing circles into your shoulders as you breathed with Clark. Some stray tears had fallen, and Clark was quick to kiss them away. 

“Deep breaths,” Bruce said softly. “Just like that.” 

Your hyperventilation had slowed to slow, hiccuping breaths as they soothed you. 

“I-I don’t think I’m ready for this.” You whimpered. 

“You were doing so well.” Bruce praised, letting his hand rub over your shoulder blades. 

You shook your head, closing your eyes and resting against Clark’s chest.

“Talk to us,” Clark said, pulling you in close to lay your ear over his heart. “Did it not feel good?” 

Bruce petted a hand over your head as you hid your face in Clark, still taking shuddering breaths. 

“I don't want to do this.” You mumbled. A desperate Hail Mary. 

“Oh, honey,” Clark sighed. “We all know that's not true.”

“You were so wet when you watched us,” Bruce whispered in your ear. “You liked it. There’s no use in denying it.” 

Your heart fell just as far as it did the first time Bruce told you that you weren’t going to leave the manor. It was something that was not up for discussion. Tears threatened to spill again. 

“What’s really going on?” Clark implored, resting his cheek against your hair.

Honesty might save you for once if they believed it was the truth. 

“It was just moving too fast,” You let out with shuddering breaths. “Bruce held my head down and-” 

Bruce shushed you again, not wanting you to work yourself up a second time. 

“Okay,” He whispered against your hair, placing a kiss on the crown of your head. 

“Our poor girl,” Clark sighed. “We scared you, didn’t we?” 

You shook your head against Bruce’s hand, letting out a sigh of defeat. Something about admitting your fear enticed them, and you refused to play into their hand. Not going through with this was off the table; you were certain about that now. You knew they were patient men; they were willing to take it at your speed. Did you really want to escalate it further? Were you willing to see how long their patience would last? 

“You’ve barely given it a chance,” Bruce said, letting his hand rub over your shoulder blades. “Don’t worry about us. Just lie back, we’ll take good care of you.” 

“Let’s try again,” Clark hummed in agreement and whispered close to you, “No more tears in those pretty eyes, ‘kay?”

You nodded again and sat up between them, using the heel of your palms to wipe the last of your tears away. You bit back another shuddering breath, holding onto Clark’s hand on your chest. You could do this…right? You could do it unsure, you could do it nervously, you could do it scared. You could do this if it meant they didn’t have to hold you down to get it done. 

Clark’s hand on your cheek caressed your face and settled on your chin, resting it between his thumb and index finger. He smiled at you with an unmistakably sharp look in his eyes. He’s pleased you’re willing, but you know that if you weren’t, it wouldn’t have made much difference to him. His thumb stroked over your chin as he tilted it up to look at him. He shared a brief look with Bruce before leaning down to kiss your still-wet eye. 

Bruce’s hand slid down from your back and settled on your hip as he kissed the back of your neck. Clark closed his eyes and leaned in for another kiss. You held your breath as he kissed you chastely, sweeter and slower than the other kisses. He kissed you as if it were the tender love and care you so desperately needed. He peeked at you through his eyelashes, seeing that you had closed your eyes too and were letting out slow, deep breaths. 

“Good girl,” Bruce murmured against your neck, kissing the skin softly there. “Keep breathing just like that. It’ll help you.” 

Bruce’s hand slid over your hip fully and dipped between your legs. You gasped softly in Clark’s mouth and curled your fingers slightly against his chest. Clark’s lips twitched slightly in restraint, continuing to lay kisses on the bottom lip of your parted mouth. Bruce’s hand cupped you entirely, pressing the heel of his palm against your clit. Your hips jerked away from his hand, but Bruce’s straddling you from behind kept you in place. Even the pressure from his palm was too much for you; every touch against your skin left electricity in its wake. No matter how shameful it felt to admit, you knew you wouldn’t last long against them.

“Shh,” He soothed, kissing under your ear. “You’re okay. Just let us make you feel good.” 

“He’ll make all your worries melt away, you’ll see.” Clark hummed in agreement against your lips. “Don’t be difficult, now.”

Bruce’s hand continued to grind into you as you let out a soft whine. Toys had never even felt as good as Bruce’s teasing. You were ashamed to feel as good as you did. Your hand flew up to your mouth, making him press his hand down even harder. Clark took it away and held both your wrists against him. 

“None of that,” Clark scolded and pressed your hands back on his chest. “You let us hear that pretty voice loud and proud.” 

“Trust me, lovely.” Bruce chuckled, putting his hand into your wet panties. “Clark would be too happy to make you really scream for us. He’s like a dog with a bone when it comes to you.” 

“Woof.” Clark teased in a low voice. 

Bruce’s finger slowly circled your clit as you bit back a moan. Clark took your swollen lip from under your teeth and put it between his own, sucking gently when you moaned again. Bruce’s movements were slow and teasing, giving you just enough to feel the tingle in your spine but not enough to get you anywhere. 

Clark swiped his tongue over your lip before sealing your lips in a hot kiss. You whined into his mouth, grateful for the way his tongue muffled your pathetic sounds. You relaxed your hips against Bruce and flattened your palms shakily against Clark’s chest. They were trying to keep the mood light, ease the tension from your hunched shoulders and arched hips. The least you could do for yourself was return the favor. 

Bruce’s kisses became wetter as he sucked and nibbled on your collarbone, leaving tender marks in his wake. His fingers slipped down to tease the wetness between your folds, stroking gently. You sighed into Clark’s mouth and forced yourself to rest in the palm on your cheek. Clark was right, if you really got yourself to relax, you could forget yourself for just a moment. Forget your circumstances, forget that you don’t have a say in your own life anymore. 

You could forget all that for now, but you knew better. Tomorrow is a different story. You’ll try to forget how good Bruce’s fingers were at making you feel pleasure you didn’t even know was possible. You’ll try to forget how dizzying Clark’s kisses were. You’ll try to forget how addicting their devotion and desire were in your isolation. 

Clark’s free hand slipped in your panties over Bruce’s, toying his middle finger through your folds before dipping into you. You cried out softly as he did, earning pleased groans from both men. The two of them shared a look over your shoulder before kissing each other next to your ear. It was heated and messy, causing heat to pool in your stomach at their pleased sounds. 

Your back arched away from Bruce as Clark curled his finger inside of you, making a slow inching motion. Your legs began to tremble as they squeezed shut around Clark’s thigh. You bit back another moan as you pressed your back to Bruce’s chest. Clark was reaching places you never even dreamed of, dragging out pleasure you didn’t even know was possible with each curl. You were close already. Clark let out a low sound when you clenched around him, and Bruce hummed in kind. 

“Eager little thing,” He cooed, pressing his forehead against yours and staring at your wide eyes. “Feeling good so good, aren’t you?” 

You yelped in pleasure when Bruce gently pinched your clit and rolled it between his fingers. Clark’s finger pumped in and out of you at a steady pace, keeping a curling motion as he dragged them against your walls. You couldn’t even think to hold back your moans anymore as you writhed between them. 

“I think she’s close.” Bruce teased with a smirk, looking at Clark. Your hips just against their fingers as you whined. “And she said she didn’t want this.” 

Bruce tilted your head back by your chin and kissed you deeply, drinking in the soft sighs and whines you let out. Your hips rut in between them, caught in a dance between Bruce’s caresses and Clark’s pumping. He broke the kiss off and looked down at you through heavy eyelids, cooing when you let out a soft whimper. Your eyes screwed shut as the pleasure began to override you, making you moan shamelessly. 

“That’s it,” Clark urged. “Good girl, let it out.” 

You wailed and let out a loud cry as your body tensed, shaking as your orgasm ripped through you. Bruce let out a pleased groan as you collapsed against him, riding out the waves of pleasure as they whispered sweet nothings to you. Clark’s lips quirked as he felt you squeeze tightly around his fingers. They guided you through it, only stopping their motions when you whimpered and shook in overstimulation. 

A stray tear had fallen down your cheek as you opened your eyes to look up at Bruce. He was still looking right back at you, pressing a sweet kiss to your trembling lips. You kissed back, whining when he pulled away. The haze of your satisfaction had your wires crossed. Your afterglow had you feeling a sense of peace you didn’t even know you could get back.

“Well done, love.” He praised, pulling his hand out of your panties. 

Bruce raised his fingers to Clark’s lips, moving them slowly in and out of his mouth as he sucked greedily. Clark pulled his finger out of you and raised it up to Bruce’s lips, pumping it slowly out of his mouth. You watched as you tried to catch your breath, letting out little whimpers as you adjusted your posture. 

The reality of your situation was starting to trickle back in as the two of them parted above you. It was a fool’s errand to believe you had any power over the situation. You handed yourself over as soon as they asked you. You let your inhibitions get lost in their twisted sense of affection and care. Worst of all, you liked it. You liked forgetting the circumstances that led to the current entanglement. You liked forgetting that they weren’t your lovers by choice. You liked forgetting that you were all but held down to get here. 

Bruce smoothed his hands over your tensing shoulders and moved you to lie with him. He propped himself up against the headboard again and shimmied you up to lie on his chest with your back to him. Clark crawled in between your legs, staring up at you with an easy smile. 

“Absolutely soaked for us,” He murmured, placing a wet kiss over your belly button. “Tasted so good on Bruce’s fingers.” 

Clark worked you out of your panties and tossed them off the side of the bed. You shifted anxiously against Bruce, who held you in place with a warm hand on your chest. Clark kicked his own boxers off, leaving both you and him fully naked. 

“You’re doing so well, beautiful,” Bruce whispered in encouragement, kissing your ear gently. “Don’t stop now.” 

Clark hiked your knees over his shoulders as he settled between yours and Bruce’s legs. You shifted nervously again, gasping when he blew cold air over your wetness. You were hardly ready to go all the way; you only hoped they felt the same way. He chuckled as he placed wet kisses trailing down your right thigh, caressing your thighs as they rested on his shoulders. 

“Don’t tease her, Clark,” Bruce chuckled. “She’s been so good for us. Doesn’t she deserve her reward?”

Bruce hooked his arms under your knees and pressed your legs up to your chest. He tucked you close to him, folding you up as much as he could. You gasped, feeling your flush and shame come back twice fold at your absolute exposure. They were more than eager to prepare you for them, which you could feel immensely grateful for. You just hated that it cost you more of your dignity that you thought was all but gone. 

Clark’s warm hands gripped your ass and squeezed gently before he spread you open. He looked up at you as he placed a small kiss over your clit, making you whimper and gasp from the sensitivity. You squirmed as you looked down at Clark, who looked you straight in the eye as he laid a wet kiss with his tongue against the nub. You gasped softly again as his tongue took a long, slow swipe up your wet folds.

Clark hummed against you as he took your clit in his mouth and began to suck gently, shaking his head. You whined as his entire mouth enveloped you, becoming more feverish in his movements the louder you became. He was moving against you like a man who had been starved of you his entire life. 

Your hands flew down to the curly locks tussling between your legs and threaded your fingers through them. Clark moaned in response, pushing his tongue in deeper into you and letting his canines scrape against you gently. You cried out and pulled at his hair, trying to pull him off of you. Your thighs started to shake in overstimulation as you felt Clark growl against you. 

“Clark!” You yelped, trying to buck your hips away from him.

Bruce held you firmly in place as you struggled in their hold. “He’s good with his mouth, isn’t he?” Bruce murmured against your temple. “Like I said, a dog with his favorite bone.” 

Clark nodded, suckling on your clit as he slowly inched a finger back into you. You gasped breathlessly and went limp against Bruce’s chest, feeling the pleasure start to become borderline painful as Clark added a second finger and curled them both. You clenched tightly around them as he began to pump them in and out of you. 

“No,” You whined pathetically, feeling the noise rise again in your throat as you shook your head. “I’m gonna come again.” 

“That’s okay,” Bruce said. “You can come as many times as you want.” 

Clark was spurred by your begging and continued in his ministrations, letting out a low moan as he rocked his hips against the bed. You tugged at his hair again, but he paid you no mind as he steadfastly brought you closer to your second orgasm. You could do nothing but whine and cry out against Bruce’s chest, feeling tears prick your eyes. You let out a loud, warbling cry as you came against Clark’s face, feeling your body practically white out with the pleasure ripping through you. You shook violently in Bruce’s arms as you let out a heaving, whining sob, letting a few stray tears fall. 

You continued to clench around nothing when Clark pulled his fingers out, and your thighs twitched through the aftershocks of your pleasure. Clark placed one final kiss on your wetness before sitting up between your legs. Bruce set your legs back down over his and straddled Clark’s thighs. You shut your eyes and let out heaving breaths as you whispered a curse to yourself. 

“You’re lucky,” Bruce chuckled deeply. “He let you off easy today.” 

Clark kissed your trembling lips deeply, slipping his tongue between your lips as you gasped softly. You tasted yourself on his tongue as you let out a low whimper. Clark moaned in kind, nipping at your lips softly when he pulled away. 

“All right, that’s enough,” Bruce teased, pushing against Clark’s chest. “You’ve been greedy enough for one evening.” 

Clark kissed you sweetly one last time before switching positions with Bruce, handling you gently as they passed you off. You were placed in Clark’s lap, back pressed flush to his chest. Your legs were spread again, far less so than before. Your feet sat on the outside of Clark’s knees as you settled against his chest. You watched as Bruce took off his boxers and sat between your legs, completely bare. 

Your eyes trailed his body as you looked over his scars, some familiar and some new to you. Seeing them up close and uncovered made you realize just how many of them there were. You reached a shaky hand out to his chest as he moved closer between your legs. The scar just below his heart was cut deep; the healed tissue was raised and uneven. It’s unimaginable to consider what the two of them have survived. 

You stood absolutely no chance against them unless they wanted you to. It would only take seconds for Bruce to pin you down in an inescapable hold. Clark wouldn’t have to try to catch any sudden movements you threw at him. They didn’t even need each other to ensure your complete physical submission. Your pleasure overtook you because they wanted you to have it. Your consent was manufactured because they wanted you to believe it. They gain nothing from your approval, yet demand it anyway. 

When Bruce finally kissed you, you kissed him back. You felt the chap of his lips, the scars from all the times they got busted by a lucky shot. You placed a small kiss over the scar on his cupid’s bow, taking in his pleased hum as he kissed you deeply in response. Maybe they would let you off easy tonight. Maybe they’ve had their fill of you for one evening.  

Bruce’s finger ghosted over your folds, and you jolted in oversensitivity, clenching down around nothing. He parted from you, licking his lips. 

“You ready?” He asked sincerely, caressing your inner thighs with his rough hands. 

You would never be ready. Ready wasn’t a feeling; ready was an action. You trembled slightly with anticipation and nerves, only growing more riled up as Clark gently rubbed your waist. Tears threatened to prick your eyes again as you blinked them away and looked back up at the canopy. There was a slight gold reflex to the green that you hadn’t noticed earlier. The sooner this was over, the sooner you could stop pretending to want this. You swallowed and looked at Bruce, willing yourself to relax. 

You needed to choose to be ready before they decided for you. 

Bruce shifted his hips closer to yours, thumbing your clit gently as he pressed his thighs against the back of yours. Clark reached over and stroked Bruce slowly, grinning as he groaned lowly. His other hand caressed your midriff, letting his palm spread warmth over you. You felt him rub his tip against your wetness, and your hips tensed up again. Bruce’s hands held your waist as Clark helped line him up. Your right hand shakily gripped Bruce’s wrist, making him look up at you. 

“Bruce,” You pleaded softly through trembling lips. “I’m scared.” 

“I’ll be gentle,” Bruce promised, placing his hand on yours and rubbing his thumb soothingly over your knuckles. “Do you want to hold my hand?”

A tear falls down your cheek as you nod and shut your eyes. Bruce’s fingers lace with yours as you squeeze tightly, still shaking. He pecked a kiss to the back of your hand and pressed it into the bed. 

“Don’t you worry, honey,” Clark whispered sweetly in your ear, holding your other hand. “Bruce is going to take good care of you.”

Bruce used his free hand to give himself one more pump before pressing his tip into you, catching it on your hole as he slowly inched in. You clenched harshly around him as he slid in, adjusting to his size. Ragged breaths made your chest heave sharply as your whole body tensed in anticipation. 

“Shit,” Bruce hissed through his teeth, stopping about halfway. “Squeezing me like this is only going to make it harder.” 

Clark pet over your stomach, gently pushing your arching back down onto the bed and forcing you to relax the tension in your hips and waist. 

“Just relax,” Clark coaxed. “Be good and let him in.” 

You forced yourself to relax your thighs, opting to carry all the tension in your shoulders instead. Bruce sighed in relief and continued despite your whimpering whines. The stretch was unlike anything you’d ever experienced, even with Clark’s fingers earlier. Clark shushed you softly and kissed your temple, murmuring praise. 

“That’s it,” Clark praised. “Good girl. Just like that.” 

Bruce groaned and clenched his teeth, squeezing your hand slightly as he bottomed out. You let out the breath you held in and squeezed his hand fiercely in return. You involuntarily clenched around him as he stilled in you. He cursed harshly under his breath. His hips trembled in restraint against yours. 

The stretch was uncomfortable, almost bordering on painful. The fullness was something else entirely. He was consuming your entire being. He was the sweat on your brow, the nerves in your mind, the pleasure pooling in your gut. He was filling you in places you didn’t even know existed. He was taking the last piece of yourself that wasn’t already declared his. 

“Taking me so well,” Bruce muttered, resting his forehead on yours. “Absolutely perfect for me.” 

Clark pressed his hand on your stomach, and you whined, gasping at the pressure. He took your left hand and placed it next to his right on your stomach, stroking the back of your palm gently. 

“You feel him here?” Clark said softly. “So deep. He feels so good, doesn’t he?” 

Clark interlaced his fingers over yours, continuing the pressure. His right hand moved down between your legs and began to slowly circle your clit with his middle finger. Bruce let go of your hand briefly to hook your right leg under his left arm, pressing it up to your chest as he reached back down. He interlaced your fingers with his as he pressed his hips flush to yours, not leaving any gap between the two of you. 

Your mouth was agape as you let a breathless cry, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of you. A few more tears fell down your face as Bruce pressed himself into you, groaning into the crook of your shoulder as he did. Your back was flush to Clark’s chest, feeling his hardness rut against you as he moved his hips slowly. 

Sweat trailed down your back onto Clark’s stomach as you squeezed Bruce’s hand again. You blinked away more tears and took a big breath, trying to catch your bearings. Being between both of them was beyond overwhelming. 

“Good girl,” Bruce praised, laying a needy kiss on your shoulder. “Keep breathing just like that. We’ve got you.” 

Bruce’s hips slowly rolled back, dragging himself out of you. He was just shy of his tip coming out before he rolled his hips forward in a single, swift motion to plunge himself all the way back in. You gasped and held your breath again, only exhaling when you could no longer hold in your unabashed moan. You were too overwhelmed to give a second thought to any embarrassment you could think to muster. 

“Tell him just how good you’re feeling,” Clark whispered into your ear, moaning with another jerk of his hips. 

“It’s too much, I can’t,” you blubbered out. “I can’t take it.” 

“You can,” Bruce grunted. “And you will.”

Bruce ground his hips slowly in a circle, pressing you further into Clark. The overstimulation and fullness were bringing your buried emotions to the forefront. A whimpering cry caught itself in your throat as you screwed your eyes shut. Tears fell down your scrunched face when Bruce pulled himself out slowly again. The slow drag of his head against your tensed walls had your toes curling as hard as they could. 

Bruce panted and swallowed close to your ear, letting out a grunt as he pushed his hips back in. His thighs flexed against yours as he started to pump in and out of you at a slow, steady rhythm. Your nails dug into Bruce’s hand, hard enough to scratch and draw blood.

Bruce brought your entwined hands up to his mouth for a brief kiss over your knuckles. 

“Gonna give me some battle scars of your own?” He teased breathily. 

As Bruce’s hips rocked the pair of you, Clark slid his hardness between the small of your back and your tailbone. The sweat of your back slickened him enough to sigh in your ear and kiss behind it wetly. More tears fell as Clark’s finger began to circle you faster and his hips rutted against you in tandem with Bruce’s. The shame and pleasure were bringing you close to sobbing again, making your feelings grow with each rise and fall of your heaving chest. Exhaustion crept in where excitement should be. You could only pray they would take their pleasure quickly. You refused to give yours up for a third time. 

You kept your eyes shut as you heard Clark and Bruce exchange a few more kisses with each other before moving onto you. Bruce kissed your wet cheeks tenderly, whispering assuringly to you as he did. Clark pressed his face into your shoulder, speeding his pace up as he shook your entire body with his strokes. He left wet kisses on your damp skin, letting them muffle his moans. 

Clark groaned your name loudly as his hips flexed and tensed there, spilling himself all over your back. He bit gently into your shoulder as he rode out his aftershocks, licking over the tender mark. He was quicker to go than Bruce from his previous teasing, you assumed. You tried not to notice him rutting into the bed when he was between your legs, letting his obsession with you alone do him in. 

“Usually have better manners than this,” He exhaled in your ear, nuzzling his cheek into yours. “But I just had to get back to you.” 

He had two fingers circling your clit now, pressing down harder as Bruce increased his speed. You shivered in mild disgust and arousal as you felt his spend start to drip down your back. Bruce was not far behind him as you opened your watery eyes to see him staring back down at you. His face was uncharacteristically flushed, and sweat was beading around his temples. He leaned down to give you a deep kiss on your mouth, moaning into your mouth in return. 

Your cunt clenched down on him again as you felt the pleasure building in your core again.

“Close again?” He smirked through his heavy pants. “We’ll have to build your stamina up.” 

You whined and shook your head, letting the sobs bubble up again. You didn’t want your pleasure to be wrought from their insatiability again. Their obsession with your complete ownership had delved all the way down to enacting their will over even your most basic bodily functions. They shared a displeased look over your shoulder, in silent agreement once again. It was never about you. 

“You will come again,” Bruce commanded, squeezing your hand. “You deserve it, my love.” 

Of course you did, that’s what this was all about in the end – what they think you deserve. Not what you wanted, not even what you needed, but what you deserved. You deserved their protection, you deserved their devotion, you deserved their delusions of grandeur. You deserved it so much that it never mattered what you thought about it.

Clark whispered encouragingly in your ear as Bruce slowed his pace, focusing on more powerful and targeted thrusts. He was going in as deep as he could, rolling his hips up into you. Your sobs were loud and unfettered as Clark shushed you softly. You shook your head again and again, whimpering out protests when the pleasure began to make you shake. There was practically no buildup this time. It hit you just like their love did, an impossible force that refused to be denied. It struck you all at once like they did, overtaking your entire being and holding you in the throes of its ecstasy. 

You were fairly certain you lost consciousness for a moment as you rode out your orgasm, spasming violently around Bruce. Absolution filled your senses as you basked in the ignorance once again, letting go of your circumstances for just a second more. The well-earned relief was short-lived as you felt Bruce pull out of you and finish himself off on your stomach. You barely registered he had done it as you finally let yourself go, giving into the fear you’ve felt the entire time. Your body shook as you sobbed harshly. You didn’t even care if they were a witness to it anymore; you couldn’t refuse yourself any longer.

They maneuvered you slowly, allowing your body to rest naturally on the bed between them. Bruce kissed you and pulled you close to him, laying you face down on his chest. He rested against the sheets on his back, petting your hair as you wailed into his chest. The situation had fully crashed down on you, filling you with horrible shame and anger. You let them talk you into willingly betraying yourself, into believing this sham of an intimate evening. You tried to forget them in the apex of your pleasure, but they were waiting there for you, too. There was nowhere to hide from them, not even in yourself anymore. 

Your cries had fizzled out in sniffles quickly as exhaustion moved into you once more. The edges of reality blurred as you opened your eyes wearily. The sight of the room was a haze, some far-off place that felt more like a dungeon than a castle with each passing minute. Their voices were a blur as you settled against Bruce, still shaking from the shock of it all. You hadn’t noticed Clark had left the bed, but he returned with a warm washcloth. His movements were gentle and tender as he physically cleaned you of themselves. You weren’t sure you’d ever be able to wash yourself of your own sins, not with all the tears you knew had left to be shed. 

Clark settled beside you and kissed your cheek, prompting you to close your eyes again. Their conversation was muffled, like you were listening to them speak through a wall. Bruce said something about Alfred bringing dinner up to the bedroom instead of taking it formally like date night would demand. Their voices faded the more you relaxed into their comforting touches.

His eyes widen, his ribs feeling tight around his lungs as his breathing suddenly comes a little labored. He blinks a couple of times, as if to clear his eyesight, but he's not deceived. It's you, with a little smirk on your mouth, the red lipstick you've got on matching the color of your see-through lingerie.

It's a babydoll, complete with stockings and a garter belt, and it leaves nothing to the imagination.

Clark knows he should scroll away, just ignore the ad and pretend he never saw anything. He knows he should start practicing how to not struggle to meet your gaze the next time he sees you at the office. But he knows, above all, that he should not access the site.

His thumb is hovering over the x to close the ad when he pauses.

It's like something comes over him, an impulsive, needy drive that’s impossible to ignore, and suddenly he's tapping on the ad.

It leads him to a video of you kneeling on a bed, that red babydoll completely see-through. He can see your breasts, your nipples already hard beneath the lace. He can see the shape of your body, and his eyes follow the contour of your hips, your thighs, the outline of your pussy…

He can feel heat spreading through his lower abdomen, his cock twitching as blood rushes south. Before he knows it, he’s hard in his sweats.

And, God, he shouldn’t be. He should be better than this, better than the base instinct that flares hot under his skin.

His eyes are glued to his screen, where you’re busy making a show of picking up a pretty pink vibrator and turning it on. You lay back on the bed, dragging the buzzing item over your skin. Your breathing grows heavy, and Clark can see the goosebumps that form as the toy goes over your breasts, your chest heaving with each labored breath you take. Your free hand tugs the red lace of your bra down, exposing your tits. Clark’s heart feels like it’s stopped.

He can’t look away from your breasts as you brush the vibrator over your hard nipples that are eager for attention. Your lips part to let out a soft, sweet moan, and Clark grunts, his hard cock twitching again. He reaches down, trying to adjust himself, and instead finds out that there’s a wet spot at the front of his sweats from his precum that’s started leaking.

The feel of it embarrasses him immensely. His face heats up, from the base of his neck to the tip of his ears, and he wishes he could control his body. He wants nothing but to get rid of the hard-on, click away from the video and forget he ever saw anything.

But now, you’re spreading your legs on the screen, pushing your panties to the side, and the moment Clark sees your pussy, whatever little wisps of decency were left are forgotten. He watches, awed, as your fingers spread your folds, showing your entrance, already wet and clenching around nothing.

His blood is hot as it rushes through his ears. He can feel his heart racing in his chest, his breath coming out in hard puffs as he watches you run your fingers up your slit. You hold them right up to the camera, showing your sticky arousal on your digits.

Clark pictures what it would be like to touch you, what it would feel like if it were his fingers gathering your wetness and then tasting it…

His hand makes its way into his pants to find his hard, engorged cock standing to attention. He is struggling to behave, trying his best to force his hand out of his sweats, but the ache of desire is stronger.

He wraps his fingers around himself and squeezes, his eyes fluttering at the immediate jolt of pleasure. Through heavy eyelids, Clark watches you dip your fingers into yourself and then pull them back out, giggling and mewling sweetly.

You lift your hips off the mattress to push the flimsy lace panties off and toss them aside. You spread your legs and finally push the toy in, and Clark has to make a conscious effort to keep himself from jizzing his pants on the spot.

Your moans come loud from his phone as you gently fuck yourself with the buzzing toy. Clark’s eyes are trained on your pussy, your hole dribbling and stretched out around the vibrator. Your gorgeous cunt is squelching loudly, needily, and Clark just wishes it was him in you, fucking you slow and deep.

He matches the strokes of his hand to the rhythm you set for the toy, tempted to close his eyes and imagine himself in you, but he doesn’t want to miss the sight of your squirming, sweaty body on the screen.

“Feels so good,” your breathless voice echoes from his phone, your head lolled back as you turn up the vibrations, the steady buzz of the toy growing more audible. He watches your arousal drip around the base of the vibrator, slithering down your skin, between your asscheeks.

He can almost feel it on his cock, trickling down to his balls, and he twitches again as his thumb soothes at his leaking tip. He watches raptly as you start fucking yourself faster, harder, pulling the toy out quick only to push it in deeper with slick, obscene squelches.

The sound of it, combined with the way you’re gasping and whining, has Clark’s mind spinning.

What noises would you make if he were to fuck you? How would you sound while he tasted you? Would you cry his name or gasp it when you come?

He grunts, pushing his pants hastily down his hips before returning to jerking himself off. He squeezes his cock roughly, the thick head an angry red from how hard he is. The vein along his shaft is bulging, and a little trail of precum glistens on his skin from where it’s dribbled down his length.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck,” you whine on screen, your thighs trembling. Clark feels hazy as he watches you struggle to thrust the toy now from how tight your gummy walls are clenching it.

Your curses dissolve into incoherent whines and moans as you start canting your hips against the toy. Clark watches you get closer and closer, until you inhale sharply and pause for a second…

“Oh, fuck!”

…and then you come, your beautiful body quivering, arousal glistening all over your needy cunt as you fall over the edge.

Clark just can’t look away, and he can’t stop his hand from jerking faster and squeezing tighter, until he comes too.

“Aw, shit,” he mumbles, throwing his head back against the headboard as his orgasm washes over him. Rope after rope of thick, milky cum spills onto his abdomen and hand, hot and sticky where it lands. His mind has gone completely blank, save for the image of you finding your climax with that toy stuffed in your perfect hole.

As he slowly comes down, he realizes what he’s done and quickly closes the video. He sits on his bed for a long while, feeling like shit.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Why would I watch that? Why would I get off to it? Jesus.

He tries to go about his night as he normally would, but the thought of you haunts him. The way you’d looked, the way you’d sounded…

It haunts him all night, and well into the next day. He’s barely had any sleep by the time his alarm rings. And even once he’s in the office, he can’t stop thinking about it.

He’s early for once, the bullpen just about empty, and he sits himself down at his desk, reluctant to even glance at his phone. He knows he’ll go right back to your content if he does, and the temptation is so strong…

Just one more look couldn’t hurt.

He goes back into the site and clicks on your profile, merely checking out the videos you have. He promises himself he won’t subscribe, and promises himself he won’t actually watch any of the others.

He’s so caught up in going through your profile that he basically jumps out of his skin when your voice, high-pitched with alarm, comes from right beside him as you glance over his shoulder.

“Clark, what are you doing?!”

a/n 2: sorry about the delay! life got me down and has been kicking me while i'm down, but i'm pushing through. the summer always cheers me up a little, and now that i'm on vacation, i'm doing better <3 i love you all and i hope you enjoyed this!! :)

♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing

Clark Kent masterlist

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𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk <3

Your eyes scan over the crowded space: a single long room that’s only really accessible by a stone staircase leading up to the main street of campus. 

You’ve been nursing your first drink for at least twenty minutes. William’s on number two, and just sent Rick off to get number three.

“Listen to me.” William grabs you by the shoulders. “You don’t have to take that shit anymore. No more deadbeat guys who can’t fuck and do the bare minimum.” 

You laugh, but he doesn’t.

“I’m serious!” He shakes you a little bit, like it’ll make the point stick. “You’re hot! You’re smart! You’re funny!” He looks you up and down. “If I liked girls I’d want to get you out of that tiny little dress immediately.”

“Okay, okay!” You giggle. A smile cracks his face, and widens exponentially when his gaze drifts over your shoulder and locks on something behind you. 

“Um, why do you look evil?” You ask, straw at your lips.

The expression stays.

“Did I not mention in my pitch that I had a gift for you?”

“What is it?” You try to turn, but his hands hold you in place.

“Your savior is here, my darling.” You don’t love the look he’s giving you.

“William-“

“Amber! Over here!” 

You’re officially nervous, William’s hands falling away from you. The music is still pounding, one song transitioning into the edm remix of another.

Amber hugs you from behind in greeting, her bracelets clinking together. “Hey beautiful!” 

“Hey honey.” You plant a kiss on her cheek, leaving a sparkly lipgloss print behind.

“William, you’re brilliant and I love you.” She says.

Words form then die on your lips in half an instant, a prickle traveling up your neck.

You can feel him before you see him. Like a mountain erupted from the ground behind you and is suddenly looming.

You’re sweating.

“Mark!” William exclaims. In half a second you’re able to surmise that, 

A.) William is so fucking dead,

B.) Your friends might’ve gotten you a dick appointment to help you get out of your funk,

and 

C.) You recognize that name.

Mark. 

Fragments of conversions fill in little gaps: William telling stories from middle and high school, Amber talking about an ex that she’s still friends with. This isn’t some random dude from one of your classes, this is someone close to them. Someone they care about.

“-she’s really cool, I promise. She’s just bad at listening.” Amber’s elbow in your side catapults you back into the conversation. 

The owner of the looming presence has moved from behind to in front of you, standing beside William.

Holy fuck.

Your eyes travel up his body unsubtly. He’s tall, towering over you even in your heels. He’s dressed simply in a pair of chino pants and a boxy short sleeved button down, left open and layered over a white t shirt. 

You can see a peek of bicep out of his sleeves, and the cut of his jaw is sharp even with the ghost of 5 o'clock shadow. 

Dear God, your friends are setting you up with a male model.

“It’s nice to meet you, I’ve heard a lot.” His voice is deep but light. Maybe a little shy. You meet his eyes, and curse the low light for not letting you see their color.

You smile at him. “Nice to meet you too. I’ve heard your name a few times for sure, but-“ you shoot a look at William , who is conveniently looking anywhere but at you. “Definitely not enough;”

Amber squeezes your shoulder, eyes shining when you turn to her. “William and I are gonna go grab me a drink at the bar and find Rick.” You bite back a smile when she winks, then wave them off.

“Yeah yeah, go help William get his man wasted.”

You watch Mark watch them weave through the crowd, linked at the elbow. His dark hair is fluffy, just a little bit of a wave to it.

“They are… not subtle, are they?” Mark asks when he turns back to you, smile crooked.

“Not at all.” Your eyes fall to his Adam’s apple, the low lights hiding your blush. “So… Mark-“

“Grayson.” He supplies. 

“Grayson,” you echo. “What did those two say to get you here tonight?” Flashes of colorful light dance across his skin as he shifts to lean against the wall beside you.

He shrugs. “They just told me they had someone I should meet, is all.” 

Your brows draw together. “You went to high school with them, right? That’s like three and a half hours from here.”

Something odd blips across his face, but it’s gone before you can discern it. He just stuffs his hands in his pockets, gaze searching yours. “I dunno, it’s the least I can do; I like being there when people need me.” He smiles crookedly. “Plus I drive 9 over the speed limit.”

You feign shock, a hand flying to your chest. “Woah there speed racer, careful not to enter hyperspace.”

He laughs, and the euphoria that floods through you at the sound is already addicting.

Conversation flows easily between your interests and learning his. ‘What do you mean you don’t know Seance Dog?’

Your little spot against the wall starts to feel like a bubble, the sounds around you fading into white noise. Mark’s cool. Fun, silly, and humble. He offers to get you another drink, but you wave it off. The idea of pausing conversation with him for something so trivial feels beyond unnecessary.

“I was actually here for school at the beginning of the semester, but…” he scratches the back of his neck, looking away as the conversation turns more serious. “My dad, we uh… lost him a few months ago. I decided to come home to help my mom. College will always be there, you know?” 

Your brows draw together. “I’m so sorry,” you offer. He shrugs.

“It’s just normal life now. Honestly the thing I miss most about Upstate is the bars.” He leans in closer, his breath tickling your ear as he says, “William is a terrible roommate.”

Before you know it, the better part of two hours have passed. Over that time the two of you have moved exponentially closer together, now standing nearly forehead to forehead to hear each other better (allegedly).

You haven’t had any more alcohol, but you feel drunk on Mark. You’ve known him for all of a few hours and he has you questioning if your ex was a different species altogether. There’s just no way that this guy and that piece of shit share any commonality.

The satisfaction on his face when he makes you smile or finds out something new about you is radiant: it makes you feel seen.

This is how it’s supposed to feel, you think. 

You brush your fingers over one of his forearms and see the hairs stand up in reaction. You giggle when he has the nerve to look embarrassed about it.

“Am I making you nervous?” You ask, teasing. 

“Yes,” he answers immediately. “But I like it.” 

He moves closer, his hand gently resting on your waist. It’s warm through the fabric of your dress, large and steady and makes the blood thrum under your skin. Your lips part, a whine escaping against your will that he should not have been able to hear.

“How about me? Do I make you nervous?” He asks, voice low and just the smallest bit unsure. It makes you melt.

“Nah, you couldn’t hurt a fly.” You reply, heart racing when you shift to wrap your arms around his neck. 

He’s clearly contemplating something internally for several moments, eyes searching yours for some sort of answer. You cock your head to the side.

“What is it?” You ask.

He takes a shallow breath. “I really want to kiss you,” he says. “But I don’t want to mess this up.”

Fuck, he’s perfect.

Without another thought you push onto your toes, bringing your lips up to meet his in a chaste kiss.His mouth tastes like mint toothpaste and something that somehow seems like him.

Sparks blaze through you at the contact, and you haven’t pulled away more than a few centimeters when he’s pulling you back in, pressing his mouth to yours more securely. Claiming.

Mark’s hands dig into your hips, fingerprints pressing hard enough to brand your skin with bruises. You love it.

He’s kissing you like he’s been trying really hard to be respectful this whole time, which you honestly appreciate. You can tell he’s holding back though-  he’s confident, but not pushing, making sure you know you can pull away and stop if you want to.

You absolutely don’t want to.

“I’m not gonna break,” you say when pulling away to catch your breath, looking up at him through your lashes, chest heaving.

Mark’s pupils have consumed most of his irises. Something in the way his grip tightens and his jaw works give the impression that he’s thinking something along the lines of maybe not, but I’d like to try.

You bite the inside of your cheek, want buzzing in the tips of your fingers. You’ve always been responsible, and good, and generally a rule follower; it feels good to push all of that away and take Mark by the wrist, pulling him away from your wall and down a secluded hallway. He doesn’t question you dragging him around the corner and beside a stack of boxes next to the door to the back office. 

You’d stumbled drunkenly down this hallway by mistake enough times already while looking for the bathroom. One time you caught a couple doing exactly what you’re intending to do, so… 

“You look fucking beautiful,” Mark drinks you in again, crowding you up against the wall. You feel his warm breath on your skin when you tilt your head up towards him. “Is this okay?” 

Your heart skips a beat, hands pulling him closer. “You have no fucking idea.”

You moan when his hands move to grab your ass, the tips of his fingers brushing the skin of your thighs just under the hem of your dress. Warm lips trail down your jaw to pepper kisses on your neck in tandem, and all you can do is press yourself harder into his touch. The moment is an assault on the senses, between his hands, his mouth, the cold wall, the muffled thrum of music-

“Fucking Christ,” you choke out, eyes falling shut. Mark huffs a chuckle, hands moving lower until he’s hefting you into his arms.

Mark’s hands are strong under your thighs. His fingertips bite into the skin while he holds you snug against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist. It’s… incredible. He somehow isn’t shaking at all, like you weigh less than nothing.

His lips are a little chapped moving against yours, but you truly can’t care less about it. Your fingers tangle themselves in his hair, your free hand clutching at his shoulder through his shirt. He’s solid, the amount of muscle clear even through his clothes.

“Fuck-” You breathe against his mouth when you have no choice but to pull back for air- just a smidge. His breath is warm against your mouth, his brown eyes flitting to yours, half-lidded. 

“Yeah.” He says, cheeks turning just a little bit pink. You can feel your own face warming as well, especially when you shift just enough to feel the solid press of his erection against your panties. 

Mark lets out a soft grunt, fingers flexing. “Please know that this is the opposite of how I usually treat women I’m interested in,” he jokes, a half smile lighting his face. You hum in response, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then his temple, then let your lips settle right next to the curve of his ear.

“Tell me, how would you normally treat me?” Teasing is something you’d usually find yourself too anxious to try. You’re always a little afraid of being rejected, but Mark makes it easy to feel bold, especially when he just met you and he’s already looking at you like that. 

He ducks his head with an embarrassed laugh, his forehead falling to rest on your shoulder.

"I would've asked you out first," he admits. "Probably severely fumbled over my words." His thumbs rub circles into the plush of your thighs, sending a thrill through you straight to your core.

“Yeah?” You let your head fall back against the brick, word escaping like a sigh. 

Mark presses a gentle kiss to the bare ball of your shoulder.

“Definitely.” He grinds into you again, “And if I was lucky enough to have you say yes, I’d get you flowers. Bring you somewhere nice for dinner.”

You smile at the dim ceiling, eyes falling closed. “What if I told you I didn’t want to eat anything other than a fresh bowl of pasta from Florence?” You ask, playing with the soft hair in your hands. 

You can feel his voice rumble through your body when his lips shift again, trailing feather-light across your collarbone to the junction of your neck and shoulder. His teeth are sharp against your skin; pinpricks of pain spark up your nerves when he lightly bites down before answering. 

“I could make that happen.” A beat, during which a flash of every time a man had ever made a promise he couldn’t keep washes over your mind. “I’d bring you anywhere you want to go. Help you study for class, if that’s what you need. Dress up in shitty costumes for Halloween and go to haunted houses.”

“I think you might be setting yourself up for failure, Mark Grayson.”

He goes still at that.

You feel his face leave your skin and his body shift to put you down. Your eyes fly open in confusion, hands moving to rest flat on his chest when you’re deposited on your own two feet. He’s looking at you intensely, his head cocked to the side like a puppy. Shit, he has those puppy eyes too.

“C’mon, I’m being serious,” his voice is still low, body still radiating heat that you can feel through the thin material of your dress. One of those big hands brushes a stray lock of hair behind your ear, index finger crooking under your chin to tip your gaze up to meet his afterwards. “If I were lucky enough to have a chance with you, I’d do it right.”

You want to laugh, or do something to break the tension. 

His eyes won’t let you.

“We just met,” You say, but it doesn’t have any humor in it. Just an observation. 

“We did. And if I was actually a good guy, I would’ve just asked for your number.” He looks you up and down, his hand dropping from your face. “But it seems like William managed to set me up with someone worth being bold for.”

Now you snort a laugh, but it’s well received. His smile is like the sun breaking through stormclouds. 

“How about I give you my number,” you start, stepping so your strappy heels are right up to the toes of his converse. You crane your neck to look up at him, looping your arms loosely around his neck. “And we give you a do-over. You can be the perfect gentleman, and jump through all of the hoops. Make me feel like a princess.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but you cut him off. “If you give me a free trial of what I can expect after that. Just for tonight.” His brows shoot up toward his hairline, but the smile creeps back to his lips. Those hands rest on your waist, fingers brushing where the band of your underwear is under your dress.

“I think I can manage that.” You notice that his canines look sharper than any you think you’ve seen before when they flash in the low light.

You push up onto your toes when he stoops down to meet you, lips brushing again. “Now show me what you’re gonna do instead.”

In a flash you’re in his arms again, being carried for a few seconds then deposited through a door that he closes behind him, bathing you both in only the red light of an ‘exit’ sign. It’s a utility closet, filled with dusty boxes of decorations that the bar puts up for holidays and university events.

You push him against the wood, a hand snaking between you to palm at the bulge in his pants. “How did you know this was here?” You ask, emboldened by the low moan you coax from him.

“Fucking Christ- friend works here.” He curses, but presses harder into your hand. 

You feel powerful like this. A hot guy literally under your palm, and he really wants you. And he’s nice, he’s good, he’s-

Mark curses again quietly under his breath and your positions are quickly switched. His mouth is on yours, tongue swiping over your lower lip to ask for entrance. With a sigh you abide him, letting him press into you and claim every inch.

Your hands move, sliding up the back of his shirt and feeling the hard muscle hiding beneath the fabric. 

“You’re killing me in this dress.” His fingers slide up the backs of your legs, pushing the hem up until it’s gathered around your waist and he’s looking down at the black lace of your underwear. You bite down on your lower lip, your nails digging into his skin harshly. It feels like he can see through it somehow; like he knows how fucking soaked he’s got you.

You whine softly at the feeling of his hand ghosting over the waistband, eyes meeting yours to confirm he can go forward. “Please,” 

Finally he’s giving you what your body has been thrumming for. Your head falls back against the door, one of your forearms flying to muffle your cry when he pushes the drenched panties out of the way and glides his fingers through the slick around your entrance, then groans and uses that wetness to press circles into your clit.

Sparks explode behind your eyelids and race down your spine, back arching and nipples tightening to peaks.

“So wet… this all for me?” He whispers right into your ear, making your shiver. 

“All for you.” It’s not worth lying, or playing games. You want him. He knows it, you know it. 

Mark makes a sound of contentment. He uses his feet to knock yours apart more, giving him space to slot himself snugly against you while he keeps exploring, learning what makes you throb for him. 

“You have no goddamn clue how bad I want to rip this off of you,” he continues, a long finger slowly entering you and crooking to find your g-spot. “Wanna kiss you until you can’t talk, eat this pussy until you can’t breathe. Make you come on my face until you fucking can’t anymore.” You clench on his finger, body wound like a goddamn spring. 

“Fuck you open on this cock until you’re screaming.”

More moans, your hands scrambling at his shirt to get it off. “You have a deceptively filthy mouth,” you pant. Another finger slides in, stretching you deliciously. 

“Seems like you’re enjoying it,” he teases. You can’t help but nod in agreement, feeling him hard against your hip. “Tell me,” goading you on.

Your face burns, but you try to comply even though your brain has turned into mush. “Need you so bad,” you breathe out.

“C’mon, you can do better than that.” He withdraws his fingers and you whine at the loss.

“Take your shirt off and I’ll think about it.”

He laughs- a real, full laugh that makes satisfaction fill your entire body. He’s so damn pretty, especially when he does exactly what you ask. The button down falls from his shoulders, then the t-shirt follows suit as Mark pulls it over his head and reveals his muscular torso.

He pushes the dress up higher until he’s feeling all over the smooth skin of your stomach, then switches gears to slide the straps down your arms and pull your breasts free, taking them in as he speaks.

“Making it so hard to decide if I wanna take my time with you now or just fuck you good, save the sweet stuff for next time.” He brings long fingers to his lips, licking them clean of your wetness. “Guess it’ll come down to whether I give you what you want or decide to make you work for it.”

You whine softly at the words, nails digging into the skin of his back when he takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking softly and just barely pressing in with his teeth. His touch around the band of your underwear is driving you so insane that you almost cry in happiness when he pushes them down your legs to pool on the ground, out of the way and forgotten. 

“Please for the love of fuck don’t make me work for it,” You concede when he switches to your other breast, leaving a trail of kisses over your sternum between them. You feel his smile against your skin, his hands kneading the flesh of your ass.

Your whole body feels like it’s on fire- or maybe like it’ll explode if he doesn’t satisfy the need between your legs.

You attempt to communicate this by pushing yourself up against him, attempting to grind against his thigh, or do literally anything to soothe the ache. His mouth detaches from your skin and he draws back up to his full height, a wicked glint in his eye as he looks down at you.

Staring straight back, your hands fall to the button on his pants.

“You sure?” He asks as you pull the zipper down. 

“Very.” He twitches under your palm. “I’m clean, and on birth control,” you add. “I don’t have a condom, so…”

“I’m also clean, and… I also don’t have a condom.” He starts to laugh, but it gets caught in his throat when you reach into his underwear and grasp the hard length of him. 

You run your thumb over the tip, feeling the moisture that’s already built there. He’s fucking massive, and you’re honestly starting to feel out of your league. After a few strokes of your hand, he’s already groaning and taking you by the wrist.

“You want this to be over already?” He jokes, then kisses you again before you can answer.

It’s another one of those claiming kisses- his tongue licking over your bottom lip, then into your mouth. I’m in control, it seems to say. And you don’t have a problem with that at all.

By the time he’s breaking away, you’re already being spun to face the door, your ass pressed against his erection. You can feel the slick on your thighs, and know it’s gonna be all over his pants, but you can’t give even half a fuck when you can feel the head of his cock pressing against your opening, stretching you wide.

Your breath punches out in pants, one of Mark’s hands grasping you by the hip and the other coming around your front to grip at the base of your neck- not squeezing, just holding you in place. You feel yourself being bent over, your pussy bared to him. He kisses your shoulder, muttering sweet words as he eases himself in;

‘There you go, pretty girl. Take it slow.’

‘Feel so good, shit-’

‘You’re being so fucking good. Let me know if I need to slow down, yeah?’

The meanings of the words are hard to distinguish in your current state of absolute bliss. 

By the time you feel the brush of his public hair against you, you’re already drooling. He stills for a moment, presumably to let you catch your breath.

“I really want to make this last, but-” His breath hitches when you flutter around him. “Fuck- this place is closing soon.” You make a noise of assent.

Do your worst, it says.

He gets the message.

Mark’s hands steady on you, and immediately after you can feel the slow slide of his cock as he pulls out halfway, then punches forward again.

Stars explode in your vision at the assault on your senses.

Mark curses behind you, then repeats the motion.

Again and again and again.

He fucks you open like he has something to prove. Somehow he’s hitting every sensitive spot inside your body, the rhythm making you lose yourself in sensation. His body is a warm, solid mass behind you as he takes. 

The door squeaks with every drive of his hips into you, the sound of your skin slapping bouncing off the walls. It’s dirty, it’s depraved, and you’re already obsessed with this man and with the cock that’s destroying your insides.

Your mind is nearly blank. All you can do is hold on for the ride, and try to suppress your moan when the hand that had been pressing bruises into your hip falls to your clit. He rubs tight circles on the nerves again, his hips never once faltering in their cadence.

“Wanna make you come for me,” He pants. “Can feel you getting all tight around my dick, shit-” 

You feel so goddamn full it’s insane. You’ve never been fucked so well in your life, and this is only a quickie. You can’t even fathom how good sex in a real bed with this man might be.

“Mark,” your voice cracks out, bordering on a cry. His hips stutter at the sound of his name falling from your lips.

“Next time I’m gonna have you on your back so I can see your face when you come all over my cock.” he grunts, and you feel your orgasm building far too quickly at the insinuation of there being a next time. His fingers move impossibly faster (the dexterity on this man is insane), the end racing towards you. “See these tits better, too.” The hand around your throat drops to pinch one of your nipples, and you’re done for.

With a cry of his name, you break. Your orgasm washes over you so intensely that your ears start to ring, the assault on your clit not letting up for a second. You can vaguely hear him talking you through it, praising you with sweet nothings, but the words aren’t registering over the euphoria rushing through you.

“Shit-” He moans low, and somewhere in your body you register him pulling out, then the warmth of his come painting the skin of your ass. 

The room is quiet, save for your combined heavy breathing and the muffled music from the bar. His hands let go of you but hover centimeters away, wary of your weak knees.

What a gentleman.

You stand straight, relishing the satisfied soreness between your legs while you drag your dress straps back up. He’s watching you, eyes still dark.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. He picks up his discarded button down, and turns you around one more time, carefully using it to wipe the evidence of his orgasm from your skin. Once he’s satisfied, he squats down to press a kiss to your asscheek, and you giggle as he pulls the hem of your dress back down. 

“Thank you,” You say, bending yourself to shimmy your underwear up your legs while he puts himself back into his pants, then buttons them. When you turn and give him a once over, you can’t help but let out a laugh at the mysterious stain near the crotch. He follows your eyeline, then snorts.

“No, thank you-” T-shirt now in hand, he pulls the clean garment over his head. “So, how was the free trial? Think you’ll give the subscription a go?”

You lean back against the door that he’d just fucked you open against, feigning thought with a finger on your chin like there’s any chance you’d say no. “I think I could be interested,” you say.

"oh yeah, i guess so" he shrugs, kicking a pile of discarded clothes out of the way and into the nearby corner , hopefully managing to do so before they reached your line of sight. its clear he hadn't really put much thought into socializing with them before. not that he wasn't into making new friends, he is, but it's hard to make time for another friendships when his extra-curricular activities take up so much time, then again is that what superman would do?

despite what people might say, clark is trying, but protecting metropolis isn't as easy as it looks in the books he has stacked up in his room, but it's even harder when you have to maintain a new job, in a new universe, with the weight of everyone's opinions on your back. plus he has you, a very welcome distraction to the chaos, and that has to count for something.

the day he met you clark couldn't tell if he is the luckiest or the unluckiest man in metropolis. yes, he was late to work again, and he could without a doubt toss the pipe dream of becoming employee of the month in the trash (no thanks to the small time robbery he had to stop on the way to work this morning), but thanks to all the disconcertion he managed to crash into you. literally. knocking his new phone (now featuring a brand new crack in the screen. great.), along side the issues you picked up from the very place he was running late to, onto the sidewalk.

ordinarily this would be the cherry on top of the shitty cake he'd been handed this morning, missing out on the opportunity he'd been longing for since he got the job and cracking his phone, but without it'd he'd never have run into you. the girl of his dreams who crash landed (ran into him) outside the job of his dreams, now he had to figure out a way to keep from fucking this up too. "they totally mischaracterized him in issue #38" nailed it. he had in fact not nailed it, instead his throwaway comment, sparked a heated debate between the two of you, which surprise!, made him even later to work, but somehow lead to the two of you trading information. his day really was turning around. maybe there was a chance he wasn't too late to get employee of the month.

"you're late. again" his employer said with crossed arms, guess not.

"it's nice clark," you assure, cutting his daydream short, snapping his attention back to you. "could do with some bedsheets though."

.✦ ݁˖

bedsheets? clark didn't need a bedsheets he was going to be superman, plus you don't seem to care about the lack of bedsheets not that he's got you under him. taking his every inch of his dick so well. "fuck- just like that" he encourages dexterous fingers crawling down between your bodies pressing steady pressure to your oversensitive bundle of nerves. "a-and in the next issue the klingon's…" he moans, breath tickling the shell of your ear, hips momentarily stuttering when you tighten around him again. pussy fluttering deliciously around his cock while he goes on about something you didn't quite hear. your eyes watering as he fucks you through your third? fourth? orgasm you've lost count at this point.

"'s too much" you whine, tears steadily streaming down your cheeks, as you clawing at his back. clark, who's hell bent on talking you ear off as if he's not currently fucking your brains out, continues to thrust into you. paying your pleas no mind,

his swollen head perfectly angled to hit that sensitive spot buried into your weeping cunt. pressing a kiss to your cervix with every thrust. "just one more for me, yeah?" he shushes you pressing his lips to your teary cheeks before continuing on with his detailed explanation.

it's not like you could argue, you're too far gone, eyes rolled to the back of your skull as he sloppily pounds into you. thick fingers holding your thighs apart so he can watch his cock disappear into your weeping folds. the symphony of your sweet sounds fill the room, loud enough you're sure his overzealous neighbors could hear.

not that you care, despite the embarrassment you'll surely feel if you were to run into the chatty pair on your way home later. but you aren't, not when his branded chest brushes against your sensitive nipples with every unhurried thrust and he has his lips pressed to your neck. sucking and biting at your flesh.

you're close again he can feel it when you tighten around him again. "mmf-fuck, clark" you breathe, fingers scratching at his back as he adjusts his hips pressing his cock right against that sensitive spot inside of you. your pretty cunt sucking him in, as you desperately paw at his back, and this time clark's not far behind. his ramblings momentarily come to a pause as he focuses all this attention on chasing the high that's steadily building.

with one last push of his hips you're cumming hard. squeezing him tight, and milking him for everything he's worth. clark floods your sweet cunt with his sticky cum. watches your shared mess ooze out from between your folds and spill onto the mattress before he collapses on top of you.

"you're such a dork" your murmur into his skin after taking a few minutes to catch your breath. his cock twitches in response, like the little jab stirred him back to life. "clark!" you squeak when he rolls his hips once again.

"one more?"

Every so often, mumbles come out of your mouth at an attempt of a story that is almost immediately killed by the smashing of the backspace. The flow of words finally run dry after just over an hour of writing. You would think that the writing bug would at least stay for another hour, but of course not.

Another turn of the page and your head is now smushed in your duvet.

"Maybe if you try writing for Jason Todd, the words will come outta you." Clark's voice interrupts the headache you brought to yourself while not even peering up from the comic in his hands.

Your head snaps up from its place on the bed as Clark turns to the next page like a dad in the 1950s reading the paper. Face scrunching with annoyance towards him, the bed creaks under you as you shuffle around trying to find a big enough plush to wack him with.

"Was the 12k not enough for you?" your voice dropping in disbelief. You try to find the fourth wall, the invisible camera just to give them the look of how fed-up you are.

"I told you, it was not believable that Jason Todd of all people would eve-"

A soft thump of the plush against his face shuts him right up, thank god. You love Clark, but would it be so hard for him to shut up about characterization for a second. The amount of times that he's read the fics you wrote and complained about it and that he had forced requested you to write was astonishing.

"You know what, Clark? I'm pulling the plug, no more living the y/n life through me. I'm cutting you off," You punctuate your words with a few more clicks of your keyboard.

And then even more backspaces when you reread what you just wrote.

Of course with a flair of dramatics, Clark whips himself around to face you with a slam of his comic on your desk.

"What."

"If you know Jason Todd so well, you can be the one writing about him frenching you instead of me."

"You're kidding me, right?" Clark whines at you as his grip tightens around your shoulders, "How am I supposed to get my fill then? Hmm?"

You blink, "I can literally name so many amazing Jason writers from the top of my head, Clark. I am on first na—err internet first name basis with several of them, I've told you about them."

His hands fall from your shoulders as he starts lamenting to whoever is out there. Which you ignore as you start listing off blog recommendations and in turn, he completely ignores you as well.

"I can't believe after years of helping them build a career, a successful one might I add-"

"First of all, I don't even know how many times I've literally told you about @scissorhvnds —"

"A long-winding fanfic writing career that I had —on numerous occasions— bestowed my-"

"Actually, I think that she wrote a couple about you," you mind wanders further away from your point. And yes, you do read fanfic about the man who just body-slammed into the bed next to you, and what about it? Even if he is an ass about your writing, you're not ashamed. Hello, look at you right now.

"Very good, very exclusive, very successful ideas for them to write-"

"Which you probably would enjoy becau— anyways, back to the point."

"Wow, fun, never used the bold lettering for one of these before. Anyways-"

You start counting on your hands, "I've literally seen you scouring @luviery's Jason tag on multiple occasions, Mr. 'where-am-I-supposed-to-get-my fill'. Come on man-"

"Fat chance you're actually gonna cut me off."

"Wait a minute, aren't you literally mutuals with @starr-jazz???" Your body shoots up, just to peer down at him for emphasis, "I literally saw you messaging her the other day, I mean-"

"Wait, where is this even going?" Clark interrupts.

"Even if I really were to cut you of-"

"We're getting further from what this was originally supposed to be," his arms make a vague circular gesture to everything, "Of course, I have to be the one to get this back on track."

Effectively cutting off whatever was happening before, Clark snatches your computer right infront of you. You hear him mutter a small curse at the writer under his breath as his eyes start darting across the screen, reading your half-written draft.

"Hello- the fuck? Don't read that!"

"Too late," Clark's voice tutting at the t in the word and completely ignoring your order.

"What the hell Clark, I'm not fucking done with that, like all," you stammered while trying to get your computer back, "You know I don't like anyone read before it's done."

You lunge at him, aiming for the computer.

Only for you to flop right back onto the bed as his body zooms from under you and rises higher and higher.

Clark floats above you, slowly spinning around airspace as he continues to scroll. You can't help but huff as all you can do now is scoot back onto the pillows and watch the reactions on his face while he reads. Legs tucking under you, you pull the previously thrown plush into your lap, slowly inspecting it to distract yourself. Embarrassment and doubts starts to creep in the more Clark stays silent and reads your writing right infront of you.

Sure, many people have read your writing and for sure, Clark has definitely done so as well, but actually seeing someone read it infront of you feels uncomfortably vulnerable. Seeing their reactions to something you put your heart and soul into sends uncomfortable chills up and down your spine. It took you about a year into writing to even tell him about this particular hobby.

And he fucking knows that.

"So," you can hear smug grin starts to grow on his face," is this about me or…"

You deadpanned, "You're joking."

"I mean, it says Clark Kent," Clark says with an amused tone, "Didn't specify which Clark Kent."

You pretend to think for a moment and prop your head onto your fist. For some reason, Clark's eyes seems to shine at the notion.

"It is about my favorite Clark, now that I'm thinking about it."

Clark floats back down the the bed and hovers right infront of you, the computer gripped loosely in his hands. Your fingers twitch in your lap as he floats closer to you.

Clark exhales, leaning closer and closer into your personal space, "Really?"

"Yeah," you whisper to him, drawing him in anticipation.

You can see his mouth start to twitch, probably loading up a smug comment.

"I actually wanted to tal-"

"Yeah, the one who doesn't complain to me about my depiction of Red hood," you say while snatching your computer back from him.

Clark pulls back with a whine, "Corenswet, really? Again? God, you don't know how to have fun."

He starts to float back up to the ceiling in a pout. You aren't really sure why he's so disappointed.

Before he's too far from your reach, you're able to gently wrap your hand around his ankle, anchoring him back to the bed.

"You know I'm joking," you gently tease. With a small tug, you're able to guide down back onto the bed with minimal resistance. A large crease between his brows is still present as he lands right next to you.

While your focus is now locked onto the words on the computer screen, you hand off the small bear in your lap to Clark's. There's an uneasy feeling stuck in your chest, left over from before, as you rake through the story again. The words no longer feel right after seeing his reactions leading to more retypes and frustration.

For a while, the only thing you can hear is the clicks of the keys as you start editing and revising with Clark's shoulder pressed into yours as he watched the cursor move back and forth. After a good ten minutes on revising the parts you already have, you start to feel better on your work and the words start to flow again.

Clark, on the other hand, was having a bit of a dilemma. Well, he knows that you loved writing for the other Clark Kent. Like, he was pretty sure you wouldn't be writing for Jason if it weren't for him. He has read everything that you had written and while he did have qualms with some of your writing, Clark genuinely thinks that you're an amazing writer.

The problem to him though was the fact that when he read your Clark fics, it was like you were writing about him. Something he prides himself on his that he knows these characters like the back of his hand and when reading your fics, its obvious that the Clark written by you isn't the same ones he's dedicated his life to studying or the ones you spent hours upon hours watching.

Maybe it's the fact that the two of you hangout too much, who knows.

Clark interjects, but not before giving you a quick glance just in case, "Hopefully, I know the exact reason, but we haven't got to that part yet."

If he were to be totally honest, something inside him is pissed off that it isn't him you're writing about.

"You've got that right."

Your head peaks up, "You talking to them again?"

"That's none of your business."

You only shrug before trying to turn your attention back to the screen.

Suddenly, your brain starts to stall.

You start watching his hands run smooth over and over again over the blanket underneath the both of you.

"Clark, can I ask you a, uh, favor?"

His focus is still somewhere else but a small hum comes back as a reply.

Your eyes flicker to the blinking cursor, waiting for your brain to come up with the next scene. Ok, you admit, intimate scenes like cuddling or kissing or affection adjacent was never your strong suit. Writing them felt clunky and whenever you read them back, you always felt like your inexperience shown through the screen like a spotlight.

"Are you gonna ask me or no," Clark waves a hand infront of your face shooting you back into your surroundings. Your heart jumps as he settles back to his place next to you, one of his hands setting on your knee.

"Well, you read it," you start, "I need help trying to explain a couple of things."

"Like…"

"Mostly the positioning of how they would be in bed because I don't know if people would actually be able to move in that way," the words come rushing out before you chickened out.

Your head turns to face him, his head tilting, his full attention on you as Clark starts to nod slowly, knowing you're gonna ask him another thing.

The silence stifles you, pressuring you to just let out what you want to ask of him.

"Okay," panic starts to flare up inside of you, "I also need help trying to explain how it is to try and just almost-"

His deep laugh cuts you off, a lopsided smirk that always seems to send warmth rushing thru you appears alongside it.

"If you wanted me to kiss you, you really should've asked a long time ago."

"What?" your body freezes yet overheats at the implications, "A long… time ago…"

Clark slowly shuts the computer, placing it to the side. As you still try to wrap around the thought, his frame starts to slowly envelop around you.

"Wait, wait, wait," the warmth from him starts to reach out, finding you as he inches closer "So, you're telling me-"

A similar hum escapes him as he takes your face in his hands. Clark dips his head lower making sure to catch your eyes with his, making his intentions crystal clear. The distance starts decrease as your breath starts to quicken.

Your body seems to move opposite of your mouth, inching closer and closer like you have been waiting for this exact moment. Unfortunately, you can't help but tease him just as your lips are about to meet his.

"All this time I could've been getting your help writing these scenes if I just like, what. Asked???"

A long groan of frustration rips from his chest. Almost inaudible curses spew from his mouth as you can't help but giggle at him. Your foreheads collide softly as you continue, his head still tilted low in disbelief.

"God, Clark, you know how hard it is for me to write these scenes, I mean-"

The feeling of his mouth against yours shuts you up quick.

Your hands find it's way up his hair, raking through the dark strands as a smile erupts across your face, still pressed against his. Your eyes droop as you pull away from him, if only for a moment so your brain can catch up to your body. Clark chases your lips as soon, capturing you back into his, not even a second after you pull away.

His arms snake around you as you feel weightless pressed against him. A hand presses you closer as it finds a place right at the nape of your neck with the other securely around your waist.

Your hands pull at his hair, almost forcing a delicious groan to be pull out of him. His hold tightens around you, pulling you deeper into him until all you could sense, feel was him.

A whole new world is revealed to you as Clark starts to nudge his mouth open, giving more of himself to you. Waves of warmth seem to rush over you as you drown in everything that is Clark. Small whimpers of pleasure slip from him, only spurring you on to never let go.

Not that you even want to.

God, this was so much better than just reading about it.

All that seems to be running through Clark's brain is just you. God, the feeling of you simply pressed into him was enough to kill him. Sounds that he only could imagine till now started to fall out of you that will forever be ingrained in his brain, replaying over and over again. The feeling of your mouth against his, shyly and slowly licking up into him as if you were trying to memorize everything about this very moment sends chills up and down him.

It's almost clinical the way you push and pull at him. Not that Clark minds, he is more than content to hold you and keep you on him for the… rest of…

Clark reluctantly pulls away, "Is there anything else you need help with?"

Now, you are the one to chase his lips, your brain mush and dizzy at the feeling.

"Hmm.." you move forward, trying to catch his lips again, " W'are we talking about?"

A whine escapes your throat as Clark dodges the slow attempt and your hands slowly fall from his now messed up hair to his chest.

"Aw, do you not remember?" Clark teases as he places slow kisses over you, of course making a point not to give one to the place you really want one , "Of course, you don't remember, do you."

"Clark, please," you whine up to him, eyes almost glassy at the loss of him.

"What? I'm just trying to be thorough about all of this," Clark can't help but play with you, "You did ask for my help, just wanna be helpful."

"God, screw that, I do not care anymore. Can't believe we could've done this so much sooner," you murmur into his skin, attempting to bring his focus back onto you.

It feels like torture the way he starts to give attention to the rest of you. Kisses start to trail lower, almost immediately finding every weak point. Pleasure starts course through you as the feeling starts to radiate around you.

A feeling of pride starts to fill him just looking at the state of you from just kissing you and Clark can't help the small laughs that escape him as he watches you try to capture is lips again.

"If you get so whiny over this, imagine how you would act if-"

A small tug at his hair distracts him long enough for you to take his mouth back onto yours.

You can't help the small sigh that escapes you can as you feel his body start to mold back into you, melting into your touch. You really should've asked him for help a long time ago.

"I mean if you need any more help with positioning, I am more than happy to help."

general taglist: @wichu127 @kryptidfiles @scissorhvnds @starr-jazz

if you enjoyed, remember reblogs and comments are an authors best friend!!!!!

You’re so stronq

Misterr superhero man

Wanna bite you

Ur biceos

Oh, you were definitely drunk. The panic eases down in his gut. You were probably out with your friends. He grins at the thought of you texting him while out at a bar, ignoring the countless other guys that were most definitely trying to win your favor in his absence. 

Baby

[attachment: 1 voice memo]

You’re sooo mean for leaving me all alone at this stupid bar. Well, like, kind of alone. You’re all over the TVs fighting that lizard dude. Is he even a lizard? He looks like a lizard. S’most definitely a lizard to me. Anyway, I know you’re kicking ass right now. ‘M watching you do it. Our friends are all out on the… dancefloor without me, but I don’t really wanna dance without you. Y’know? It’s weird. 

There’s a pause in your speech and Mark can hear the background noises of the bar get quieter like you’re moving away from it all. He hears a door open and shut and then he finally gets to hear your voice again. Better, now, that’s less drowned out by the surrounding noise. 

I’ve been keeping a secret from you, Mark. I probably wouldn’t be saying it if I wasn’t a little drunk or doing it through the phone.

Your laugh lights him up despite the incessant alarm starting to build in his brain again. A secret? You’d been keeping something from him. What? For how long? Did you want to stop seeing him? Sleeping together? He knew it was a bad idea, but he couldn’t help himself-

I’m like sooo in love with you, Mark. Y’know? It’s embarrassing. Every time we fuck, I keep telling myself that I need to tell you before I screw everything up, but I can’t. I can’t tell you. You’re my best friend, and I’m in love with you. ‘S stupid. 

He barely hears your name get called in the background before the voice note ends and his heart stings in his chest. You’re in love with him? Mark checks your location, a “safety precaution” he’d convinced you into when he’d first told you about his other identity. 

Good, he thinks. You’re home. You’re probably asleep, by now. The messages you’d sent had been hours ago at this point. 

He knows he should leave it be until morning. He should go take that shower, crawl into bed, and ignore your drunken ramblings until you are sober enough to tell him whether or not you meant what you said.

But he can’t.

He quickly shoves the window open again and shoots out of it to get to yours as soon as possible. 

He spots you through your window when he gets there. Still awake, somehow, and scrolling through your phone in bed. He knows you always leave the window unlocked for him so he shimmies in as quiet as he can. Even if you were awake, it feels wrong to be loud at this late hour. 

“Mark?” you ask, barely glancing at him before returning back to your scrolling. You figure he’ll just strip down and climb into bed with you like he usually does. There’s a headache building in your brow bone from the alcohol in your system slowly dissipating. 

When you don’t feel the covers shift, you turn toward him. He’s still standing near the window, gloves off but he’s fiddling with them in his hands. His eyes are flickering over you and it leaves a nervous pit in your gut. 

“Did you mean it?” he asks, and the pit turns into a sinkhole. Jesus. You’d forgotten all about the messages until then. 

“What?” you ask. 

“Did you mean it?” he asks again, this time stepping closer but not getting on the bed. “What you sent me?”

You stay silent, tears and bile brimming up within you as you weigh your outcomes. What if he was ending things. What if you’d ruined everything because your stupid mouth couldn’t stay shut when you had a couple drinks and now you’d never get to feel him crawl into bed with you again? Never get to hear him call your name or see his stupid face pop up on your phone when he called you after a mission. What if…

“Baby?” he murmurs. 

“Yes,” you say quietly. 

“You’re in love with me?” he asks and the grin that spreads across his face makes your brain feel fuzzy. 

“Yeah, I- Yes,” you manage to say before he’s dropped the gloves and tugged you into a kiss in one smooth motion. Both hands are cradling the sides of your face to hold you at the exact angle he wants you and his tongue is quick to slide along your bottom lip. You revel in the feel of him, pushing down the uncertainty still lingering in your chest. He’s warm and his pulse is rabbiting beneath your touch when you reach up to grab his wrists. 

“Fuck,” he hisses when he pulls back. His eyes are squeezed shut with restraint. “We should wait until you’re sober.”

“I’m sober,” your voice comes out like a plea. He chuckles and swipes his thumbs under your eyes. 

“Fully sober,” he amends. The pout you give him is nearly enough to make him forget his sensibilities and toss you back onto the bed. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere, baby,” he says, but the way his touch retreats has you thinking differently. “Calm down. I’m just getting out of the suit.”

“Oh,” you murmur. You only settle again when he pulls the blankets up to slide into bed beside you. He tugs you into his chest with one arm. 

“We’ll talk more in the morning, okay?” he says as you settle against him. “But, for the record, I’m in love with you, too.”

“You are?”

there's a warm scent of summer, aftershave, and your vanilla lotion mixed together sweetly in the room. the evening sun is starting to sit low in the sky; casting cozy rays through the window.

you're naked and straddling his waist, finger drawing small shapes on his bare chest, while you idly nibble at what little leftover lipgloss is on your lower lip from kissing so roughly—absentmindedly thinking about what you'll tell your other date later tonight once he sees seed already leaking from your cunt—when you feel a hand gently rub your arm, more hesitant than usual.

suppressing a sigh, you start mentally praying that he doesn't begin what you're dreading. he already seemed a bit.. needy over text.

'haven't heard from you in a while, sweetheart. not avoiding me, are you?'

'it's only been two weeks lol'

'that's a little long for radio silence. what, can't miss my girl?'

his girl. what did he mean by that? you're not in the mood for that conversation. not tonight. you have more pressing matters. like… what lingerie should you wear for your second favorite dilf later? lacy panties? blue maybe? you wore that last time though..

"sweetheart," he says quietly, breaking you from your thoughts, thumb rubbing back and forth over your forearm.

you don't lift your gaze from his chest to look at him, just internally chanting a 'don'tstartdon'tstart–'

"hm?"

his thumb pauses and out comes a breath he didn't realize he was holding in. "i've been thinking.. about us."

ugh. not the first time he's said that. but it was at least at dinner the last few times. was easier to shut him up with a mention of drinks, or a menu shoved in his face and a 'okay hold that thought, we should get dessert, yeah?'. no escape this time.

"'m gettin' too old to keep–" he motions between you both with his free hand, "playin' hooky like this. i.. wanna settle down, y'know?"

you feel his eyes studying your face, and yet despite knowing he's watching your reaction, you still cringe a little. reflex.

muttering "that's not even the right term.." you crawl off his lap, much to his dismay—did he upset you somehow?

his hand falls flat on the bed while you turn to swing your legs off the side. "just say hookups. and its not even really hookups, we hang out too." you start staring at the floor. "have you seen my lipgloss?"

"no, i haven't–" he cuts himself off. hang outs? that's what you call him taking you to low candlelit dinners?

he clears his throat. "but wouldn't you like more than just occasional dates– uhm, hangouts..?"

you're up before he can say much else, already looking around for your underwear under the guise of checking for your tube of gloss.

you lift a thrown towel, check behind the tv, open the drawer. you swear fabric shouldn't be this elusive. he's saying something else but you aren't really hearing it. where is your underwear?

"baby." he's exasperated, brows starting to pinch together when you don't answer. "is that really important right now?" he starts peeling the blanket off from around his waist. "i.. i'm tryin' to have a serious discussion with you."

you'd roll your eyes but theres a mirror in front of you, giving a full view of the bed where he sits, still peering at your expression. a mirror facing the bed was such a lovely idea in the moment of sex..

"god, i'm still listening. can't i multitask?" your tone is a little more clipped than you'd meant, but you're starting to feel a bit claustrophobic in here all of a sudden. it's a weird temperature; sweat from your recent coupling is sticking uncomfortably to your skin.. june bugs outside too loud.. tripping over strewn about pillows.. where the hell is your panties?!

he watches you scour the room for another minute before breathing out a deep sigh. he's up and next to you in a few strides, hand reaching out to settle atop your shoulder, a little firmer than his earlier touch.

"that can wait." he sounds more stern than you're used to. he's spinning you around to face him, and all that sternness you suspected disappears when you see he's already gazing into your eyes like a hurt puppy.

"just…" he speaks softer, hoping it'll help ease your nerves some. "let me have your full attention for this, okay?"

you hesitate for a beat before nodding slightly. fingers crossed. 'dontsayit..'

he carefully takes your hand in his. "being with you these past few months has been so good. wonderful." rough thumb rubbing against your knuckle carefully. your fingers twitch involuntarily.

"you're more than just… some fuck buddy i hang out with, baby."

slowly, he guides your hand to his chest to press your palm flat over his heart. you can feel how clammy his skin is, how fast that organ is beating under your hand. "so much more." his eyes bore into yours; hopeful and filled with something else you don't even wanna acknowledge.

everything in you is screaming to move. running outside naked somehow seems better than this. you're not sure what to say, so you stay silent with widened eyes like a deer in headlights. which he takes as a positive sign–somehow–to keep going.

"i.. i want us to be official." he swallows, nervous.

you feel the a strong urge to shake your head vehemently.

his fingers ever so gently tighten around your hand, anchoring himself to this moment with you. when you still don't say anything, he takes a slow, deep inhale and goes to rip off the bandaid. "sweetheart, i'm in l—"

BZZZZZT

BZZZT

your phone on the nightstand starts vibrating, cutting him off and making you blink rapidly–effectively breaking you out of whatever shocked trance you were in. you've never been happier to hear a buzz. you could marry whoever's calling! well… maybe just kiss.

"hold on, 'kay?" you're stepping past him like he wasn't even speaking—laying his heart out for you.

his mouth falls open slightly. shocked that the moment was ruined, but mostly by the fact that you didn't even ignore the call. your ear is pressed to the phone almost instantly, listening intently to whoever's speaking. why couldn't you do that with him..?

he reaches for you again. "baby–" but he's cut off by you going 'shhh', holding up a finger and asking for a minute. a weird mix of shame and hurt starts to settle across his bare skin. he's exposed in more ways than he can count.

to add insult to this extraordinary injury, you're actively getting dressed now and giggling while on the call.

he plops back down onto the mattress with a blank expression, arms resting on his legs as he watches you flit about the room as if he's not there anymore. how many times are you gonna avoid this? sighing, he pulls on his sweatpants.

you flip some of the sheets over, phone tucked between your shoulder and ear while you search around. at this point, he knows you're looking for your underwear, yet you won't say anything. won't ask for help.

but if only you said something. he could've told you he tucked your panties in his pants pocket, way back when undressing you earlier; just wanted something to remind him of you. he can't help missing you when you're away for weeks.

not that he'll tell you now. seems like you're doing anything to avoid conversing with him. avoiding acknowledging what he said before that dumb phone rang.

seemingly haven given up on your search, you breathe out a huff before telling whoever on the phone that you'll 'talk later' and end the call. "ughh, whatever. i'll just buy another one."

well, surely you'll ask him where it is now.

you tuck your phone in the bag slung over your shoulder, bending at the waist to give his cheek a quick peck.

"that was my friend. i'm running a little late for something. we can catch up later, okay?"

he blinks. "wait– what?" you're leaving him. this late. and without panties on. what the fuck?

he gets up from the bed, brows furrowed, looking as if he's about to gain three new wrinkles on his forehead. "with who?"

you accidentally let out a snort at his tone–quickly trying to cover it by clearing your throat. "i said a friend. you wouldn't know if i said a name anyway." you slip your shoes on and head towards the door.

"i'll call whenever i get home." the knob twists in your palm, but you startle a little as a big hand clamps around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. you turn to see his jaw clenched tight.

"this fun for you? never communicating with me?" his fingers tighten slightly, feeling your pulse. "were you even listening? you're dodging everything i've said." his eyes bore into your own; unblinking. yet you're finding ways to avoid his gaze again.

"i just.. have other things on my mind–a lot going on. you know that." you don't even fully believe your own words. "plus my ride's already outside. can't we do this another time?"

"and when is that supposed to be? you keep–" he stops and stares for a brief moment, clenching his jaw–before loosening his grip entirely.

a defeated expression sits on his face.

"if you leave, then don't come back."

you finally look up at him, meeting his glare with one of coy indifference. "don't be like that, hun. we got a nice thing going, right?" you murmur, touching his arm and leaning in to kiss at his cheek again, lingering a bit longer than last time.

he doesn't respond and doesn't lean into it. stays stiff as a board, fingers twitching at his sides; fighting the urge to grab you again to keep you here with him. your lips travel along his jaw, mushing little kisses all over until finding his lips. you don't pull away until he reluctantly kisses back, deepening the kiss just enough to keep him wanting.

"i'll see you." you hum, and pat his arm–in a way that felt entirely too friendly for how he feels about you–before you disappear through the door.

his hand drags over his face, pulling down against stubble that scratches against his palm. he feels lightheaded in the worst way. does he even get to feel like this? some.. odd form of jealousy? you two are just casual. 'friends'.

maybe this entire thing was a mistake.

he grabs his phone off the dresser and brings up your contact. theres a sinking feeling in his stomach as his thumb hovers the 'block this contact' popup.

trying his best to stop talking to you cold turkey is infinitely harder than he thought. he keeps thinking of all the time he's spent with you; watching crappy movies in your apartment, all the quiet dinner dates. thinks of how well you fit together. how soft and warm your skin is. your sweet scented lotion.

another deathly quiet, summer night, and nights like this make him think of you the most. he'd take you out to a cozy little restaurant, sing along to songs in the car on the way to his place. kiss your temple. fill you with everything he had. hold you til the next morning when you'd stretch and soon leave with a kiss on his cheek.

he's staring at the ceiling in the dark, the other side of his bed cold and empty. loneliness is clouding his better judgment.

so when his phone inevitably rings well after eleven pm–of course he answers. no one else calls him this late.

which leads to you in his room again, pressed up against his body, whispering honeyed words into his ear that he has a harder and harder time believing the more you say them.

"been too long. i missed you."

"give me another chance."

"let me make it up to you, hm?"

things play out like always. always ends the same. he's a weaker man for you than he thought.

he's met with the familiar sight of you bouncing on top, watching your expression screw into one of blissful pleasure, eyes fluttering shut as his thick length fills you up completely. drags along your walls in a steady, deep rhythm that has you panting out breathy cries and him groaning. you're soon falling over the edge, cumming and whining through your orgasm.

he tries to lose himself in the feeling of your walls hugging him so tight; focuses on the sound of your slick coated thighs coming down to hit his. tries to forget the aching feeling you left him with; the constant second thinking you put him through. there's someone else.. of course theres someone else. why couldn't you have just stayed? is the idea of being with him that terrible..? his eyes start to water despite himself–quickly trying to blink it away.

he chokes your name out through a groan, grabbing your hips tighter as pleasure shoots through his frame. "wanna hear you.. please..."

your hands rest on his chest, chin tucked in as you stare him down, lifting up and down to meet his thrusts. "mmh.. you feel so good.. so deep.."

"fuck, baby.. who's pussy is this?"

you just moan in response, more slick spilling between you both–tightening around his cock and making his breath hitch. but he asks again, breathless.

"a-answer me, sweetheart… who's pussy?"

despite having his cock buried inside–kissing your sweet spot with every wet slam down of your hips—a different man flashes in your mind at the question. reflex. you bite down on your lip, hips faltering briefly.

noticing the shift in your demeanor, his eyes flit open, heavy-lidded and staring up at you with a pleading look. you finally notice the sparkling droplets on his lash-line threatening to fall.

"please.. please tell me, sweetheart." his breathing deepens, his low timbre hushed. don't do this.. don't stay silent. don't make him think about the other men you do this with. he doesn't even care if you lie at this point.

"need to hear it.." his hips roll, pushing his fat tip up against your sensitive spot; drawing a little whine from your lips with each move. "tell me, is it mine..?"

you hesitate, slowly leaning down to let your soft lips touch just below his eye. nodding weakly as you murmur quietly against his cheek. "it's… it's yours.."

he groans, cock throbbing inside of you, twitching with a mind of its own at your barely whispered words. "again." his arms wrap around your body, pulling you down flat against his chest as warm tears finally spill down his cheek. he prays you don't notice. "please. again.."

your lips touch the shell of his ear as you breathe out "..it's yours, honey. always yours." kissing his heated skin in between deep breaths, lightly running your thumb under his eye to collect the little fallen droplet.

he has a full body shudder at your words; using all of his strength to hold back a whimper. holding you tight to his chest, he starts to rut up into you, stretching your slick walls open with each snap of his hips, creating lewd slaps that fill the room. he moves to nip and bite at your shoulder, muffling his shattered moans as he nears his own heavy orgasm.

with one last thrust of his hips, he's tossing his head back against the pillow–seeing stars while spilling deep into the condom. his chest heaves, fingers digging into your sides, holding you tight through the aftershocks as if you'll disappear.

and knowing you, you might. he knows you'll get up to leave soon. maybe for good this time. with your skin pressed to his, your soft breaths panting against his ear, his eyes squeeze shut—fighting to keep the rest of his vulnerability from escaping in rivulets down his face.