madeinheaven

“Shouldn’t we slow down a bit?” Leon asks into your mouth, his voice too weak to matter. 

You don’t bother pulling away, taking his bottom lip between your teeth as you shove him down onto the chair, immediately straddling his lap. His palms find your waist, his tongue your own, as you bring him into another deep kiss. 

“Why? Do you want to?” You pull away, looking down at him. His crisp white shirt is half-way to unbuttoned, his chest heaving beneath it. The dark blond strands of his hair, streaked with salt, have long been unsettled by the hands you’ve raked through them. A thin sheen of sweat coats his brow, and his lips are parted, a heavy puff of air blown through them. 

He doesn’t answer verbally, the erection straining against his dress pants doing all the talking for him. You instinctively grind down as soon as you feel the twitching head poking you, and Leon lets out a whimpering sound. The scent of the spicy cologne wafting from the pebbled skin of his neck invigorated your movement, quickening the pace of your hips. His fingers dig into the flesh there, guiding you back and forth. 

“No,” he finally spits out, the word dissipating into the open air in the time it takes for you to attack his mouth once more. He moans into it, the vibrations of the sound tickling your tongue as you exchange a waltz with his. His hips jolt upward, his bulging cock meeting your clothed pussy. “Fuck,” he hisses, tossing his head back against the leather upholstery. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, hiding in the crook of it as you continue to grind. His breath is hot as he pants alongside you, his hands snaking around your waist, up your back, landing on your shoulders to pull you down further onto his aching cock. 

Your abdomen tightens, the muscles contracting and releasing as your pleasure builds with every swipe of your clit against his lap. “Leon,” you gasp as your core clenches around nothing. Your vision begins to blur at the edges, and with every groan from the man beneath you, your orgasm quickly approaches. “I’m–I think I’m gonna–” Your stomach twitches, your legs shaking on either side of his thighs. The pressure is overwhelming. “Oh, god, Leon.” 

“Oh, fuck,” he growls in your ear, thrusting up into you from below. “Come for me.”

Constellations glitter behind your eyelids as you screw them shut, riding out the highest point of your pleasure as the rest of your climax washes over you like a wave frothing at the shoreline. While you come down from your high, leaking through your panties and onto the fabric of Leon’s pants, you pull away from him. 

He’s still panting, his shoulders heavy and lifeless against the back of the chair. His cheeks are flushed, sweat-drenched strands clinging to his temples, and his eyes are glassy as he looks out at you from beneath low lids. 

“That was incredible,” you say breathlessly, palms landing on his chest. “Want to take this to the bedroom?” 

Leon blushes an ever darker shade of pink, and his eyes fall to his lap, dragging yours with them. “I–uh,” he chuckles nervously. “I don’t think so. I–uh–already…yeah.” 

“Ah,” you say, looking down to see his previously rock-hard cock now flaccid, and a darker spot of gray below his belt buckle. “Next time then.” 

You lead him over to the sofa, making a pit stop at the kitchen island to drop off the pack of beer (but not before he grabs two and cracks them open, handing you one), and he takes a seat, settling onto one of the cushions. His legs part and he leans against the back of the furniture as he takes a sip from the room-temperature bottle. 

“Be right back,” you squeak, setting down your drink, turning on your heel before he can even nod in acknowledgement. You dip into your bedroom, taking a peek at your appearance in the mirror. He caught you right as you were getting ready for bed: no makeup, unstyled hair, no jewelry to decorate your body, wrinkle cream beneath your eyes, and lip balm spread all across your mouth.

You’re sure he’d notice if you changed into cuter pajamas–not the cotton shorts and ratty collegiate t-shirt you snatched from the bottom of the drawer. And although he might not take a second glance at your face if you happened to freshen it up with some blush and mascara, not even the opportunity to impress a long-winded crush could motivate you to put on makeup right now. Because once he leaves, you’d have to take it off and wash your face all over again and–

He calls out for you. 

“Be right there,” you say, bringing life back into your cheeks with a pinch, and swiping the faintest tint onto your lips. You smooth down a few fly-aways and head back into the living room. 

Chris is still sitting on your sofa, his body having melted slightly into the cushions while you were gone. He’s still holding tension in his shoulders and hands, though. You can tell by how straight he’s sitting and the way his fingers grip the beer bottle in his fist like it’s a flight risk. He reaches forward, grabbing your drink from the coffee table, handing it to you. You chug half of it like it’s a cure to some deadly virus and your life’s expiration date is soon approaching. 

“Is everything alright?” You ask, lowering yourself onto the patch of sofa next to him, already feeling fuzzy inside. 

The closer you get, the more you can drink up the details of his face. The fine lines around his eyes, between his brows, around his mouth. 

He’s dressed casually, in a pair of dark jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his brawny forearms, the sprinkling of freckles across them. You’ve not been given the pleasure of seeing him so informally. The two of you are close, and your relationship has grown more intimate over the years as to grant you sight into how he clothes himself out of the field. You prefer this version of him. Stripped down and normal. 

You’d prefer it if he was stripped down even more–

“Yeah, kid,” he says, voice gravelly and low. “Everything’s okay. That mission had me thinking about some things, and I just wanted to talk to someone who understands.” 

The only times your captain ever graces your apartment are when he needs to vent after death or loss or defeat. 

You adjust your hips on the sofa, shifting to pivot your body more toward his. “What about?” 

He takes in a deep, cleansing breath, and he looks at you. “Did you ever want more?” 

“More?” You repeat back. “What do you mean by that?” 

His eyes cut to the floor between his knees, searching the rug for the answer woven into the threads. “I don’t know. A family?” 

You taste the word in your mouth, letting it melt onto your tongue like a tuft of cotton candy at the fair. Family. 

At first you were too young to consider marriage and children. Then, you joined Chris’s team to bide the time. Now, you’re either too worn out, too distracted, too busy, too close to knocking on death’s door. Take a number.  

A list of names. A fantasy of park play-dates and piano recitals. Children require a man, and one of those hasn’t walked into your life yet. Not one worth the sacrifice anyway. 

“I think I did. At one point.” You bring your legs onto the sofa, your knees pointing toward Chris’s lap. He watches the movement, eyes lingering on the long swaths of skin extending from your shorts. “You?” 

He removes his gaze from your thighs, letting it flicker around the room, narrowing his eyes as he lets out a rocky breath and looks at you again. “Yeah, I did.” His eyes are stormy, pupils shot wide, inky dots eclipsing the blue of his irises. “I really did. But the timing wasn’t right and this job makes it impossible...” He nods once, a solemn movement so slow it’s almost unidentifiable. “Ethan got to have that, if only for a moment. I envied him for it. And now he’s gone.” A shake of his head, more certain a gesture. 

Chris leans all the way back against the sofa, letting his legs fall open one more inch. You can’t help but sneak a look at his lap, the bulge straining against the denim. Something bubbles in your belly–something warm and sinister. Your mind quickly shifts to an earlier image of Chris holding Rose in his arms, a bundle of blonde and pink, cooing and babbling up at him.

“Do you think you’d ever try?” You ask, the question more a distraction from your desire than a genuine inquiry. “Now, I mean?”

He narrows his eyes. And shrugs. “I’m nearly fifty. I don’t think it’s in the cards for me, kid. You still have time, though.” 

“Yeah, I guess so. But what about you? Are you just going to keep working until some BOW finally kicks the bucket beneath your feet? Or what if you live until you’re ninety and don’t have anyone to take care of you?” 

His eyes get wide and he lets out a rumbling chuckle from his chest. “Holy shit, kid. Way to make a man feel better.” 

You let out an insincere sound, something pretending to be a laugh, far too distracted by the way his abdomen tenses beneath his t-shirt to pay attention to humor. The flame in your belly screams at you to make a move. 

Leaning in just an inch, you keep your eyes locked on his. “I’m just saying, Chris.” You let your hand rise to cup his cheek, his beard tickling your palm. He nearly melts at the sensation once the shock leaves his system. “You deserve to be happy. You deserve a family.” A light groan leaves his throat. “To come home to someone. To come home to children that love you.” Another. “I can help you.” 

He opens his eyes, glaring at you. “What are you saying?” As if he doesn’t know.

Instead of answering, you lean forward until your lips lock onto his. He tastes like lukewarm beer and nicotine gum, and his tongue is wet as it enlists yours into a slow waltz of passion. It doesn’t take long for him to fully concede any stipulations or inhibitions kept in his back pocket. He pulls you onto his lap, his hands roaming freely across your back like a herd of wild horses across a grassy plane. They caress up and down the length of your spine; heavy, calloused palms catching on the weave of your t-shirt. 

The two of you kiss for what feels like–as cliché as it sounds–eternity. As the rest of the world melts into colors and sounds around you, Chris’s mouth on yours is the only sensation you can focus on beside the growing erection beneath you. His arousal is evident–need coursing through his body like lightning bugs, flashing in the tips of his fingers, between his legs, flushing red at his ears. 

“Chris,” you moan into his mouth. He shies away an inch, looking up at you with eyes that are wide and glassy with desire. Blues eclipsed by blacks. Whites that sparkle. 

“Bedroom?”

“Yeah.” 

Without grunt or grimace, Chris lifts you up as he stands from the sofa, adjusting your legs around his waist, holding one of your calves flush to his back as he ventures across the apartment into your bedroom.  

He sets you down on the bed with care and ease, immediately making work of his clothing until he’s dressed in nothing but a pair of boxers that do all but hide his desire. You aid him in removing the thin shorts, the t-shirt on your back, until you, as well, are bare except for your panties. He takes a moment to admire them, as if he’s under a spell and the plain cotton pair turn into striking lace right before his eyes like Cinderella’s slipper. 

“Do you really want to be with me?” 

“More than anything.” 

And you aren’t lying. 

Turns out neither was Chris when he said all of those salacious things as he ate you out. He meant every single one of them. Once you had finished on his fingers, and then on his face, he wasted no time in pressing your knees to your chest, his hands on the backs of your thighs, as he plowed into you. His movements weren’t hasty. They were tactical. Nothing less for the captain. He thrusted into you with patience, not letting the greed aflame in his chest make him any less meticulous with his movements. And when he finished inside, he spoke your name like a prayer along with the promise of making you happy forever, whether that meant having a child or just spending the rest of your lives together in each other’s arms. 

Once he cleaned both of you up, he returned to the bed, settling in next to you. 

His arm snakes around your waist, holding your back flush to his chest, letting you feel the rhythm of his heart beating against your shoulder blade. From behind, you feel his head perk up, his breath drawing closer across your ear and neck as he leans in to whisper. 

“Was that crazy? What we just did?” 

Perhaps it was. Neither of you were committed to the other–hell, you work for the man in a job so dangerous, you think you’ll die before you get the chance to quit. Separate apartments, separate lives. No ring, no certificate legally binding you to him. Nothing but the ghost of a dream spoken from one drunk mouth to another. 

“Probably,” you confess, glancing over your shoulder at him. “But I don’t regret it. Do you?” 

Every time you walked through the doors of your office building on Miagani Island, you felt the eyes following you. You caught the occasional whisper, but after nearly ten years of this routine, you’d grown used to it. Eleven years ago, when you agreed to go to dinner with Bruce Wayne, you knew exactly what you were getting into. Everyone wanted to know the low-profile lawyer who had snagged Gotham’s most eligible bachelor. But over time, especially after the wedding, Gotham's public gradually lost interest in dissecting your life.

So, you went back to living discreetly. It didn't mean you never had to deal with curious glances or intrusive paparazzi, but it was manageable. Lately, though, things had been feeling just as intense as they were back when Vicki Vale leaked to all of Gotham that you and Bruce were dating.

You figured Bruce might be seeing someone. The thought was bitter, unfortunately, but it would explain why the Gotham media was suddenly tracking your steps again.

"What a way to start the day," you muttered, staring at your reflection in the elevator mirror.

It was going to be a long day. You had anxious clients breathing down your neck, and starting the morning thinking about your ex-husband moving on was definitely not the motivation you needed. You tried not to think about him, but you always failed. Every time you saw a headline about Batman on the news, your mind immediately drifted. Was he okay?

But those thoughts usually hit at more convenient times—especially during those sleepless nights when seeing the damn Bat-Signal lighting up the Gotham sky was enough to keep you awake. Now, your entire day was going to be haunted by the possibility of Bruce moving on. The mere thought made your stomach turn.

"Good morning!" your intern’s voice chirped loudly before the elevator doors could even finish sliding open.

She had a bright, energetic look that, in your opinion, did not belong on the average Gotham City resident. There had to be a very good reason for her to be this excited so early. If you were lucky, some major case had resolved itself while you were out. Unlikely, but a girl could dream.

"Good morning," you replied, heading toward your office with the overly enthusiastic girl trailing close behind. "Any particular reason for all this energy?"

As you neared your door, a familiar, sweet floral scent hit you. It had been a while since you’d received flowers. Bruce had always been an attentive boyfriend and an incredibly romantic husband; his habit of sending massive vases of flowers to your office was common knowledge among your coworkers. But, for obvious reasons, your receptionist hadn't seen a delivery boy in months. You were still surprised that no one outside of family and close friends knew about the divorce.

When you pushed the door open, there they were. An obscenely large bouquet of stargazing lilies. Your favorite.

Bruce always sent flowers, and you loved every kind. But out of all the arrangements he used to buy, lilies were strictly reserved for special occasions.

"They were delivered first thing this morning. It’s been a minute since the florist visited us," your intern said, smiling, clearly impressed by the grand romantic gesture. You approached your desk, searching for a card as if you didn't already know exactly who sent them. "Looks like he’s trying hard... I was actually starting to believe those rumors going around."

Strange.

"What rumors?" you asked.

"People are saying your marriage is on the rocks."

Little does she know, you thought.

If people were starting to notice your absence by Bruce's side at public events, it explained the sudden increase in lingering stares on the street.

Honestly, you were surprised it had taken people this long to suspect anything. You had been separated for nearly a year. The divorce had been finalized nine months ago, and you had asked only one thing of Bruce: to keep it entirely private. It wasn't the most logical decision, sure, but at the time, you were emotionally wrecked. Asking for a divorce was the hardest thing you’d ever done, and you couldn't handle the tabloids turning your life into a living hell again.

"You can't believe everything you read," you lied smoothly, just as you had for the past several months. It was almost comical how Bruce was still your perfect excuse to avoid social commitments.

“I have dinner with my husband.”

Meanwhile, your wedding ring was tucked away in your underwear drawer, and you hadn't seen your husband's face in months.

Ugh.

Bruce and husband in the same thought.

Your dismissive response sent your intern out of the room with a smile. You knew she was a gossip, so the flower story would circulate through the building and hit a tabloid column by afternoon. If people were already suspicious, a little harmless gossip wouldn't hurt. It was times like this that made you realize people would have to find out eventually, especially if you wanted to move on and leave the Wayne name in the past.

Maybe Bruce wanted to start dating again. He was a single man; nothing was stopping him. But what woman would even try to get close? To the rest of the world, Bruce Wayne was still very much married.

Right now, the lilies on your desk felt like they were mocking you.

You leaned in, inhaling their sweet, rich scent.

Tucked between the blooms was a simple white card. You recognized Bruce’s elegant, cursive handwriting immediately:

“Please call me. We need to talk. – B. Wayne”

On the back, in the same neat script, was his number. As if you didn't have it memorized. As if you could ever forget the moments you shared, no matter how desperately you tried.

When you first read the card two hours ago, you were positive you wouldn't dial his number. But now, your mind was starting to betray you. The flowers staring at you from the corner of the room weren't helping.

What if something had actually happened?

But if it were something serious with Dick or Alfred, he would have called you directly. And if he were physically hurt, Alfred had promised he would let you know.

He was leaving the ball in your court.

The uncertainty was driving you crazy, making it impossible to focus on your work. You had two major hearings for high-profile clients coming up, and yet the only thing occupying your brain was whether or not to call your goddamn ex. For now, you had to push it aside. You had a million things to do.

You spent the entire day completely spaced out. By the time you unlocked the door to your empty apartment, void of any husband with a giant bouquets of lilies, your only real option was to open a bottle of wine.

One thing led to another, and after three glasses, your thoughts were delightfully hazy. You found yourself on your couch with your laptop open, scrolling through the Gotham Gazette's society page.

GOTHAM GAZETTE | SOCIETY & GOSSIP Where Is Mrs. Wayne? Gotham Begins to Question the City's Most Private Marriage

Screw it.

You grabbed your phone and dialed Bruce’s number. He picked up on the second ring.

"Hello?" His voice sounded heavily out of breath. If you were interrupting something, you were going to throw yourself off a bridge.

"Can you hear me?" he asked when you didn't say anything right away.

"Yes, um... yes, I can." You swallowed hard. Why did he have to answer so fast? You barely had time to chicken out. "I got your flowers this morning... Look, I don't want to interrupt. If you can't talk right now, I can—I'll just hang—"

"No! Please don't hang up," Bruce cut in quickly, a brief silence hanging over the line. "I was just training with Dick. I just... I didn't expect you to call." Honestly, Bruce hadn't expected you to call at all.

"I can call back later."

"Absolutely not. Just give me a second." His voice was soft despite his heavy breathing. You heard the faint rustle of his phone being set down, followed by the soft fabric movement of a shirt being pulled on. Your ex-husband was probably sweaty and shirtless. Great things to picture when you're three glasses of wine deep.

"Thank you for calling, darling," the pet name slipped out, sounding so familiar yet so painfully foreign. It had been months since he, or anyone else, had called you that. "Did you like the flowers?"

"Yes, they're beautiful," you said, looking over at them. You’d put them in a proper vase the second you got home, safely out of reach of your curious cat.

"I'm glad. I... honestly, I don't even know how to talk to you right now." You didn't know either. You two used to be so good at this.

Before replying, you took a breath to make sure your voice didn't sound slurred from the wine. "Yeah, it's been a while since we talked. Is everything okay? Did something happen to you or Dick?"

"No, we're fine. Are you okay?"

"Yes," you lied. The line went quiet again, and you immediately regretted making the call.

On the other end, Bruce was starting to feel incredibly anxious and guilty for sending the flowers in the first place. The last thing he wanted was to make you uncomfortable. He would never do anything to hurt you. He desperately needed your help, but he was a coward. Even though Dick and Alfred had urged him to talk to you in person, he hadn't wanted to ambush you at your office, especially not with how fast rumors spread in Gotham. The last time you’d seen each other was on a gloomy afternoon when you came to collect the last of your things from the manor.

So, he sent flowers and left the choice to you. If you called, he’d explain. If you didn't, he wouldn't dare drag you into his mess and would find another way to handle it.

"I need to talk to you. In person, if you're comfortable with it. I don't think it's right to ask this over the phone."

Your mind immediately jumped to the worst-case scenario. Bruce was seeing someone else and wanted to take the divorce public. Great. Definitely not the kind of conversation you have over the phone.

Once again, the thought of Bruce with another woman made you feel sick. And with three glasses of wine in your system and a fourth currently being poured, that sickness was quickly morphing into…

Jealousy?

During your marriage, you had never been the jealous type. Despite what the media claimed, Bruce was never a womanizer, and he’d never given you a single reason to doubt him. It was deeply ironic that you were starting to feel possessive of him only after you’d divorced.

Well, you certainly didn't envy whatever hypothetical woman it was. Imagine being interested in a man whom everyone still believed belonged to someone else.

To you.

It was selfish, but the thought managed to quiet the green-eyed monster clawing at your chest.

"Can I pick you up for lunch tomorrow?" he asked.

You hesitated for a full minute, weighing the pros and cons. But you couldn't deny how much you missed him. A simple lunch wouldn't hurt.

"Okay," you finally whispered. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

The next morning dragged on at a snail's pace. Your firm was swamped with cases, and the interns and clients had endless questions. The slight headache from last night's wine combined with your usual work stress was still lingering by lunchtime. You made a mental note to avoid drinking a bottle of wine mid-week in the future. That would be an easy promise to keep if you didn't have to hear about your ex-husband every five minutes, which, in Gotham, was practically impossible.

Speaking of your ex, he was currently leaning against the hood of his incredibly conspicuous sports car, parked illegally in a tow zone right in front of your office building.

Some things never changed. He always waited for you like this. Whenever you had lunch together, he always insisted on driving himself, even though calling his chauffeur would have been much more practical. Lunch had always been your time.

Another thing that hadn't changed was his looks. His jawline was still sharp and perfectly defined, his eyes held that same intense, brooding gaze, and his dark hair was impeccably styled without a single strand out of place. Gotham's gloomy, grey backdrop always did a spectacular job of highlighting his beauty; even just standing there, leaning against his car, he was unfairly handsome. He wore a dark, three-piece suit that hugged his broad shoulders and chest perfectly.

As you approached, Bruce straightened up, a soft, almost shy smile touching his lips. The moment you got close enough, his scent hit you like a wave,that rich, woody cologne. You couldn't even pretend you hadn't smelled it in months, considering you had kept about five of his old shirts to sleep in during your first few months apart. In fact, you’d slept in one last night. But nothing compared to the real thing, emanating from his warm body right in front of you.

There was no way you were getting through this lunch unscathed.

The warm weight of his hand settled on your lower back, guiding you toward the passenger side as he opened the door for you, just like he always did. He walked around the front of the Aston Martin and slipped into the driver's seat. The air inside the car was thick with tension, but Bruce broke the silence gently.

"Can we go to our usual spot?"

"Yes," you replied, your voice a little shaky, already thrown off by how familiar and comfortable this felt.

Bruce started the engine, and you tried your best not to stare at him. But what else were you supposed to look at? Your eyes scanned the dashboard before settling on his hands gripping the steering wheel. That was when you noticed the gold band still resting on his left ring finger.

It threw you completely.

Your own ring was buried deep in your drawer, far out of sight. It had taken you months to finally slide it off. The fact that he was still wearing his did something to you. The jealousy quieted down instantly; if he was still wearing his wedding ring, he probably wasn't seeing anyone. Or maybe he just wore it to avoid questions. Either way, you were still jealous of your own ex-husband.

"Are you okay?" he asked when the silence stretched too long.

You didn't know what to say. Yes, I'm fine. Aside from missing you terribly and realizing I probably wanted to hide our divorce because, deep down, I was still holding onto some selfish hope that we’d fix this. But other than that, great.

You forced a smile. "Yes, I'm fine. I got a cat now."

The traffic light turned green just as Bruce let out a quiet, amused huff. He wasn't much of a cat person, but his soft laugh made your heart flutter. "That's very unlike you."

"I'm trying to change."

"Me too."

Getting better for his next girlfriend.

The restaurant wasn't far from your office, so the drive didn't last much longer. The moment Bruce parked, a valet appeared to take the keys. Once again, his hand settled on the small of your back, guiding you inside. The hostess, who recognized you immediately, led you to the exact same table where you and Bruce had shared years of laughter, romance, and good memories.

"Do you want the usual, sweetheart?" Bruce’s question was so soft it caught you off guard.

"Yes, honey." The old pet name slipped out before you could stop it.

Bruce's eyes flared, and his lips curved into that smug, arrogant grin that could light up an entire room. Bastard.

"Honey, huh?" Bruce teased, leaning in slightly after the waitress took your orders. "I was expecting a bit more resistance."

"Bruce, get to the point."

He rested his elbows on the table, bringing himself closer. Up close, you could see every detail of his face. He hadn't changed, but there was something different in his expression. He still had those faint tired lines around his eyes that suited him so well, but it was a different kind of exhaustion. It wasn't the heavy, dark toll that Batman took on him. He actually looked... lighter.

Gotham’s best detective was watching you with undivided attention, too. Your hair looked a little lighter, and the cut was different. You looked breathtakingly beautiful, and it had been distracting him since the moment you stepped out of your office building.

Keeping his eyes on you, trying to commit every detail of your face to memory, Bruce began to speak in a quiet, low voice. "A few months ago, I asked the board to let me step back in as CEO so Lucius could focus on other projects." You knew exactly what kind of "projects" he meant.

"So I'm back in the office, going to meetings, attending the galas I always should have been attending." How did he even have time for this? Gotham was safer than it had been in years, but how was he balancing this with Batman? No major rogues had caused trouble in months, which usually meant Batman was working overtime.

"But some of the board members think I'm too unstable for the position. They're talking about voting me out if they don't see some stability in my personal life. Especially now, with the construction of the new charity hospital."

"Why do they think you're unstable?"

"Because of you, darling," he said simply. "I will always respect your decision to keep our divorce private until you tell me otherwise. But we haven't been seen together in a long time, and people are starting to suspect a crisis. I really hate to ask you this, but—"

Before he could finish, you cut him off. "Do you want to go public with the divorce?"

"No, that's not what I want," Bruce said quickly, reaching across the table to gently brush his fingers against yours. "I hate asking this of you. You must be so tired of being associated with my name, and I have absolutely no right to ask you for anything. But... would you be willing to pretend to be my wife a little longer?"

You let out a sudden, genuine laugh.

"I know it's ridiculous. Please don't laugh at me." Even though you were mocking him, the sound of your laugh was too good to ignore. A soft, relieved smile broke across his face. "I know it might be time to make it public if that's what you want. I'll make the announcement tomorrow if you say the word." He swallowed hard.

"I don't want to, Bruce," you replied, calming down.

You knew you were being selfish. You had asked for the divorce because you were miserable, but that didn't mean you had stopped loving him. Quite the opposite. You just couldn't stand watching the man you loved slowly kill himself for a city that didn't care. It was destroying you, and Bruce loved you too much to keep you trapped in a life that made you suffer.

Playing along with this little fantasy for a few hours wouldn't cure the heartbreak, but it would be enough to ease the ache of missing him.

"I'll help you."

"Thank you, darling."

You shared a soft, lingering smile.

As the food arrived, Bruce began telling you about the charity gala he was hosting in two weeks to raise funds for the Martha Wayne Memorial Hospital. The project wasn't new, but Bruce had never had the time to truly dedicate himself to it before. He explained the details with an excitement you hadn't seen in him in years.

He told you the gala would be held at a luxury estate hotel just outside the city, and that a custom dress would be sent to your apartment.

In a few days, you would be playing the role of Mrs. Bruce Wayne again.

Those two weeks flew by. You and Bruce spoke on the phone a few times, supposedly to go over the details of the event, but the conversations quickly drifted to other things. During one of those late-night calls, Bruce casually mentioned that he hadn't put on the cowl in months. Dick, Jason, and Barbara were handling the streets now. Bruce was only helping with investigations, tech upgrades, and training.

You didn't know how to process that information. It was bittersweet. It was amazing news because it meant Bruce was finally safe, but at the same time, a painful question lingered: Why couldn't he have made this choice when you were still there?

Bruce was asking himself the same thing. Why did he have to lose the love of his life to finally wake up? He felt like an absolute idiot.

But his months of isolation had actually done him some good. He was taking care of himself, keeping a normal routine, and fully committing to his role as CEO. In his free time, he boxed with Dick, played golf with business partners, and spent actual quality time with Alfred. The only thing missing was you.

He was trying to build a life without Batman. He didn't want to get his hopes up about getting you back, but if he could just have you in his life, even as a friend, he would be content.

You were finally nearing the hotel where the gala was being held. Bruce had insisted on sending his driver to pick you up, even though you’d argued that you could easily drive the hour-long trip yourself. It was so easy to fall back into the routine of being his wife. Even from a distance, he always made sure you were taken care of.

The Bentley pulled up to the magnificent hotel entrance. You walked into the stunning lobby, heading straight to the front desk to retrieve your key.

"Good afternoon, I have a reservation under my name." You smiled at the receptionist.

The girl offered a warm, professional smile the moment she saw the name. "Of course, Mrs. Wayne. We've been expecting you." She handed you a gold keycard.

You thanked her and headed to the elevator. A few moments later, you were walking down a quiet, elegantly decorated hallway. When you unlocked the door to the suite, you had to stop and take a breath. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a gorgeous skyline view. There was a massive living room, a private bar, and a spacious bedroom dominated by a king-sized bed.

Wow.

The bathroom featured a massive soaking tub. The temptation of a hot bath with the complimentary bath oils was too good to pass up, so you immediately started running the water. You didn't bother fully exploring the rest of the suite; you just stripped off your clothes and slid into the warm water.

The bath was so relaxing that you didn't hear the main suite door open or the quiet footsteps moving around the bedroom. Assuming you were completely alone, you eventually stood up, wrapped yourself in the plush hotel bathrobe, and opened the door, only to gasp in shock as you ran directly into Bruce, who was wearing nothing but his underwear, clearly preparing to take a shower himself.

"Oh my God!" you gasped, stepping back. "How did you get in here?"

"This is my room too, sweetheart." Right. Of course his team wouldn't book separate rooms for a married couple.

That was when the reality of your mutual lack of clothing set in. A flush immediately rushed to your cheeks. Your eyes involuntarily drifted down his muscular chest, mapping the familiar, heavy lines of his body before you forced yourself to look away. He was watching you with a look of pure, unadulterated longing.

You quickly pulled the lapels of your robe tighter, tying the belt into a secure knot. Bruce let out a low, amused chuckle. It was probably a good idea you tied it tight before he lost his mind and did it for you.

"Um... I was just taking a bath," you stammered, completely flustered.

"Yes, I can see that, darling." He had that smug, teasing look on his face. "I was planning on doing the same."

He took a step toward the bathroom, but you both tried to dodge in the same direction, resulting in you bumping right into his chest. His large hands immediately shot out to catch your waist, steadying you.

You were entirely too close. Bruce’s gaze dropped slowly from your eyes to your lips. You bit your bottom lip, trying to catch your breath. His gaze was intense, heavy, and completely hypnotizing. After months of empty space, his lips were only inches away from yours.

Despite the hot bath, a shiver ran down your spine. Your heart was beating so hard you were certain he could feel it pressing against his chest.

With a monumental effort of self-control, Bruce managed to break the spell. If he stayed this close for another second, he was going to ruin everything and kiss you. He cleared his throat, but his fingers lingered on your waist for a fraction of a second, squeezing gently before letting go.

"Your dress is in the closet. You should find everything you need to get ready in there."

"Thank you, Bruce."

He slipped into the bathroom, and the sound of the shower soon filled the room.

The black dress hanging in the closet was breathtaking. You slipped it on, and it hugged your curves perfectly, the built-in corset cinching your waist. You stared at your reflection, admiring how the fabric draped over your hips before eventually taking it off so you could blow-dry your hair and do your makeup.

Just as you were finishing, the bathroom door clicked open, releasing a thick cloud of warm steam. Bruce stepped out, damp and gorgeous. His dark hair was pushed back, water droplets still tracing the ridges of his chest. The white towel slung low on his hips did absolutely nothing to hide the heavy, impressive ridge of his erection.

Your eyes slowly traveled up to meet his. He held your gaze for a second, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his lips, before he quietly disappeared into the closet.

It was going to be a very long night.

The grand ballroom was glowing under the light of massive crystal chandeliers. Gotham's elite mingled with glasses of champagne, and Bruce didn't leave your side for a single second. Together, you greeted the board members. You laughed at their jokes, accepted their compliments, and played the part of the doting wife flawlessly. Years of being Mrs. Wayne had trained you well.

To the rest of the world, you were still the perfect, enviable couple.

Bruce's hand remained firmly anchored on your waist, occasionally squeezing your hip just to remind you he was there. During a quiet moment when he thought you might be overwhelmed by all the prying questions, he leaned in and murmured a soft thank-you. To everyone watching, he was the picture of a devoted, hopelessly in love husband.

The champagne was doing its job, and you were feeling delightfully relaxed. Bruce, who had matched you glass for glass, seemed calmer too.

"Would you do me the honor of this dance?"

The sheer formality of his question made you smile. You arched an eyebrow. "You don't have to ask, Bruce. We probably *should* be dancing. They think we're married, remember?"

"I know," he murmured. His eyes searched yours, that familiar little crease appearing between his brows—the one that only showed up when he was genuinely nervous. "But I'm not asking for the board, or for the cameras. I want to dance with you."

The noise of the ballroom seemed to fade into static. In that moment, all you could see was Bruce. This was the man you had fallen in love with, not the vigilante, not the billionaire. Just Bruce. The gentle, romantic man who had spent the entire night trying not to show how nervous he was just to be near you.

"I'd love to," you whispered.

A beautiful smile broke across his face. He took your left hand, raising it to his lips to press a soft kiss against your knuckles. Your heart skipped a beat.

He led you to the dance floor, his hand sliding smoothly to your waist while yours rested on his broad shoulder. Having your fingers laced with his felt so incredibly right.

"Still remember how?" you teased, looking up at him.

Bruce let out a soft laugh. "Of course I do."

Years ago, when you were first dating, you discovered Bruce couldn't dance to save his life. But before the wedding, he had secretly taken private lessons just to surprise you on your big day. Despite the divorce, that memory remained one of the sweetest moments of your life.

"Even with the lessons, you stepped on my feet so many times during our first dance I thought you were doing it on purpose."

"Never on purpose."

"Mm, tell me more."

He held your gaze, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper near your ear. "I think I just wanted an excuse to hold you close for a little longer."

You were supposed to be here to convince the board that Bruce was stable and to keep the press at bay. But it felt like you were slipping right back into a relationship that had ended long before the actual divorce. And you were enjoying it far more than you should.

"Careful, Bruce," you murmured, keeping a playful smile on your face. "People might think you're flirting."

"I thought that was the whole point of tonight," he whispered, leaning in so close you could feel the warm, champagne-scented breath against your cheek. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling your bodies together until there wasn't an inch of space between you.

"To show everyone how completely, hopelessly in love with you I still am," he finished.

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking your head to hide how wildly your heart was racing. "You are definitely flirting."

"And you are stunning."

A faint blush crept up your cheeks, and you looked away, pretending to watch the other couples. "You don't look too bad yourself, Wayne."

He smirked, pleased with your answer, his thumb caressing your hip. "Mm, who's flirting now?"

"That wasn't a flirt, Bruce. It was a simple compliment."

"Oh? Please, enlighten me on the difference."

"A flirt has an intention behind it."

"Ah. Well, I definitely have an intention."

"Then you need to be more direct, sweetheart. Lay your cards on the table."

You were definitely flirting now.

"More direct, you say?"

You let out a quiet, teased hum, nodding in agreement. You knew exactly what he wanted, but he was going to have to beg for it.

He chuckled, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "I was wondering if we could take this happy couple act back to our room, darling. I know you remember how good it is. I want to make sure the board really believes our performance."

"Is the board going to be in our room?"

"No," he murmured, his voice sending a delicious shiver straight down to your thighs. "But I'm positive I can make you scream loud enough for them to hear you from here."

Your breath hitched, your panties instantly growing damp at his words.

"That's me being direct, sweetheart."

"I think we should go upstairs, Bruce."

That single sentence shattered whatever was left of Bruce's self-control. He grabbed your wrist, guiding you out of the ballroom with hurried steps toward the lobby and the elevators.

Bruce pressed the elevator button with an almost childish impatience, as if the repetitive motion would force the elevator to descend faster.

The moment the steel doors opened to the empty cabin, he pulled you inside. Before the doors even clicked shut, he was all over you. The kiss was hot, desperate, and filled with a agonizing slowness, the heavy weight of months of built-up longing.

Your hands tangled in his dark hair, pulling him closer. Bruce let out a needy, ruined groan against your lips, pressing you back against the wall.

"God, I missed you so much," he panted, pulling back just enough to breathe, his dark eyes searching yours.

With a heavy, deliberate movement, he ground his hips against yours. A needy sigh escaped your lips as you felt the thick, rock-hard length of his erection pressing against you through his suit. He wanted you to know exactly what you did to him.

The elevator stopped. The hallway was completely deserted. You pushed him back against your room door, your hands sliding over his damp chest, pushing his jacket off his shoulders. Your lips traced his jaw down to the sensitive spot on his neck. Bruce let out a shaky sigh, completely surrendering to your touch.

Your hand slid down his waist, tracing his firm thigh before cupping him through his trousers. Bruce gasped, his entire body locking up under your touch.

"Do you want me to beg for it out here, sweetheart? Do you want me to beg to bury myself inside your wet little cunt, hm?" he whimpered, his voice incredibly thick, his forehead resting against yours as his eyes practically pleaded. "Because I swear to God, I'm already on my knees."

With a quick swipe of the keycard, the door clicked open.

Bruce guided you back until the edge of the mattress hit the back of your knees. You sat down, and he immediately dropped to his knees before you.

There was no rush. He took off your heels, pressing devoued kisses along your calves as he slowly bunched up the fabric of your dress. When your panties were discarded, leaving you bare under the moonlight, Bruce looked up. He didn't move; he just waited, his eyes shining with a quiet, desperate need, begging for your permission. You swallowed hard and nodded.

His first lick was agonizingly slow, tracing up your seam before centering directly on your clit. Bruce touched you like you were holy. You arched off the bed, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling his head closer.

"Do you like this? Do you like having me down here like this?" he mumbled against your wet skin.

"Fuck, Bruce... it's so good," you gasped, your head tossing back.

He alternated between heavy, sucking wet kisses on your clit and sliding two fingers deep inside you. The sensation was overwhelming. Your hips rolled against his face, completely out of your control. Bruce rubbed his hard length against the sheets to ease the ache of his untouched erection, completely dedicated to your pleasure.

Feeling your body tense, he picked up the pace, his tongue working over you while his fingers stretched you out. You hit your climax hard, crying out as you came directly against his mouth, your body shivering.

Bruce pulled back slowly, his face wet with your slick, a dazed, incredibly satisfied smile on his lips.

"I missed eating you out so much, baby," he breathed.

He kept his fingers inside you, feeling the tight, desperate pulses of your aftershocks, enjoying the wet, needy sounds your body was making. His erection looked like it was going to tear through his trousers.

You pulled yourself up to kneel on the bed, bringing yourself to his height. Your fingers began undoing his shirt buttons, one by one, kissing every inch of exposed skin. His broad chest, his sensitive nipples... every touch drew ragged, needy whimpers from his chest. When you finally unzipped his pants and freed his length, Bruce let out a long, broken sigh of relief.

A few seconds later, the rest of your clothes were discarded on the floor. You were both completely bare, vulnerable, and absolutely desperate.

You pushed him down, straddling his thick thighs. Bruce held his breath, his large hands anchoring on your waist, his eyes dark and blown-wide as he stared up at your body. He tilted his head back, giving you total control.

When you slowly slid down his length, burying him inside you, Bruce arched his hips with a long, drawn-out groan.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his hands holding your thighs firmly but gently. "Take it all, sweetheart. I'm yours... I'm all yours."

You started to move slowly, setting the pace. Seeing Bruce Wayne completely undone beneath you, whimpering with eyes wet with pleasure, was the most intoxicating thing you had ever experienced.

"Please, faster... don't stop," he pleaded, his chest heaving.

"What do you want, Bruce?" you teased, slowing your pace on purpose.

"You can use me, darling," he gasped, his eyes rolling back slightly. "Please, fuck, I'm yours."

The surrender in his voice lit a fire in you. You slammed down on him, riding him hard, your nails digging into his broad shoulders. Bruce groaned loudly, completely lost to the feeling. His hand came up to squeeze your breast while the other held your hip, helping you drive the pace.

The wet, slapping sound of your bodies and his loud groans filled the quiet room. He met every downward stroke, creating a perfect, heavy friction. Bruce buried his face in your neck, biting and leaving dark, bruising marks on your skin.

"I'm gonna come..." he whimpered against your ear, his voice completely wrecked.

Your climax hit you first, your tight walls clamping down on his length, and Bruce let out a low, primal roar as he came deep inside you, filling you with thick, hot waves. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he lay there, still trembling beneath you, his hands clutching your hips as if you were his lifeline.

"Fuck...", he muttered under his breath, looking down at where your bodies were still joined.

"Oh my God," you panted, slowly sliding off him. The hot slick immediately began to drip down your inner thighs.

Still shaking, Bruce immediately got out of bed and went to the bathroom, returning a few seconds later with a warm, damp cloth. He knelt between your legs, gently and meticulously wiping you clean with an almost shy tenderness.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his blue eyes filled with soft concern.

You let out a weak laugh, still trying to catch your breath. "I just had sex with my ex-husband. What do you think, Wayne?"

"I hope that means yes." Bruce smiled warmly, climbing onto the bed beside you. You immediately rested your head against his bare chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart.

"Since you left... I promised myself I wouldn't ask you to come back. Because that's what you asked of me."

"Bruce..."

"But I'm doing everything I can to be a better man. I was a terrible partner to you in the end. You didn't deserve that. I let Batman consume my entire life, and I only realized how much it was destroying you when you actually walked away. I don't know if I deserve your forgiveness, and I know I have no right to ask you to be mine again. But I miss you so much it physically hurts. I feel like a piece of my chest was ripped out. I'm trying to fill my life with other things, but it's completely empty without you."

Bruce’s voice was low, slightly rushed, his heart hammering against your ear. But his eyes looked lighter, relieved to finally confess the heavy truth.

And you felt the exact same way. You had felt that emptiness long before you actually left, back when Batman had swallowed your husband whole.

"I know how you feel, Bruce," you whispered.

Bruce pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. His hand slid to your chin, gently tilting your face up until your eyes met. He leaned down, and your lips finally found his in a soft, familiar kiss.

"And I still love you so much. I don't think I'll ever stop. But... our last year of marriage really hurt me. And I think I needed space to figure things out too."

"I know it's not right to ask you to be my wife again right now. But I need you in my life. I love you so much it hurts."

"It shouldn't hurt, Bruce."

"I know, but I need you." His voice sounded thick, almost tearful. "I'm so sorry for making you suffer. I never wanted to hurt you, sweetheart."

"It's okay, Bruce. It's in the past. I think... we can start seeing each other again. Slowly."

For a long moment, he just lay there, silently stroking your hair, letting your words sink in. Then, a small, genuine smile broke across his face.

"Slowly?"

You nodded. "No rush. No impossible promises. Just... one step at a time."

“So what do you wanna do?” Chris asks, referring to your ramble about never, ever, ever doing this before, and that you might be bad at it, and that he might not want to waste his time, him being a very, very important man with more very, very important things than you to do–

“What?”

“I asked you what you want.” He says it with a slight shrug of his shoulders as he leans back into the sofa, his hands still on your thighs, caressing the outer pockets of flesh, thumbs grazing your skin. His eyes are still locked on yours as he continues to touch you in such an intimate way like this with such indifference it’s as though it’s the simplest thing in the world, he does it all the time–doesn’t have to think much about it at all. 

He’s giving you the choice. He’s not pouncing at you like a jungle predator, with bared teeth and paws ready to claw. And he’s not ushering you off his lap, across the floor of his living room, shutting the door behind you with a quick ‘I’ll call you tomorrow”, yet never does. 

It’s a kind of grace you haven’t been given before, and it does nothing to sate the growing ache between your legs. 

“I want to do this with you,” you finally say, and as though the words corralled some superhuman courage within you, your fingers fall to the fly of his dark jeans, immediately making work of the button and zipper. “Right now.” 

He chuckles, flickering his eyes up and down your face, as he grabs your wrist, stalling your motion at his crotch. “Slow down.” You’re too dumb-drunk on the thought of being with him that you don’t react, not with a pout, nor with bent brows. You just let him speak. “There’s no rush.” 

“Sorry,” you squeak, lowering your head, your eyeline back to his chest, a broad expanse of what you can only imagine to be hard-earned brawn beneath the plaid of his button-down. “I’ve just waited a really long time, ya’ know?” 

Chris nods once, a solemn, understanding gesture, and still wears that barely-there grin on his mouth. His hands continue to roam up and down your thighs, just caressing with a kind of gentleness you never expected from a man of his size or profession. Part of you was scared to let it get this far, but he pursued you, and you’d be out of your ever-loving mind to turn down a man like him. 

“I get it,” he says. “But we’re still going to take things slow. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Your eyes shoot back up to his face, reading the expression plastered upon it that tells you he doesn’t just mean causing harm to you physically. He’s far deeper into this than you realized. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he starts, removing his hand from your leg to grab your jaw, stroking the length of skin beneath your cheekbone with his thumb. It’s rough against your soft skin, yet you nuzzle into it like a kitten on a ball of yarn. His other palm runs up your hip, under the hem of your shirt, to settle in the curve of your waist. “We’re going to stay here for a bit, just kissing, okay?”

“Chris,” you croon. “Come on–”

“Hey,” he says, cutting you off, however softly. “This is just as important for me as it is for you, okay?” His eyes, blue and hooded, beneath dark, squinting brows, find your lips, and his own don’t hesitate to follow. 

You dip your head half-way, meeting his mouth in a warm, gushing marriage of a kiss–the kind that makes you wish you had never done it with anyone else, and had saved your lips for only him. The kind you see at the end of films right before the credits roll, and think about for the rest of your life, wondering if and when you will have the chance to experience something as passionate. 

He adjusts his hips on the sofa cushion, the motion slightly dragging the length of his clothed erection across your pussy, also clothed, though there’s not enough fabric in the world to hide the evidence of either of your arousals. He moans–so soft, so tittering of a sound, you sit in quiet disbelief that this machine of a man can produce so lulling of a sound. It riles something scalding in your stomach. 

The two of you stay put on the couch for what feels to be torturously long, mouths open and glued together in an expert union of tongue and lip. His hands crawl up and down your back, one settling on either ledge of your shoulders, pushing you further down onto his lap as he lifts his hips, tilting you back just an inch to gain enough leverage on his feet to rise to standing. Without grunt or gripe, he carries you into his bedroom, keeping his mouth locked on yours.

You’ve been in his apartment a few times before, on the occasions the two of you would watch a movie or sit at the dinner table over dirty, long-untouched dishes, talking until your eyelids get heavy and he offers to drive you home. You’ve seen the powder room offset from the kitchen, the living room, the kitchen, but you’ve never been in his bedroom until now. 

Breaking from his face for a single moment, you turn to survey the space, as dark and masculine as the rest of his home, curated to natural perfection with well-loved furniture and linens he folds and smooths after getting out of bed every morning. The walls are mostly bare, the night table on the right side of the plush king, housing a lamp and a picture frame of him with a younger girl in a red leather jacket and a blonde man about her same age. In the corner, there’s a laundry hamper and a dresser. In the other, a pair of boots, untied and lined up like soldiers awaiting a battle cry. 

The next thing you’re able to see are the four corners where the ceiling meets the wall, and Chris’s head above you. He plants one more kiss on your mouth before he retreats from the mattress, straightening to standing by your feet. You rise up on your elbows to watch as he slowly unbuttons his shirt, taking a painstakingly long amount of time to reveal his bare chest. Thankfully he did, however, because if he had removed it in one swift yank, leaving you to take in the sheer brawn of his torso without preparation, your head would have spun around so fast you’d be left without one. 

His tan skin, baked and bronzed, and slightly freckled at the balls of his shoulders and the tops of his forearms, arouses a pool of saliva beneath your tongue. You drink in the sight, taking in the details of the valleys and hills of his abdomen, strong, carved pockets of muscle lying beneath a healthy layer of flesh and skin, a dusting of dark hair across his pectorals and down the line of his stomach. The tiniest amount of pudge rests on his hips, the band of his briefs beneath his pants digging into it. 

You sit up completely, pulling off your shirt with one graceful swipe as Chris toys with the waist of your skirt, the hem that falls just above your knees, deciding whether he wants to see you totally de-robed, or if he’s satisfied pushing the fabric to your hips, eating you out under it. 

He chooses the former, manually lifting your hips with one hand while he removes the article with another, gingerly sliding the material down your thighs, your knees, your ankles, until you’re lying before him in nothing but a pair of panties and a bra you quickly unclasp from behind. 

“Fuck,” he hisses to himself, so low a rumble you almost miss the syllable entirely. He rests one knee on the edge of the bed, cap digging into the mattress as he shifts forward to grab your breast, kneading it with the palm of his hand, reveling in the delight of your soft skin beneath his hand, calloused and marred by years of fighting. 

You let out a tiny, gasping whimper as he rolls your nipple between his fingers, pinching the bud once before climbing over you to latch onto it with his mouth. Wet lips suck at the hardening peak, the tip of his tongue flickering across its sensitivity. 

“Chris,” you coo, running your hand over the back of his head, short, soft strands of chestnut tickling your palm. “Please stop teasing me.”

He removes his mouth, a strand of saliva connecting his bottom lip to your darkened nipple, looking up at you with eyes full of want; whites glistening, pupils widening. Nodding in understanding, he lowers himself back down to the edge of the bed, sinking onto his knees, pulling you by the thighs with him until your seat slightly dangles off the mattress. 

Fingers hooking on the band of your underwear, he makes quick work sliding them down your legs, tossing them onto the floor. You’re now completely bare in front of him

“Very pretty,” he says to your pussy, opened wider by the palms he has on the insides of your knees, keeping you spread for him as he admires the sight. Your whole body shivers, from the thought of the scene that’s about to play out before you, the air conditioning billowing from the vent above, the hands roaming your legs and waist, the tongue that licks all the way up the length of your inner thigh. Chris punctuates the movement with a kiss, mouth very close to your entrance. 

Then, his face shifts slightly and he plants a kiss onto your clit. It sends a vibration through each limb and digit, the sensation made more intense by the way his facial hair tickles your skin. Another kiss, like an offering placed at an altar before a prayer. 

His tongue darts between parted lips as he spreads your pussy with his fingers, diving straight into the feast without warning. 

You cry out at the sudden feeling of a thick tongue lapping at the bud, Chris’s face completely buried in your cunt, devouring it like it’s his last supper, and he’s been long craving you. It’s the first time a man has been between your legs, whether it’s his mouth making work of you or his fingers, and it’s better than you could have imagined–better than anything you could buy tickets to see on the silver screen. 

No fantasy could do this justice. And just when you thought nothing could possibly intensify the pleasure building behind your abdominal wall, Chris starts talking. 

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he starts, the reverberation of his voice against your clit making your vision sparkle. “Ah fuck.” 

He growls, another vibration rattling your core. “Doin’ so good for me, baby, you’re so close. I know you are.” 

How he knew before you did, you’re not sure, but he was no less correct, predicting the wave of euphoria that crashed into you, just after the most violent peak of your life. It viciously rocked you, the coil in your stomach tightening, your walls clenching, a falling sensation making you grip the sheets until all color drained from your knuckles and you could do nothing but scream out his name until your voice gave out. 

Chris gives you one last brush of his lips on your ruined clit, and retreats to smudge the wet evidence of your orgasm from the corner of his mouth onto his tongue. You close your eyes to watch the glittering constellations of static that dance across the black stage of your eyelids. The chime of a metal belt buckle, the rustle of fabric. When you open your lids, you see Chris, standing at the end of the bed, pumping his hard cock in his fist, a bead of anticipation leaking from its angry, red tip.

He climbs back on top of you, his chest falling flush to yours, legs parted around him, his hand cupping your face with the gentle touch of a man who didn’t just ravage your cunt with his face. But alas, Chris is not so one-dimensional. 

“I want you to do that again while I’m inside you.” 

You can only nod, your front teeth embedded in the plush flesh of your bottom lip to keep your chin from quivering. 

“Is this alright?” He asks, lifting up onto his arm to give you a better view of his hand between your legs, wrapped around his length as he glides the tip up and down the slope of your pussy. It makes you shiver, legs instinctively closing around his waist. 

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please.” 

“Inside?” 

You nod, walls immediately clenching at the sensation of his head prodding at your entrance. He prompts you to breathe once he realizes you’re too tense to fully enter without making this more uncomfortable than it needs to be.

“Take a deep breath for me,” he says from above, his eyes locked on yours as he gives you an assuring up and down of his head. “You have to relax, baby. Deep breath,” he repeats, his words completed by a cleansing inhale of his own. 

You follow his direction, breathing in and out until your hips sink further into the mattress and you feel the tension you’ve been holding in your middle release. “Move.” 

His face contorts into a wince, the wrinkles at his forehead, around his eyes, deepening as he lets out a rumbling moan, feeling your tight walls around the entirety of his length. He swears before opening his eyes to gaze down, searching your expression for permission to continue. 

Finding it in the sheer splash of pleasure on your features, he pumps in and out, slowly at first, but soon quickens the pace at your desperate direction. The way you stretch to accommodate his size is sheer torture, ecstasy bubbling at the sensation of being filled. 

You don’t anticipate to feel the threatening taunt of pleasure simmering in your gut, because that is one thing the movies always get wrong, and you’re not naive enough to think you’re the exception to the rule that one can never reach pleasure during their first time. 

However, as one of Chris’s hands moves between your bodies to begin rubbing your swollen clit, the amalgamation of that feeling alongside the frictious sensation of his cock dragging against your pussy is all too perfect. Until it’s not, that sweet spot before you begin to fall lasting as quickly as the first spark of a flame. It soon erupts into a roaring fire in your belly, your heart beating so fast it just might rip out of your chest, your head dizzying. Even your feet, though your ankles are wrapped tight around Chris’s back, feel ungrounded as though you’re hiking on rocks and lose your footing before tumbling down. 

“I–I can’t, Chris,” you cry out, scratching at his back, fingernails digging into the brawn. 

“Yes, you can,” he groans from above. 

“No, no, no,” you slur, screwing your eyes shut, hips attempting to writhe beneath his plunging thrusts.

You’re making all sorts of horrendously desperate sounds, whimpering, whining, a scream threatening to leap from your throat. So pornographic and lewd, you raise your hand to cover your mouth until Chris grabs your wrist and pins it above your head. 

“None of that. I want to hear you.”

“It’s too much. I can’t,” you repeat, frantically shaking your head, your body nearing a loss of total control.

“I know you can. Come on, let’s make this real special for you, baby. Just breathe and let go.” 

Those words, so obscene, have your back arching off the mattress as your pelvis leans into the pleasure at his hands. His fingers continue to work you through your second orgasm until you’re a slobbery, blubbering mess beneath him, crying for reprieve. 

“That’s it,” he roars. “Give it to me.” 

He makes the sound of an angry, huffing lion as he gives into the feeling of you clenching his cock, sucking him dry with every twitch of your walls around him. After he finishes, he collapses onto you, your bodies melded together with the sticky glue of sweat and saliva. He smiles against your cheek as he whispers dulcet praises in your ear, completely content to be adhered to you as you both come down from your respective high. And, once you do, you melt into a blissful sleep, back flush to his chest as your hearts beat in sync.

You hurried, but probably not as much as you should have. It was too close to summer for you to really care that you were going to be fifteen minutes late. The kids didn’t show up for another forty five minutes. Lesson plans were prepped. You were wearing two different colored socks. Whatever, it didn’t matter. You sip the too-hot liquid, hissing at the heat, and not looking where you’re walking. 

“Ma’am, you really shouldn’t be here right now.” It’s said through his teeth, holding back part of a… Was that a fucking concrete wall? “This part of the street, it’s blocked off.” A crash from up ahead nearly steals your attention, but Superman is right in front of you. You’re sort of dumbfounded. You had never met him despite moving to the city a couple years ago. It really shouldn’t shock you as much as it does. I mean, he was sort of the protector of Metropolis. But you really didn’t expect him to look so cute up close– “Ma’am.” His voice is desperate. An entire street pole is diverted by his hand. Okay, maybe it’s less of his good looks and the fact that you might have walked into a warzone. You catch glimpses of Hawkgirl in the sky. “Ma’am, you need to move.” There’s that authority. 

“Oh. Oh my god. Yeah, I’m so sorry. I’m being so–” Another crash. A ‘Superman’ yelled in his direction. “It’s just– I’m late, ya know, to work.” And you want to continue to explain that you take the same route every day and unfortunately you aren’t a fan of breaking a routine. And oh my god, you should’ve checked the news. It was a common occurrence for something to disrupt Metropolis and things usually carried on as soon as the fight was over, but they weren’t usually right in the way of you getting to work. 

Clark doesn’t quite have the time for this, but his eyebrows knit together at your rambling. Typically, he wouldn’t let himself get so distracted over something so trivial. Clark can’t seem to help himself. “Just– just wait here. Stay out of the way.” He throws a look behind his shoulder then spares another glance at you before he’s shooting off into the air. 

So you move back toward the last intersection and watch the rest of the fight play out. It really doesn’t take very long when he has extra help. You glance at your watch. Ten minutes have passed. A whoosh behind you. “Ma’am.” His deep voice startles you out of your thoughts. You turn around to meet his gaze. 

Clark probably could have been offering his help to clean up the destruction, but Guy had said something irritating earlier and Clark could hold a grudge. There were no civilian casualties and you were the only one who had stuck around instead of taking a different route. He was curious. Plus, it probably didn’t help that he thought you were pretty. He couldn’t tell exactly where you might’ve been going for work, but your outfit had caught his attention. Plaid slacks, a white blouse with long billowy sleeves. Brown loafers. You almost looked ready for the Daily Planet, but he’s sure he would’ve noticed you by now. You clutched the strap of your bag to your body. You were nervous.

Superman looks just as put together as he did 10 minutes ago albeit a little more dust on the blue of his suit. His hands are clasped behind his back. “What were you saying earlier?” 

Your face grows warm. Oh gosh. Did he really think your ramblings were important earlier? You did stay where he told you, did that maybe signal you wanted to talk again? “Oh, it’s really nothing.” Your hands come up in front of you, waving through the air. When you felt awkward, you talked with your hands. Could this get any more embarrassing? 

“Well, it seemed like I really disrupted your day.” Superman is frowning at you. Eyebrows drawn together, taking a step closer to you. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Clark is playing it up, but he can’t help it. He likes the way you stumble over your words. If he wasn’t in the suit, he’d probably be doing the same thing back. He just has a disguise to hide under. “I can fly you to work if you want? You said you were late?” What was he doing? He didn’t typically offer free rides to civilians. Sort of a lawsuit waiting to happen. 

You could melt into a puddle under his gaze. Blue eyes, dark hair, cape sort of billowing in the wind. God, you should’ve pulled out your phone and got an exclusive. Probably a pretty penny to be made on Superman photos and with your salary– “Oh gosh. No. I–” You glance up to the sky then at the roofs of the nearest buildings. “I don’t think I could stomach that.” Your eyes meet his again. “I mean, I haven’t even had breakfast either. And it sucks dry heaving and nothing comes up.” Could you talk any more? You shut your mouth. Stare at him. 

“I can walk with you?” Clark tries again. There were probably more pressing matters to deal with. He did not care. In his mind, he would write it off on being a man of the people. I mean, that’s what he was. Today it just looked a little different. “Unless of course, you’d rather–” 

You can’t seem to stop yourself, “No, please. I’d love that.” A smile pulls across your lips. Were you about to get personal escort to work from Superman? “Then you can tell them why I’m half an hour late to work.” A perfect excuse, how would your principal fight with Superman over your time management? Well, you could see her doing that. Not even Superman could reason with her. 

“I’d love to.” A grin, all teeth and dimples. Clark holds out his hand to you. You stop, raise your eyebrow. Was he offering his hand to– “Your bag?” Oh gosh, he was really playing this up. Did he have no tact? Was he so blatantly flirting with a civilian he had just prevented from getting caught up in the middle of a metahuman fight? He would beat himself up over it later. For using his alias for talking with pretty women. No backing out now. You hand over your bag. “What is it that you do?” His eyes roam over your figure again as you begin walking. He could use his x-ray vision to examine the contents of your bag, but he had already overstepped so many personal boundaries today. 

“Oh!” You glance up at him. You had tried to keep your eyes forward. Everytime you looked at him, you risked tripping over your feet. Oh, but would he catch you? You have to shake the thoughts from your head. “I swore I mentioned that.” You frown. “I’m a teacher!” A sort of pride always emerged when you told people your profession. Now that you’re next to Superman though, you feel a little overshadowed. Who cares that you’re a teacher? He was saving the entire human race next Thursday. “Usually people tell me I’m like a superhero and now that I’m standing next to one; I feel pretty lame.” You laugh. It didn’t actually bother you. Just put it into perspective now that you have met one. The most popular one at that. At least to you.

“Well, you sort of are.” He clears his throat, tossing a smile your way. Clark had always wondered if he would have the bravery to do anything if he wasn’t Superman. Sitting at a desk and writing articles really wasn’t that brave. Parts of it had him stepping out of his comfort zone, but he could never imagine being a teacher. Wrangling twenty or more kids for eight hours straight, five days a week. Clark had super human strength. He could fly faster than a bullet. All that would be really great if he was doing what you did. But you did that without any of the extra help. And that was just the physical side of things. He had teachers who had helped him overcome insecurities, that helped pave the path that he was on today. It was not something to brush off. “I could never do what you do.” 

A scoff as you’re walking beside him. “Oh, come on! You are such a good role model!” 

Clark can’t help the way the tips of his ears turn pink. He shrugs, brushing off your compliment. “I mean it. What you do is important.” 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, considering asking him if he would come in and talk to your class, but you’re already at the entrance of the school. The steps you usually loved walking up looked a lot less exciting today. Especially as you’re staring up at Superman and he’s looking back at you with a sort of admiration, lips twisted up in a smile. That right dimple tugging at his cheek as he smiles. “Well, this is me.” 

Is he blushing? You wonder as he begins to speak again, “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do for you? I could pick you up something to eat, I know you said you didn’t eat and–” And now Superman of all people is rambling. Maybe you were rubbing off on him or he wasn’t as suave as you originally thought. His mouth clamps shut. A swallow as he watches for your reaction. 

A glance to the school. “Actually…” You trail off, rocking on the balls of your feet. “Tomorrow. Would you come talk to my class? I think they’d really love it. Meeting a superhero and all.” You’re looking up at him through your lashes and hoping you’re playing this right. Hope he finds you just as cute as you find him. The coffee you had this morning must make you nervous and out of your mind and now here you were asking Superman for favors.

“Of course.” 

“Really?” You’re cheesing, hard. You want to jump up and wrap your arms around his shoulders. You never thought you’d ever secure the best guest speaker ever. All the other teachers were gonna be so jealous and you could finally tell Mrs. Dollway to suck it– “Wait, here, let me write down the time and date and this address.” You’re stepping into Superman’s space to grab your bag. The strap hangs off his shoulder as you dig around for a pen and a post-it note. You scribble down the information as he watches with a smile. Clark hadn’t felt this excited in ages. Not so much for the classroom talk, but the fact that he had figured out how to see you again.

You trade the sticky note for your bag. Clark’s face is twisted in confusion before that dimple is taking up residence on his face again, teasing. Oh god, you could kiss that thing– “Huh?” You ask, his voice drawing you out of it.

“Your name?” He offers the note again. You scribble it on, face warming again. From embarrassment and the thoughts that were plaguing you. Stupid Superman and his stupid good looks and good heart and– “Thank you, Miss.” 

“Thank you, Superman.” An irregular heartbeat in your chest and a quick touch to his upper arm before you’re bounding up the first few steps of the school. “Thank you, really. I can’t wait!” The giddiness in your voice is unmatched. 

The smile doesn’t leave Clark’s face. The sticky note is clutched into his palm as he shoots up into the sky. The pretty teacher is the only thing on his mind. 

— 

The receptionist at the front desk did nothing to hide the shock on her face when Superman walked in. Clark was quick to explain that he was here as a guest speaker for your class. A call to your classroom, a gesture to sit in one of the chairs, and she was quick to begin gossiping in the next room. Clark tuned it out and instead tuned in to the click of your shoes against the hallway floor. He caught the flutter of your heart as you pushed the door open. 

“Hi, Superman!” You grin. He stands to meet you. You settle for a handshake as Clark’s eyes catch on your badge. Metropolis Middle Senior High School. Were you a high school teacher? Clark’s eyes widen when he realizes what exactly he’s gotten himself into, but you’re already leading him down the hallway. 

Clark can’t help the weird anxiousness that builds in his belly. “I really thought you had meant, you know, kids.” Superman is walking with you down the hallway, boots sort of dragging along the linelmoun floor. They catch on the floor, squeaking. You cringe. 

“Um, sorry, should I have elaborated on that?”

Superman puts on a smile. “Oh, uh, of course not. It’s just you know, it’s usually the little kids that like me so much.” 

You grin. “Don’t be nervous. I think the older kids will love you.” You stop in front of the classroom: room 120. “Thank you for doing this. Seriously. Now, I didn’t exactly give them a heads up that you’d be coming.” A nervous laugh. “I wanted it to be a surprise.” Your bottom lip is tugged between your teeth, chewing as you think. “I hope I don’t regret that. Anyway, just be yourself!” 

Clark can’t remember the last time he was this nervous, but he decides to take your advice and relax. How bad could it be? They were just kids after all. 

Except as soon as you’re opening up the classroom door to relieve the teacher across the hall from your 1st period English class; the entire class is silent. For once. And not exactly in awe. 

“Um, teacher, what the hell is this?” 

You do a lame excuse for jazz hands with only one hand free as you tug Clark the rest of the way into the classroom. “It’s Superman!” Your hand rests on his upper arm. As soon as you realize that you’re touching him, you tug your hand away like it’s on fire. No reason to give them any ammunition. Except they don’t need any. A classroom of fifteen and sixteen year olds can come up with their own. 

“It’s Supershit!” 

“Is it really true about your parents?”

“No way our teacher is dating Superman.” 

“What’s the beef with Lex Luthor?” 

“Wait, do you know Batman?”

The excited voices build on one another until the volume of the class is out of control. Superman’s face is the same shade as a strawberry and his eyes find sudden interest in the ceiling. You hadn’t expected it to go like this. This is what you get for not prepping them for a guest speaker. Arms crossed, you raise your voice to meet theirs. “Is this how we treat a guest?!” The voices die down, a few whispers being passed. “I’m disappointed. He’s got plenty else to do if you guys don’t want to take this seriously.” Groans throughout the classroom. “Thank you. Now have some respect, please.” You glance at Superman. He’s engrossed in the way you’ve seemed to corral the room like unruly livestock. “They’ll be nice, now.” You whisper to him as you take a seat on your desk, watching the rest of the interactions play out. 

Once the class actually settled in, they had come up with several thought-provoking questions for Superman. Clark had taken it as serious as any other press release or a meeting with the president. And the questions were just as hard-hitting. He hadn’t known that kids this age would be keeping up with news even if it was in the form of videos and memes. It was refreshing. He had looked to you for advice on some of the questions too, wanting permission before he talked about certain topics, but all you did was nod to give him the go-ahead. 

“It certainly wasn’t what I expected.” He’s telling you once the last of the kids had filtered out after the bell. “And I definitely have a deeper appreciation for teachers. Especially the ones dealing with this age group.” You laugh. “Actually, I was thinking, I have a friend at the Daily Planet… If your students would be interested in talking to a journalist. They definitely have the hard-hitting questions down.” Superman offers. He might have needed an excuse to see you again. But then he's worrying, what if you don't like Clark as much as you like Superman? He already needed a backup plan.

“Oh, wow! I couldn’t ask you to do that. You’ve already done so much.” 

“Well… You could repay me. If you’d let me take you out.” Superman was back to his self-assured attitude. He would leave the nervousness for Clark next week. 

“Oh!” You nervously slide your hands over your blouse. “I didn't know Superman dated. How does that work?"

“A time and a place. I’m sure to meet you there.” He clears his throat. Clark had never thought about it. Had never met someone he liked so much as Superman. It was different. It seemed like it might complicate things more than he was used to, but he’d find a way. Clark had a feeling it was gonna be worth it. “You didn’t seem fond of flying last time or else I’d offer to pick you up.” 

“That definitely seems like a third date activity.” You’d be an idiot to pass up a date with Superman. “Okay. I’ll go out with you.” You shuffle around your desk and pass him a stack of post-its with a pen. “A time and a place.”