#superbat x reader

🍒 Plus Two ☁️🔥 (12.9k words) A destination wedding, a fresh breakup, and two attentive groomsmen turn one lonely weekend into something far more tempting.

deja vu 3: wally's point of view ╰┈➤ wally’s been in love twice, so of course both of them fall for each other; wally’s point of view; before, during and after start reading: part one | part two

looking glass 1: yandere!straw hats x afab!reader ╰┈➤you’re with the crew now for a while, getting comfortable with your new relationships, both platonic and romantic. but as your bonds grow, they’re changing as well, glimpses of something dark lurking on the outside of your new crew. read part 1 here | read part 2 here | read part 3 here | read part 4 here honeymoon arc part 1 | part 2 | part 3

equinox 5: hades!fem!reader x persephone!clark ╰┈➤it’s the fifth month of clark staying in the underworld with you. it’s been a month after you received the first, but not the last, letter from olympus. as clark continues to settle into the underworld, into your relationship, olympus refuses to be ignored any longer start reading: part one | part two | part three | part four

mamma mia: here we go again!: older!supernova trio x afab!reader ╰┈➤your daughter’s wedding is slowly approaching, and although there’s a list a mile long of things to finish up before the wedding, three captains continue to show their affection for you start reading: prelude | part one

while we weren't looking: superbat x reader ╰┈➤your newfound family continues to grow and change as your life continues to face massive changes; the grieving of a son, the gaining of new children, and the constant shifting of your romantic life start reading part one read the original series

second glances: modern!au one piece ╰┈➤a day in the life of being luffy’s sister; the hardest part being all his damn attractive friends start reading part one

thank you all for your love, support and comments! thank you for reading and being patient with delayed posts! i love you all so much!!!

However…this…this wasn't what you had expected.

It was supposed to be a simple performance: sing at the Gothams Opera House, mingle with the rich, and then be on your way. You even purchased a fancy dress and did your makeup for the event, expecting it to be a fun night full of opportunities to set off your career. Hell, even Bruce Wayne and his soulmate Clark Kent were even expected to attend, and they did!

Then the string appeared.

Redder than the blood running in your veins, it tied itself onto your pinky finger—both of your pinky fingers.

Two separate strings that inexplicably sealed your fate.

Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent.

Your soulmates.

Holy shit.

The most powerful man in Gotham was your soulmate—one of your soulmates. The other? A Pulitzer winning journalist with the brightest smile known to man.

How could the universe do this to you, giving you not only one but two famous soulmates? It’s like fate took one look at you and decided it would be fun to screw you over, which it did. The universe, fate, or whatever was out there had royally fucked you over.

Unbridled anger coursed through your veins, and while panic took over your body, your mind filled with rage.

You didn't trust yourself to speak to them. You knew it wasn't their fault, but your mind hadn't seemed to catch the memo. You wanted to scream, to yell at how stupid this all was, to walk up and tell them to leave you alone and forget that you exist, but you couldn't.

So you ran.

You performed, bowed, then ran before they could even get a single word in with you, and spent the rest of the night in your apartment cursing the universe and deciding whether to fake your death and move to Japan.

You were screwed either way.

On the other side of Gotham, deep within Wayne Manor, two men held each other, looking at your smiling face on the screen of the computer before them.

"They're perfect." Clark sighed, dreamily staring at your picture like he was staring at a deity, fully ready to get down on his knees and pray.

"But why did they run?" Bruce mumbled, knowing full well Clark could hear.

The other man gently squeezed his lover, a move that did nothing to comfort the brooding Bat—but truly nothing could ever comfort him besides the steady beat of his soulmates heart. He couldn't wait to listen to yours.

"I mean, we are kind of intimidating," Clark sighed. He couldn't imagine how overwhelming it would be to not only find out you had two soulmates but that those soulmates included a billionaire and a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist. Just wait until you find out about their other identities.

"We're they're soulmates."

"They have anxiety." Clark pointed to the list of diagnoses. You had a fair amount of them, but it was no worry; so did Bruce, except you seemed to have accepted them, unlike the billionaire.

"They shouldn't have ran."

"I don't disagree."

Bruce sighed; well, it was more like something between a groan and a steady exhale. "What if they don't want us?

Clark looked down at his lover and smiled, not that innocent bright smile that everyone loved but something deeper, not predatory per se but passionate beyond recognition. "Do they have a choice?"

"No." His attention focused back on the screen, taking in your picture. You were truly radiant.

"I guess they don't."

They were watching you.

You felt it. The instinct that you were being watched—the way goosebumps erupted all over your skin and the way the hairs on the back of your neck rose.

At first, you thought it was just paranoia. Why would someone like Bruce Wayne or Clark Kent stalk you? I mean, yeah, you were their soulmate, but you were still a stranger to them. A complete nobody, but no, apparently that didn't matter to them because they followed you everywhere. To the park, to work, you even watched Clark try to hide behind a newspaper while sitting in a booth near you at your favorite cafe.

Then they invaded your life, not physically, which honestly you would have preferred instead of waking up to a thousand dollars being deposited into your bank account. How was that even legal? They even sent you a card in the mail with a letter insisting you use it. You burned it while staring into the camera they'd hidden in your apartment, because yeah, they did that too!

It probably should have scared you that they broke into your apartment without your knowledge, but after weeks of being stalked, you weren’t even surprised. In fact, you found it quite enjoyable to flick them off, and destroy all the cameras you found with a crowbar—a good release for your rage. You also rambled to them from time to time. Look, it wasn't your fault you had so many things to say and so little friends to rant to.

Fortunately, breaking into your apartment was as far as they went. It seemed they were more than happy to leave you alone and watch from a distance, which you appreciated.

All in all, your life went on, except with two new idiots added as an audience.

"Hello sweetheart!"

Well, peace couldn't last forever, you guessed. Look, there goes your happiness flying away into the sun where it would burn into a crisp and never return.

You sighed, long and arduous and laced with pure unadulterated dread. You turned, and to your utter relief, it was only Clark, the sweet journalist who apparently knew Superman, which was kind of cool, though most people in Gotham just knew him as Bruce's soulmate.

"Dude, we literally just met. I'm not your sweetheart" And he was already acting as if he'd known you for years, calling you an albeit sweet pet name, as if he were one second away from sweeping you into a massive bear hug and kissing you all over the face. He probably was.

His happy demeanor never faltered at your dismissal, not even for a second, which you found somewhat respectable.

Now that you looked at him, really looked at him, you had to admit he was attractive with his baby blue eyes and dark curls. He wore a plaid shirt that did nothing to hide his muscles and jeans that showcased his delicious thighs, and if he turned around, his ass would probably be phenomenal too.

Dang, the gods must've carved him out of marble. Aphrodite truly blessed him.

"Of course you are, sweetheart; you're my soul—" You slapped your hand over his mouth and violently shushed him.

"Hey! Hey! No need to shout it out for the whole world to hear." You glanced around the cafe, sighing in relief when you noticed no one was watching. Of course, no one was; you weren't anything special after all and you would like to keep it that way.

His gaze glimmered with amusement, and he gently pried your hand away from his face, taking a moment to revel in the softness of your skin. He was touching you, holding your hand, and oh, how it was glorious.

You sighed and pulled your hand away from his, or well, you tried to at least because when you did, his hand tightened, and he refused to let you go. You frowned.

"You're not gonna let me go, are you?"

"Nope!"

He smiled brightly, and you swore for second you were blinded by the sheer light of his happiness. Dear lord how did Bruce deal with him? It was like a golden retriever had a baby with a rainbow and pure happiness.

You glanced down at your conjoined hands with a slight grimace and sighed out in defeat. "Okay, what do you want to do?" Because apparently you had no choice. It was a good thing you were free for the rest of the day. He probably knew that, too. That's why he pounced.

"I need a ring." Well, that was an unexpected answer, but who were you to judge?

"I know a good jewelry store just a block away," you shrugged. It was compacted right in the middle of all the luxury stores nearby that you never once visited since you were broke.

"Great!" He dragged you out of the café, which sucked since you didn't even get your drink, but oh well, more money for you to save.

The whole walk was spent listening to him ramble. You wanted to zone out, but your brain insisted it was rude, so it begrudgingly kept you present. He mostly gushed about how excited he was to finally spend time with you. He mentioned Bruce a lot, and it was obvious he loved the man—the type of love you only saw on screens or read in stories. How could he even have room in his heart for you?

"You know, I feel like Sunlight’ by Hozier would perfectly describe you as a person," it was a silly thought, but you had to get it off your chest, fully prepared to be met with judgement.

Clark paused, and he tilted his head, staring down at you with pure wonderment. "Really?" You swore you saw stars in his eyes, full constellations glittering with the light of adoration, all directed toward you.

"Oh gosh, you are truly perfect." You gawked at the way he breathed out the words, as if you had completely stolen his breath away.

"Oh, would you look at that, we’re here!"

You both paused in front of the jewelry store and...

"Finally, you're here."

Oh, come on!

You should have seen this coming. Of course, it was a trap! Fuck, now you had to deal with the both of them.

"Honey, she compared me to a Hozier song. I think I'm in love," Clark walked up to his lover, and Bruce smiled. It was more like a soft grimace mixed between a smirk, but it still counted.

"Oh, did they now?" He raised a brow, his attention focusing on you. You squirmed. His gaze reminded you of a hawk, or maybe a bat—wait.

Oh.

Oh no.

It made so much sense.

"It's you!" You pointed at him, eyes narrowing in accusation. Bruce only looked at you confused, but you saw the way he tensed for a moment. The way his shoulders squared, and his eyes flashed with darkness—darkness that only one man in the city possessed.

"Okay, shopping time!" Clark's cheerfulness interrupted the moment, and his hand came down on both of your wrists, dragging you both into the high-end jewelry shop.

"Is he always like this?"

Bruce nodded. "Yeah," he sighed, although his voice was laced with softness. "He is."

Your eyes widened as you took in your surroundings. You had always wondered what the inside of these fancy shops were like. So luxurious, it screamed rich in one of those haughty laughs. Everything called you broke in a hundred different ways.

Fortunately, Bruce and Clark were all to happy to let you wander around and look at everything.

"Do you like it?" Bruce came up next to you, eyeing the beautiful necklace that had caught your eye, and he couldn't help but chuckle and wave Clark over at the sight of the familiar emblem dazzled in sparkling diamonds.

Usually you would find a necklace like this gaudy, but the pendant was just small enough to actually be pretty instead of snooty.

Clark glanced down at the necklace and immediately his face lit up like a thousand suns. "You like Superman?" He sound giddy. You guessed it was because he knew the man, which made you even more embarrassed then you already were.

You shrugged, trying your best to keep cool and not fangirl like the thing you were. "I guess. I mean, he gave me and basically the whole world hope. He's also really attractive and, from what I've heard, sweet. Did you know he goes around Metropolis and undents people's cars? Animals also flock to him like he's a Disney princess, which is a huge green flag.

Oh lord, you were rambling.

You were too busy gushing about your love of Superman to even notice how Bruce had waved over a worker, and it wasn't until the necklace was being put on you did you realize what had just happened.

You looked down at the pendant that now lay against your skin, and your eyes widened. "Wait, this is literally over a thousand dollars! You cannot be serious!" You turned around and the two men stared at you, Clark’s gaze flickering down to the symbol. His eyes lit up with a sort of possessiveness that made your skin crawl.

"Wow," he breathed. "Yeah, we're definitely getting it," and Bruce nodded in clear agreement.

"Don't you guys have a ring you need to get or something?" How could they waste money so easily? Was this what being rich was like? You didn't like it.

Both of them seemed to snap out of their haze, then shared a glance. A thousands words were shared between the silence of their gazes. "The workers are fetching it right now. It's custom made."

Clark nodded with a grin. "It's super pretty. You'll love it.

Finally, the worker once again appeared with a box and handed it to Bruce, who opened it, and holy shit, he actually smiled, a genuine smile that lit up his features and actually made him look happy for the first time since you'd met him, and well, from all the other times you caught him following you, which now you knew was probably on purpose. He wanted you to catch him—to know he was watching over you.

Clark looked over his soulmate’s shoulder and nodded in approval.

Subtly reaching back, you unclipped the necklace from around your neck and gave it back to the worker, who immediately took it the wrong way and began packing it for you. "Wait, I was—"

"We'll take the necklace with the ring," Bruce interrupted, and you glared at him, to which he didn't react.

You opened your mouth to argue, but shut up when Clark eyes narrowed and his smile fell. Taking the point, you leaned in and looked at the ring, and wow, it truly was beautiful. It was exactly like one of those rings you had saved on Pinterest.

"Beautiful isn't it?" You pretended that Bruce was looking at the ring instead of you when he said that, and nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, it is."

"Good, because it's yours."

Without a word, Bruce took your hand and Clark grabbed the ring from the box and slipped it onto your finger. It fit perfectly, and matched the rings on their fingers fingers too.

Another trap.

Once again, you should have seen this coming.

You looked down at the ring and your lips twisted into a frown. "Guys I can't—"

"Yes, you can, and you will," Bruce insisted, and you watched in defeat as he strode up to the front counter, just casually pulling out his card and buying thousands of dollar’s worth of jewelry, for you.

Clark came up next to you, his hand sliding down your arm and to your hand to hold it. He led you to the entrance where Bruce met both of you. “Well, I would say this was a successful part of our date!”

"I enjoy spending time with you," Bruce murmured, soft in his voice and hopeful in his words.

"You two suck," you deadpanned, glaring at the both of them as you walked out the store, and oh great, there was a driver waiting for you.

Yeah, you had a feeling this was going to be a long day.

Then your vision shifts.

It sharpens like a camera lens, like someone cranked up the contrast on reality itself. The edges of the coffee table glow while every fleck of dust becomes a supernova. Every light source blazes, and you blink hard, trying to will it away, but instead end up with a white-hot band of pain cinching itself around your temples. Your focus tunnels to the nearest thing: Bruce's hand, resting on the back of the couch. His knuckles are grazed, his grip is white. You can see each individual skin cell, the variety of scars, and the infinitesimal pulse of blood beneath his nailbed. The heat comes next, building behind your eyes like you've swallowed the sun.

You think you're dying, and you scream. Loud, raw, and for a second, the men are worried that you've started burning your eyelids.

Somewhere in all of that chaos, Clark is beside you. He isn't frantic, thankfully not even close. His hand lands on your shoulder, warm and grounding, and his voice is impossibly steady. "Hey. Hey, look at me. Just me, don't focus on anything else." He says your name, over and over, low and even, trying to give you a baseline to focus on. Instead, it just becomes another note in the hurricane, lost somewhere in the noise.

You try, fuck you want to. But when you look at him, it's like the world splits open: Clark's face, the every subatomic tremor of his expression, the way his blue eyes glow with worry and something older and sadder underneath. And then the heat behind your eyes peaks, and you scream again, sharper this time, slicing clean through everything.

You don't even know you've done it until you smell burning.

It's chemical and wrong, scorched metal and ozone and something you can't name. The room goes red at the edges, and the couch is smoking. Bruce is gone — no, not gone, moving, throwing himself sideways with impossible precision. Clark doesn't move at all. He squares his shoulders and takes the full force of it, arms locked to his sides, jaw clenched so hard you think his teeth might snap. The heat vision, your heat vision, catches him directly in the chest. Where his shirt used to be, there's only charred and smoldering fabric, and underneath it a raw, angry burn already beginning to close.

The sound that comes out of you next isn't human. It's part sob, part animal shriek, and it tears your throat raw before you can stop it. You stagger back, hands up, helpless. You look for Bruce, he's fine, bridging the distance between you two, scanning you for injuries, already calculating the next move. His eyes are wild, but he isn't afraid. Not of you, never, not even now.

You try to speak, to apologize, to fucking say anything. You just hurt the love of your life, potentially hurting Bruce -- God, you could have killed Bruce!

The emotions and thoughts are working you up, you feel your heart beating, and it has to be filling the room with how loud it sounds to you. You're frantically glancing around, trying to calm yourself, unable to look into either of their eyes.

"I'm — I can't — I'm sorry —" The words trip over themselves, pile up, fall apart, and not nearly enough.

You want to run, hell, you almost do, but in the aftershock, your body refuses the order. Your limbs are waterlogged, your hands are shaking, and the cold thought underneath everything is louder than the sirens: you are not safe. You are a hazard, a ticking bomb in a person-shaped container, and you should get as far away from the people you love as possible. The only thing more terrifying than having hurt them is the knowledge that you could do it again. Without warning, and most certainly without meaning to.

You start saying as much, your voice rising, breaking, becoming a litany you can't stop. "I can't stay, I can't. Please, understand, I can't hurt you. I don't want to." Your hands feel like they belong to someone else. The air around you still shimmers with the afterimage of the blast.

Clark steps between you and the door, ready to block you. His arms come around you, and the warmth of him is almost enough to pull you back to earth. "Hey, listen to me. You didn't hurt me." His hands cradle your face, his thumb wiping something from your cheek — tears, or maybe blood, you honestly can't tell. "You didn't mean to. And I promise you, I've had worse. Sorry to tell you that you don't even rank." He laughs, not bitterly but genuinely, like this is a kitchen accident, not a supernova in the living room.

Behind you, Bruce's voice is so calm it's almost hypnotic. "It's okay. Eyes on the ground, don't panic, we're here. Breathe in for four, out for six." A pause, while you instinctually do as he says, focus on a bit of flooring that's slightly steaming still from the earlier explosion. "Good, that's good." Bruce is only a few in front of you, his shoes not coming into your periphery, but everything he's serving as he always has, your anchor, steadfast and reliable. "You're not going to hurt us. We know what's happening. This isn't permanent."

You don't believe him, not yet.

But the panic fades enough to let other things in. The feeling of Clark's heartbeat, steady and slow. The cold air on your back where you've singed a hole through your own shirt. The scratchy texture of the rug as they lower you to the floor, Clark's arms still around you and Bruce crouched close enough that you can see the stubble on his jaw, the focus in his eyes.

You try to hold onto the details: the pulse under Clark's wrist, Bruce's smooth breathing, anything to keep from floating away.

When you finally look up at Bruce, he's ready. His eyes are steady and unblinking. "You're not a threat," he says. "Not to us. Not ever."

And you realize he means it as much as Clark. They're both idiots, and you would burn the whole world for them.

"We're going to fix this," Clark says, quieter now, almost conspiratorial. He presses a quick kiss against your temple before continuing. "And until then, we help you control it. It's nothing we haven't handled before." He squeezes your shoulders with careful precision, like he's reminding you of the limits of your own body. Then, glancing at the twin scorch marks on both your chests: "Besides, I always wanted matching shirts."

You almost laugh, but it hurts and ends up sounding like a wheeze. You hear Bruce stand up to get you some water while Clark helps you calm down from the mini cough attack that started. There in the moment, you're allowing yourself to relax, letting the world shrink down to just your bodies and your hands and the warmth between you. You don't know what tomorrow holds, but for a few heartbeats, you're not afraid to find out.

--

That night sparks a new sense of unrest somewhere in the soles of your feet. You chalk it up to nerves, or the tremble of aftershock, the way adrenaline leaves your system raw and humming. There's a buoyancy to it, though. An alien kind of lightness, like waking up underwater and discovering gravity has skipped town.

You don't mention it, trying to relax between your partners, and forget about the trouble and the mishap. You were out on a mission with them earlier, and another underground group was trying to synthesize Clark's powers. They were successful in the way that it works. However, they had no clue that it did until they had injected you with it during the battle, knocking you out afterward so you couldn't tell anyone. Except, they hit way too fucking hard, and you didn't remember the fight at all.

They had taken you back to the Watchtower where they drew blood, but besides the concussion, there were no obvious signs of injury, so they let you go home to rest. Clark had just gotten the health report call when you woke up, quickly speeding over to take the blast of your heat vision.

The three of you are now packed into the couch; a human Tetris of warmth and limbs and old sweatshirts all braided together. Bruce is half-asleep, jaw resting against your hair, his breathing a slow and stubborn anchor. Clark sprawls on your other side, his hand near yours on the cushion, his pinky grazing your wrist. There are no words left between you; they were spent in the last hour, traded and emptied until silence became its own kind of comfort. For a few seconds, the world is quiet enough to trick you into thinking you imagined everything that came before.

Then Clark's hand finds your shoulder, soft as anything, humor evident in his voice. "Hang on," he says, voice pitched low, apologetic. "Not to alarm you, but…"

You open your eyes, and Clark is looking at you, but not quite at eye level. A little below it, actually, as if some trick of the couch has rearranged your heights while you weren't paying attention.

You blink. "What?"

He grins, sheepish, and hunches his shoulders in a boyish gesture that looks faintly ridiculous on a man built like a summer thunderstorm. "You're hovering," he says, almost fondly.

"You're full of it," you say, but you look down, and there it is, plain as physics: a few inches of nothing between you and the faded upholstery. A shadow stretched thin by the overhead lamp. Bruce's arm, still wrapped around your waist, is taut now, the fabric of his sleeve bunched at the shoulder. His feet are planted on the carpet, firmly, unmovingly, while yours are dangling an inch from the floor. Maybe two.

The panic floods you before the thought can finish forming, and it's as if your insides have been scooped out and replaced with helium and glass and the uncanny urge to be somewhere sturdy, grounded. The gap widens, and with a sick little lurch, it doubles, making your stomach turn over.

Bruce's grip on your waist cinches tighter, equal parts possessive and practical. His mouth is at your ear, voice steady as a metronome. "Stay calm."

"I'm not doing it," you say, which sounds ridiculous even to you. If not you, who?

Clark, for his part, looks delighted. Not smug, just genuinely entertained by the spectacle of a human balloon taking shape in his own living room. You can see the effort it costs him not to laugh, the way his jaw twitches with it. He floats up himself, just enough to keep pace, both hands open and out like he's spotting you in case you make a break for the ceiling.

"Control is the key," he says sagely. "Think heavy thoughts. Mass times acceleration. Bruce, before his first coffee."

"Not helpful," Bruce says.

Clark grins wider and says nothing. He just hovers a foot above the carpet, tracking your ascent like a very cheerful lifeguard at a pool no one else can see.

You reach for the armrest to find nothing but air. The gap is real and growing; you can see out the window from a height you've never had sitting down. You try to will yourself back to earth, brace every muscle, bear down with everything you have, but it makes no difference.

Bruce's arms never leave you, adjusting his position as you rise, eventually standing on the sofa to keep pace, all the while making quiet calculations with the same calm he uses to disarm bombs and dismantle supervillains. His thumb presses into your hip; a clear and present message. I'm not letting go, not for anything.

"This is…new," you manage, your voice climbing higher than you'd like.

"First time for everything," Clark says, bright as a sunrise.

You try to focus on your breathing the way Bruce taught you earlier, but the in-breath is thin and the out-breath catches on a laugh you can't hold back. You're floating, actually floating. If you stop to think about that, you'll probably pass out.

Then it happens again: you feel yourself bob upward, like a helium balloon on a long leash. Bruce's grip catches, but you feel his feet begin to leave the ground too, the center of gravity in the room shifting entirely.

Clark moves to intercept, palms open, the way someone coaxes a frightened cat from a tree.

"You okay?" he asks, close enough to read every flicker of panic on your face.

"Do I look okay?"

He shakes his head. "You look better than I did the first time."

Bruce, ever the pragmatist, begins strategizing aloud. "This is an emotional feedback loop. You panic, you gain altitude. Stay calm, you stabilize."

"Great," you say flatly. "So I just have to not think about the fact that I'm becoming a weather balloon in the living room."

"Precisely," Bruce says.

You try, you really do. You picture anchors, lead weights, the sheer gravitational pull of the Earth itself, but it's difficult to concentrate with both of them looking at you the way they are — like you're a miracle and a problem in equal measure.

Clark is the first one to break. He starts with a low, controlled chuckle, and then it builds, and then he's genuinely laughing, head thrown back, the sound filling the apartment and spilling warmly into all the corners. Even Bruce cracks — you feel it more than see it, the way his shoulders ease and he presses the curve of his smile into your shoulder.

"Look on the bright side," Clark manages. "At least you're not melting furniture anymore."

"Yet," you say, but the edge is completely gone from your voice.

With careful precision, Bruce maneuvers himself beneath you — a safety net made of muscle and quiet intention, both arms come around your waist, and for the first time you feel secure enough to unclench your fists from the air. You don't descend, but you don't rise either. Equilibrium, of a sort.

Clark drifts up alongside you both. "You're doing great," he says, hushed and entirely sincere. "Just let yourself adjust."

You take a slow breath and let yourself go soft. The world stops spinning, and there's a moment, maybe only a few seconds long, where you're suspended in perfect stillness. The only sounds are the whisper of fabric shifting and the distant murmur of city traffic far below. You close your eyes and let the new reality wash over you. When you open them again, neither Bruce nor Clark has looked away.

"You're not alone in this," Clark says.

Bruce doesn't echo it in words. He echoes it in pressure, a tightening of his arms, a grounding, a promise made without language. Eventually, you float back down, landing in a sprawl, limbs tangled, the three of you wedged together in a way that is almost comfortable and not quite. No one speaks for a long moment as Clark's hand finds yours, warm and steady. Bruce presses his forehead to the back of your neck and murmurs quiet, nonsensical things until your breathing slows all the way down.

Somewhere below, if you'd been able to see his face, you would have found Bruce wearing the expression of a man quietly, thoroughly revising every decision that had ever led him to this moment.

"The thing where you're mentally building a dossier on two people you've never met so you feel less exposed when you actually do." A beat before the corner of his mouth moved, barely, but you caught it.

"Jonathan Kent, sixty-four. Retired farmer, part-time hardware consultant for the county. High school athletics, modest academic record, no financial irregularities, consistent church attendance until about 2003 when records show—"

"Bruce."

He exhaled through his nose, counting as if he were almost laughing. "I'm thorough."

"You're scared."

You hit it on the nail, evident by the slight tension at his jaw, the way his thumb pressed a little harder against the leather of the wheel. You hadn't said it to be unkind, you'd said it because it was true, and because with Bruce, naming the thing was always the first step toward letting him breathe again.

You reached over and rested your hand on his forearm, feeling the muscles tense before relaxing.

"I am," he admitted, after a moment, quiet as if it cost him something. "Which is — I'm aware of how that sounds. I've sat across from heads of state. I've negotiated with people who wanted me dead and had the ability to do so, but…"

"This is different."

"This is completely different!" He glanced at you then, just briefly. "They raised him. Everything Clark is — everything that's good and warm and entirely too earnest about him — that came from them. And they're going to look at us and decide whether we're—" He stopped.

"Worthy of him?" you offered gently.

The word sat there between you. Bruce removes one hand from the wheel dislodging it from his forearm in order to interrwine your fingers together, giving your hand a quick kiss and a squeeze in comfort.

"I don't need their approval. Neither of us do," Bruce said, which was such an obvious deflection you didn't even bother challenging it.

"No," you agreed. "But you want it. Because you love him. And people who love Clark Kent tend to care very much about what Martha and Jonathan think." You paused. "I know I do."

He looked at you again, longer this time. The late afternoon light caught the grey at his temples, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that he'd earned from years of squinting into darkness. There were moments, still, when you looked at Bruce and felt the full weight of him — how much he carried, how rarely he let anyone see it, how extraordinary it was that he let you.

"You're nervous too," he said.

"I'm absolutely terrified," you said pleasantly. "I've just decided to feel it without narrating it at length."

That got a real sound out of him, low, warm, and genuine. You felt it like something settling in your chest.

"They'll love you," he said, after a moment. The strategy in his voice had softened into something else, something that sounded almost like certainty. "You know that, right? You care about people the way Clark does. Not because it's expected, not for any kind of return. You just do. And you love kids, and you give everything you have to the work, and you're—" He stopped himself, recalibrated, but his voice stayed soft. "You're good. Genuinely good in a way that people recognize when they meet you."

You were quiet for a moment, both watching the fields roll past. A water tower appeared on the horizon, red letters faded by decades of sun.

"Thank you," you said, and meant it deeply. Then: "Can I?"

"Go ahead." Bruce's voice is dry, having already given up trying to get you and Clark to stop lavishing him with compliments. Because while Bruce Wayne has spent his life in the public eye, love and hate thrown at him from a young age, there's a sincerity and such obvious love in your and Clark's words that make it difficult for him to brush it off the way he has with others in the past. While he might never verbally say it, all three of you know that Bruce does secretly crave these words of affirmation, to hear the way you and Cllark see him, so completely opposite of the way he sees himself.

"You're not easy to know," you said carefully. "And I think you've heard that used against you so many times you've started to believe it's a flaw. But Bruce — the people who've taken the time? Who've actually seen you?" You turned in your seat to face him more fully. "They don't leave. Because what's underneath all the armor is someone who is so completely, relentlessly sincere about the things he cares about that it's almost overwhelming. Your integrity isn't a brand or a strategy. It's just you, and any parent who raised a man like Clark Kent will see that. I promise."

Bruce was quiet for a long moment. "You've been practicing that," he said finally.

"Me? I don't need practice to sing your praises, my love." It's silent for a beat as Bruce turns his head slightly to give you an apprehensive look. You huff, turning to look out the window, before admitting, "Okay, maybe Clark helped, but you know I get flustered otherwise."

"Of course he did."

You were still smiling about it when the farmhouse came into view.

It was exactly what you'd imagined from Clark's descriptions: white clapboard siding, a wide porch, flower boxes that had been replanted recently, a tire swing hanging from the old oak at the far side of the yard. The kind of place that looked like it had been loved over decades, not renovated. Everything was slightly worn in the way that meant it had been touched by many hands, many seasons, many ordinary and extraordinary days.

Clark's truck was already in the driveway, and so was an older Ford that had to belong to Jonathan.

Bruce pulled in slowly and had barely cut the engine before you saw him.

Clark appeared on the porch first, and even from here, you could see the way his whole face changed when he spotted the car. That smile. The one he tried to moderate in public, the one the rest of the world got in careful, measured doses. Out here it was just, unguarded, whole. He was in a soft flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, a little flour on his forearm that suggested he'd been helping in the kitchen, and he looked so entirely himself that something in your chest ached with it. While it was only a few days of seperation, you've missed him. And from the echoed sigh from your left, so did Bruce.

He was off the porch and crossing the yard before you'd even gotten your seatbelt undone. Your door swung open.

"Hey—" you started, laughing, and then you were being lifted, his arms around you, your feet leaving the ground entirely as he pulled you in close. You buried your face against his neck and held on, and for a moment neither of you said anything, just breathed each other in. He smelled like the outdoors and something warm from the oven and Clark, distinctly, irreplaceably Clark, and you felt the last of the drive's tension just dissolve.

"Hi," he murmured into your hair.

"Hi," you said back.

He set you down, cupped your face in both his hands, looked at you the way he did sometimes when you'd been apart for longer than usual, like he was checking you were real, and whole, and still his. Then he kissed your forehead, soft and deliberate, and you watched some private relief move through his expression.

Then he was already moving.

In less than a breath — a whisper of displaced air, a motion too quick to fully track — he was on Bruce's side of the car, door open, standing there with that same bright, barely-contained expression.

Bruce stepped out with all the dignity he could muster, which was considerable, and still somehow ended up pulled immediately into Clark's arms.

"Clark," Bruce said, muffled slightly against his shoulder, as Clark nuzzled into Bruce's neck, enjoying feeling both of his partners finally here with his beloved parents.

"I missed you," Clark said simply, pulling back enough for blue eyes to meet.

Any fight that Bruce had left him immediately upon hearing those words. Instead, Bruce relaxes, bringing a hand up to cup his face, thumb lightly tracing his cheekbone, a smile on Bruce's face that he could never hide around either of you. "I missed you too."

"I know."

Both you and Bruce let out a laugh at Clark's positively smug voice. Clark pulled back enough to look at him, really look, and his expression shifted into something quieter and more private, the way it did when it was just the three of you, and there was nothing to perform.

"Hi," Clark said, softer.

"Hello," Bruce said, and the word was entirely different in his mouth than it was anywhere else.

Clark kissed him with the easy confidence of someone who had figured out a long time ago that Bruce Wayne responded well to being kissed before he could argue about it. Bruce's hand moved to the back of his neck, and for a moment you just watched them, feeling that warm, particular glow that you'd never quite been able to name — that feeling of being part of something that made sense.

When they broke apart, Clark glanced back at the porch, making you follow his gaze.

Martha Kent stood at the screen door with a dish towel over her shoulder and an expression that said she had seen that whole thing and was making absolutely no effort to pretend otherwise. Her eyes moved from Clark to Bruce to you and back again, and she smiled, full and genuine, turning to say something to the man behind her.

There in the door frame just behind, Jonathan Kent was harder to read. He was watching, quietly and carefully. His gaze moved to Clark first, and then settled, briefly, on Bruce, before moving on to you. While his wife was friendly and easy to read, you surely couldn't get a clear read on the man. Hopefully, Bruce could, and you'd both be able to compare notes later.

While your group stepped up to meet them, you and Bruce shared a look that was filled with equal parts trepidation and comfort. You've faced intergalactic aliens hell-bent on destroying the world. Surely meeting Clark's parents wouldn't be too bad.

--

Martha had the gift of making a person feel immediately, unconditionally at home.

Within ten minutes of stepping through the door you had been handed a mug of something warm, guided to a seat at the kitchen table like you'd sat there a hundred times, and thoroughly interrogated in the gentlest way imaginable. She asked about your work with the kind of interest that suggested she'd actually been told about it beforehand, which meant Clark had talked about you, and the thought of that made something flutter pleasantly behind your sternum.

"It started as something after-school mostly, and centered on safe housing and creative outlets for the kids. Storytelling, art, and different ways to help kids process things that are hard to say out loud." You wrapped both hands around the mug. "It started small, but it's grown more than I expected."

Martha looked at you over the rim of her own cup with an expression that was warm and very knowing. "That's how the things that matter usually go."

Across the kitchen, Clark was helping with dinner prep despite Martha's protests. He claimed he wasn't a guest since he lived here, which has not been true for years, but he wouldn't hear it. Bruce stood slightly apart from the activity, in that way he had in unfamiliar spaces, not uncomfortable exactly, just observing and learning the room. You could see him taking in the photographs on the walls, the arrangement of things, the way Martha touched Clark's arm when she moved past him, the ease of it all.

Jonathan came in from outside around then, finishing cleaning and turning on the grill, wiping his hands on a cloth, and the dynamic shifted slightly. He greeted you warmly enough, kissed Martha's cheek on his way into the kitchen, and shook Bruce's hand with the particular firmness of a man who had formed opinions about handshakes decades ago and would not be revising them.

His eyes lingered on Bruce a beat longer than was casual before he moved to wash up at the sink, playfully ribbing his son about the large slices of pepper he cut. Clark, who noticed everything, glanced over his shoulder to look at Bruce and make sure he was okay while upholding the conversation with his dad.

You met Bruce's eyes across the kitchen and gave him the tiniest nod. It's okay, let it settle.

Dinner helped, thankfully. Something about a shared meal had a way of softening things; the passing of dishes, the filling of glasses, the particular rhythm of conversation around food that didn't require anyone to be anything other than present. Martha had cooked enough for approximately twice as many people as existed and seemed pleased by this. Clark ate with the wholehearted commitment he brought to everything and somehow made the table feel warmer just by being at it.

Bruce, to his credit, and you watched this with private admiration, didn't perform. He didn't deploy the Wayne charm, the boardroom ease, the polished social architecture he used when he needed to impress and was most likely expected to by the Kents. He was just careful and attentive, every bit of the man you and Clark have grown to love. He asked Jonathan about the land, about the mechanical issue he'd mentioned to Clark last week, and when Jonathan answered, Bruce actually listened, not nodded-while-waiting-to-speak, but listened with the same focused quality he gave to everything that mattered.

Jonathan noticed, and you, Martha, and Clark eased slightly at the new comfortable air between the group. The shift was subtle, a slight ease around the older man's shoulders, the way his responses stretched a little longer. But clearly, whatever test that Jonathon had, Bruce passed with flying colors.

After dinner, Clark was drafted into dish duty by virtue of being the person Martha trusted most not to chip anything, which left you and Bruce and Jonathan in the living room. The lamp in the corner put out a low amber light, while a baseball game murmured on the television with the volume mostly down.

Jonathan looked at Bruce for a moment before slowly starting, "Clark's never brought anyone home before."

"No," you say. "He mentioned that to us."

"Not a woman. Not a—" Jonathan stopped to consider his words. "I didn't know before. About any of it, regardless of how bad a father that makes me feel. He never said, and I never asked." There was no accusation in it, just an honesty that felt very much like where Clark had inherited his own. "I want to understand I'm not — I don't have a problem with—"

"I know," Bruce said, quietly, and slightly heartwarmed by the older man's clear attempt to try. "It's okay, I'm sure that it's a lot to come to terms with."

Jonathan looked at him steadily, and like this, you can clearly see the way Clark has emulated his father's calm, soothing tone when having a serious conversation. "I just want him happy. That's all I've ever wanted. He carries so much. More than anyone should and more than we even fully—" He stopped again to clear his throat, working through his emotions. "I just want to know that the people he chooses to carry with are — that they see him. Not the hero, but him. My son, our Clark."

The room was quiet for a moment, all of you having reached a common ground.

"Clark is the most human person I've ever known," Bruce said, not performed and not measured, but deeply true. "I don't say that carelessly. I've known a lot of people, many of whom get praised publicly for being good when they're nothing more than spoiled brats with great PR agents. He's the best of what that word means. And yes, I see him, we see him. Completely."

Jonathan held his gaze for a long moment, then he nodded, and you three continued watching the baseball game, oblivious to the shadowed figures in the background who watched the whole thing.

Later, when the house was quieter, and Martha had won the argument about everyone staying the night, you were getting ready for bed when Clark appeared in the doorway of the small guest room, shoulder against the frame, already in an old t-shirt and sweats.

"The bed's not very big," he started.

You looked at the queen-sized bed, at Bruce who was already sitting on the edge of it with his book, at Clark, and back.

"Oh, shucks. Does that mean we'll have to squeeze in together? All night between two incredibly buff, handsome, and sweet men? I don't know…" you playfully say, Bruce closing the book, laughing while enjoying the comfort of it just being you three. It's well known that the three of you always end up wrapped in one another's arms throughout the night, always drawn to the comforting presence of one another.

Clark's smile was radiant in response, quickly crossing the distance to wrap you up in his arms as he brings you to the bed, dragging Bruce back with you. In the end, Clark winds up in the middle because there was simply no version of any of you that was going to argue otherwise. He was warm the way he always was, almost unreasonably so, a kind of bone-deep warmth that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with proximity to him. You had your back to his chest, his arm loose around you. Bruce was on his other side, on his back, which was how Bruce slept, and Clark's hand had found his in the small space between them.

The lamp was off, just pale moonlight through the curtain, casting everything in soft silver.

"They love you," Clark said, to the ceiling, to both of you, happiness clear in his voice.

"Your mother loves us," you said. "Your father has decided to accept Bruce, and by extension me, which I think is functionally the same thing."

"That's actually his version of love," Clark confirmed, pulling you in closer.

Bruce made a sound that was almost a laugh. A comfortable quiet settled over you three, while outside, crickets started up a familiar tune. The old farmhouse had its own sounds — creaks and exhalations of a structure that had held its shape for decades.

"I forgot," Clark said softly, "what it feels like in this house. Being here. I spent so long not coming back because it was — I didn't want them to see how much I was—" He stopped, and you felt his chest rise and fall. "But tonight just felt like, like I could breathe."

You turned enough to press a kiss to his shoulder, feeling the bed creak and the sound of Bruce doing the same.

He pressed his lips to your hair. Then, across you, quiet: "Thank you for coming."

Bruce's thumb moved once across Clark's hand, the simplest possible thing, but the message was clear: Here. I'm here.

You listened to the farmhouse breathe, felt Clark's heartbeat slow into sleep, steady and faithful as everything else about him. Felt Bruce's stillness on the other side, not restless, for once.

Just here, with your partners, do you close your eyes and think, with a fullness that didn't quite have words yet: so this is what it feels like. Not a place, exactly. Not four walls and a quilt and moonlight, but still something like home.

Down the hall, Martha appeared at the bedroom door in her robe, while Jonathon looked up from his book.

"They asleep?" he asked.

"Mm." She climbed in beside him, settled against his shoulder in the way of forty years of the same motion. He was quiet for a moment, before turning to look at his wife.

"He looked happy," Jonathan said finally. "Clark. Happier than I've seen him in—" He shook his head, letting out a long sigh. "A long time."

Martha smiled, soft and certain. "I know," she said. "I saw the way he looked at them when they weren't watching." She reached over and turned off the lamp. "Like he couldn't believe they were real."

Jonathan was quiet again. "Good people," he said eventually, like a conclusion reached.

"Very good people," Martha agreed.

And the farmhouse held all of them gently, as it always had, through seasons and secrets and all the ordinary and extraordinary shapes that love takes when it finally finds its way home.

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