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dork-star · 1 month ago

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This was legitimately so good. I loved every second UGH RAGGGH

“under the armor”

read on AO3 🦇

plot: after months of a reluctant crimefighting partnership, Bruce reaches the end of his rope with Clark's hovering.

pairing: corensupes!clark kent x battinson!bruce wayne

cw: 18+, mdni, smut, oral sex, handjobs, pov bruce wayne

words: 8.8k

a/n: hiii !! this is the first yaoi i've ever written, so hopefully it's good !! obsessed with Corensupes and Battinson together, if we won't get them on the big screen we can get them on the fic screen <3 i'd love to know what you think!

the title is based off the dorian electra song by the same name :) sooo Clark's perspective !!

“I told you, you either need to reinforce the suit or take a break.”

Bruce grimaced. God forbid he wasn’t Kryptonian, and his flesh was just that: flesh. He pulled himself to his feet, the armor heavier than it usually was, and stumbled his way to the Batmobile. More annoying than his injuries was the doting. “I’m fine.”

Clark’s sigh rattled Bruce’s insides, but he pressed forward. Maybe he could pay to get some roads paved back here, the gravel was too loose. “You can’t even walk straight, and you expect me to believe you’re fine?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he seethed, molars grinding together under the white-hot heat of a grazed bullet. Those wounds were always the nastiest; ruinous little things that took ridiculously long to heal depending on how close of a call it’d been, and it’d been pretty damn close tonight. He needed some stitches and ice.

“Bruce.”

What he didn’t need was more of the man’s helicoptering. Seemed ever since their paths crossed on patrol that fateful day, Bruce had become the fixation of one Mr. Kent’s worry.

He stopped about a foot from the car, eyes squeezed shut like it might make him disappear. “I told you not to call me that while we’re onsite.” He barely wanted him to call him by his name anyway, it messed his head up, made it all fuzzy. A searing pain shot up his arm when he moved to yank open the door, and he hid a low groan. Tried to, anyway.

“You’re hurt.” Clark said it plainly, as if that angle ever worked before. In a blink, a hand was pressed to Bruce’s lower back, pushing him toward the passenger side. “I’ll drive you home.”

“Clark,” Bruce warned, voice raising above a simmer.

“And then steal this behemoth so you’re forced to rest. Then I’ll have a talk with your butler, who is supposed to be looking out for you, and tell him that he’ll have to personally answer to me if I see—” Clark got lost in his monologuing and had Bruce pinned to the taillight, stuck by a loop in his utility belt. He only stopped when he heard an uninhibited groan.

Bruce glared at him, half from pain, half annoyance. “Wonder how I survived all this time without you.”

Clark let go, allowing for Bruce to steady himself before retreating from whence he came. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Clark’s shoulders drop, the bright blue of the suit’s fabric crinkling.

“I know you’re not used to having a sidekick,”

Something akin to a guffaw fell from Bruce; the man’s golden-retriever nature never failed to keep him on his toes. Sidekick? “Don’t recall ever asking for assistance.” He slipped into the driver’s seat, its taut leather supporting him for a moment of reprieve.

Clark squinted, confused and flustered. “Why are you acting like this?”

“I don’t have time for this.” Bruce jammed his seatbelt into the lock and pulled his leg into the cabin. “Gotham doesn’t need Superman.”

With that, he slammed the door and shoved his foot on the gas. The narrow alleyway would make a tricky escape, but hopefully that would deter—

A red cape fluttered out the side window, and Clark landed squarely in the middle of the route, trapping him. Ugh. “Get out of the way.”

He shook his head, his dark, curly hair bouncing with the movement. His hands were balled into fists, his jaw set. Was he trying to be intimidating while wearing a crayon-colored Speedo? “Gotham might not need me, but that bullet that grazed you would’ve been a shot to the head if I hadn’t blocked it.”

Bruce all but snarled, not bothering to roll down the window. He swore Clark could hear him whisper a hundred miles away. “I would’ve apprehended him if you hadn’t caused a scene.”

Clark’s voice was slightly muffled from the thick, bulletproof glass, but he was animated enough there was no question the defensive quest he was on. It made Bruce sick. “It was a distraction,”

“It was impulsive.” He was always impulsive; acting before thinking, meddling with his carefully-constructed plans. It never failed to end in altercations like this, with him defending every crumb of hasty action regardless of logic and tact.

“That Penguin was going to kill people, you seem to keep forgetting that.”

No. Bruce wasn’t doing this. He put the car into reverse, throwing his head back despite the diabolical pain shooting down his shoulder.

“Hold on a second, hold on,”

Bruce didn’t slow down, and the car only stopped when a flash of blue entered his rearview, Clark casually holding his hand to the bumper. God!

“You’re dodging my point.” His tone grew increasingly desperate, like Bruce was about to launch himself off the face of the planet. Who did he think he was? Being super didn’t make him infallible to the whims of ego. “You’re vulnerable, whether you want to admit it or not. In the six months we’ve been working together,”

His teeth felt like they were splitting apart. “Something like that.”

“Hey.” Clark’s eyes narrowed, and Bruce sat a little straighter. “The damage to your body has doubled. Doubled. What’ll happen in another six months? A year?”

“I get enough of this from Alfred.”

“Well maybe you need to hear it again.” His chest heaved with the words. “I know you don’t like me very much, but I only want to help. Contrary to what you’d like to believe, that’s not a crime.”

Bruce swallowed, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “I need to rest.”

Clark looked like he didn’t quite believe him, hesitating a few more seconds before releasing the vehicle. Bruce sped off without the slightest lingering, refusing the urge to stay and argue.

Again. Who the hell did Clark Kent think he was?

Bruce hung a hard right, skidding towards the grass with its velocity. A hard correction and he sped toward Wayne Tower, body lit like a live wire despite the utter exhaustion.

And Clark thought he didn’t like him? He was a bit too earnest for his tastes, but he didn’t hate the man.

He was frustrating. Grating. Aggravating. Vexing. Well-intentioned, but what did that matter if it wasn’t paired with careful consideration?

The rumble of train tracks alerted him to home. Bats scattered near the ceiling, providing the usual fluttery accompaniment to his dismount. Once the car was parked, he realized he was practically panting. Kent got right under his skin.

He slumped into his stool at his work station, plucking the lenses out of his eyes, staring blankly at the monitor until the footage booted.

Fuck. The cowl.

He stood, weary, and tugged it off his sweaty head. Drained beyond belief, he utilized the last crumbs of strength to toss it by his bench. He groaned.

Pulled off his armor. Then gloves.

Pain.

Yanked off his padding.

Shit.

Blood crusted all the way to his wrists, smearing from the gritty sweat. A bit of torn flesh leered at him, requiring stitches. He couldn’t handle Alfred right now.

Ignoring the injury, and refusing to take off his pants yet to inspect whatever the hell happened to his leg, he clicked PLAY on the evening’s footage. So clearly he saw the opportunity to intercept Penguin, and then the blaze of Clark’s cape. His muscles tensed.

The moment Clark pushed him from the bullet’s course, Bruce felt a pang in his chest and tingles under his skin where the man’s hands had been. He clicked the footage ahead ten seconds and turned up some Nirvana, drowning out anything but Cobain’s timbre.

Bruce, bandaged and a little stiff, found himself cutting through Crown Point after stalking a bomb threat the next evening. Every few minutes he rotated his shoulder, wincing a bit, and counted the minutes until his next dose of ibuprofen. The bottle jostled around the passenger seat.

Gotham’s atmosphere on this side of town was more striking than people gave it credit for; the river, though laced with murderous intent, glittered peacefully at this time of night. Mid-summer, the evening air was cool but not biting, a perfect atmosphere for being in the suit. Nights like these were precious currency; schools out, weather oh so inviting for the criminal element. Winter left a cloak of anonymity, but with weather so harsh, it kept a good chunk of crime at bay. Clark expected him to stay home while the city burned?

The night had been slow despite the singular bomb threat a few hours in. If Clark really got his way, he wouldn’t be surprised if he were tucked in while forcibly read a bedtime story right now. Clark had treated him like an incompetent child since they’d met, thinking Bruce was incapable of even existing near a crime scene or he’d blow up.

As he neared the Tricorner bridge, Bruce heard some scuffling from a nearby alleyway. He pulled a u-turn and parked just out of sight, rolling down the windows to hear the sound of something punching brick. Bruce flexed his hands inside the reinforced gloves, nimbly stepping from the vehicle.

Maybe another mugging—but on this side of town, there usually wasn’t anything to take. Probably gang related? Gordon was unlikely to get a car to accept coming down here; the city didn’t care about anyone that wasn’t within its downtown limits. Even then.

Bruce took a full breath and rounded the corner.

“Needed to get you out of that darn thing.”

Darn; the slightest midwestern twinge bled out when he said little words like that. Once, his mother had phoned when they were sharing his behemoth on the way to a drug bust, and he’d caught hints of Clark’s accent ever since—ever since that call, it’d been harder to ignore him. It was one of the first times he’d heard the superhero stammer. Bruce still remembered the shade of pink that colored the man’s cheeks.

“Does Metropolis have crime at night, or is everyone under your curfew?” Bruce adjusted the cuff on his gloves, fuming.

Clark’s cape swished behind him as he walked closer, and Bruce fought the urge to shrink away in the otherwise empty alleyway. Ignored the look in Clark’s eyes. Ignored the way his whole body reacted to his presence. “If people need help, I’ll know.”

Bruce looked away, his throat tightening.

“Right now, you’re in no shape to be helping anybody.”

“I’m fine.” He meant for it to come out roughly, but it was almost whiny. Nasally. Frustrated.

“You’re not!” Clark let his hands fall to slap his thighs, a particularly dense sound that twisted Bruce’s stomach. He sighed, giving Bruce a pitied once-over. “I drove myself up the wall at the beginning trying to save everyone. What you’re doing is a valiant thing—”

Bruce scowled.

Clark’s brows knit together, his jaw ticking. “—but you can’t do that if you don’t take care of yourself first.”

So goddamn condescending. “I’ve been at this for years, Clark.” His name soured on his tongue; he was this close to refusing to associate with Superman ever again, despite the thinkpiece he’d receive from the Daily Planet in return. “I know my limits. Back off.”

“You do, huh?” He moseyed closer and crossed his arms, nose turned slightly toward the sky. Clark’s blue eyes were deceptively bright, almost artificially enhanced. Bruce held his breath. “Why don’t I believe you?”

A strange assault on his resolve made Bruce take a step back, Clark getting too close for comfort. A flickering streetlight toyed with the edges of his vision. His voice was husky, quiet. “I don’t know.”

Clark’s brow furrowed, and his gaze dropped to Bruce’s chest plate. “Are you scared?”

He wasn’t… scared. Unnerved. Maybe. Overall, he felt an overwhelming sense of dread.

“Your heart’s gonna beat out of your chest.”

Bruce had rarely been more grateful for his cowl, covering the worst of his flush. He needed to get going downtown, where there were actual muggings, and not continue to commiserate with the man deadset on slowing him down. He tried to let out a snappy comment, a la ‘caffeine’, but his mouth wouldn’t open. He turned to leave.

“Come back here. Batman, come on.”

Bruce picked up to a jog, though he knew it was futile against speed himself. He was vulnerable, and fleshy, and garbled. He always got like that around Clark. Always, always got like this.

“Are you upset about last night?”

Bruce fumbled with the car handle, ignoring him. His gloved fingers slipped on the metal.

“I can… I don’t know!” He was exasperated, frantically trying to build a bridge. “I’ll listen to your plan next time. Only if lives aren’t at imminent risk, alright? That’s my line. It should be yours, too.”

Why wouldn’t his fingers grip? Christ!

“As a matter of fact,” Clark put on his ‘serious’ voice, a sound that overinflated Bruce’s lungs. “That includes your life. And I won’t stand here and ignore a person in need.”

He managed to get the door unlocked, but a firm hand on his shoulder kept him in place. Bruce’s skin burned under Clark’s touch, even through the suit. “And what do I need?”

“A friend.” His voice was gentle and forlorn. Bruce faltered. One of the most agitating things about Clark? How genuine he was—and how that warmed everything from his concern to his touch. It made his shoulders rise, jaw clench, and his brain go offline. He shrugged out of his grasp and slid into the vehicle, yanking his cape from getting stuck in the door. He revved the engine, then slammed his foot on the gas.

It was an easy, simple drive home.

When Reál told him he didn’t do anything, Bruce wished he could show her days like these.

The courtroom was stuffy, packed with starchy suits and so much Baccarat Rouge it made the air hazy. He’d downed a Red Bull on the way, and prayed that anyone who stared at the crescent of gray under his eyes thought he’d spent too long partying. City Hall meetings never failed to bore him to tears, especially on thirty-five hours of no sleep.

Tonight’s meeting was different—gearing up for another election cycle meant that Councilman Hady would spend half the night briefing the elite on the candidates, thinly veiling his political stance just enough for plausible deniability. As great as Bruce’s desire to skip after the torrential rainpour of crime the evening prior, Alfred had made an unarguable point upon waking him. It was, in fact, something his dad would have wanted. Something he would have thought was important—no, imperative—for a Wayne to clue into. It seemed like everyone else thought so, too.

“Mr. Wayne. Would you like to speak to any of the candidates?” Hady always bowed to him, and it made Bruce cringe. Everyone here acted like he walked on water, constantly bringing up his father like they weren’t part of the very group of people who would hate him if he was alive today.

“Sure.” He fixed a smile and stood, messing with the button on his suit jacket. Feeling eyes on him made him faint, but he’d rehearsed this. “My father would’ve wanted—”

“Sorry, sorry, thank you.”

Bruce looked over his shoulder to see Clark fumbling in toward the other press, recorder in-hand. His black curls bounced with each step, the looseness of his tie making it swing to nearly catch in the courtroom door. His stomach clenched. “Uh,”

“Apologies for the interruption, Mr. Wayne.” Clark moved from whispering to addressing the intrusion directly. All Bruce managed was a nod before turning back to the front of the room. He put his hands in his pockets before they coiled into anxious fists.

“My father would’ve wanted each person to…”

The man’s click of the recorder and rustling of papers took over every neuron, rendering Bruce incapacitated. Autopilot took over, and he swept through a few paragraphs of fodder about how his father would’ve wanted each person to choose the candidate who best reflected the future they desired, that each vote was an investment in Gotham’s future and values. When his back hit the chair and the attention turned back to Hady, he let out an audible sigh.

Clark.

The rest of the meeting passed in a blip. As swiftly as possible without drawing undue attention, Bruce stepped out of the courtroom, and made it halfway through the foyer before his elbow was snagged by an all-too familiar hand. Without comment, he grabbed the reporter by the wrist and hurried him down the northern hallway. Clark adjusted his glasses, his worn, creased leather suitcase plastered to his chest with a wide hand.

“What are you doing here?”

“Gotham’s mayoral elections are a hot topic. The boss wanted coverage, and I thought I could come down to do the job.” He gave a small grin, body slightly pulled away from the billionaire.

Tendrils of fire swirled up into his chest; did he really see nothing wrong with his constant interference? Was this what constituted friendship in his eyes? “You’re interrupting every facet of my life.”

“Because you don’t get the stakes—”

For the billionth time since meeting him, Bruce scowled, pacing across the slim hallway. He had a hand to his temple, massaging away a dooming headache. “You treat me like an incompetent child.”

Clark’s eyes flashed as if offended. “I don’t treat you like a child.”

“Incapable of serving a city I know better than anyone, that I’ve devoted my life to,”

“That’s the whole point, Bruce!” His voice rose too loud for comfort, but the fierceness in his gaze was just enough to stall his pacing. “It’s gone further than sacrifice, or duty; it’s suicidal.”

Bruce went to leave through the back exit, but Clark grabbed him a bit too tightly by the wrist. Almost possessive. “I refuse to attend your funeral. Not when there’s something I can do about it.”

He was full to bursting; his tie strangled him, his feet hurt him, he swore some of the stitching from last week’s injuries were blistering. He yanked his hand out of Clark’s grasp and straightened his cuff, nose scrunched. “Then don’t come.”

By the time Bruce walked to the front steps of City Hall, the drizzle had become a monsoon. Valets splashed in ankle-deep puddles, nervous to upset the horde of millionaires with a pair of late keys. He panted, each heavy breath transformed into a silver mist that matched the hang of clouds slicing through skyscrapers. Pellets of rain slapped his cheeks and rendered his hair limp in seconds. This city was his to protect, and he wouldn’t let a Metropolis transplant throw him off.

The first week without Clark was a vacation, able to navigate Gotham’s streets as he always had without someone yanking on his cape or blabbering in his ear. The second week was much the same, though Bruce started performing a quick sweep of the sky each time he entered and exited a scene. By the third week, he held a knot in his stomach, a weight in his chest.

It was two months since he’d heard from the man of steel; the only reminders of his existence were in the Gazette’s columns about another barely-avoided tragedy in the neighboring city. Bruce avoided the news broadcasts about him, jumping out his skin at the intensity of the suit’s colors.

Alfred had unexpectedly asked if he missed Clark, as he grabbed a bowl of soup before patrol. As he laid in the rubble, unable to move, and his brain fought for rationalizations for why the hell he’d missed such an obvious setup, that was the only thing that came to mind. Paired with a bitter thought of wishing he had a partner to help him.

He could get up. He would.

Bruce pushed off his elbow, but the weight on his knee was too great. With a profound grunt, he thudded back into the shards of glass and tried to keep his eyes from being scratched. His arm was so numb he couldn’t even reach his adrenaline shots. Fuck.

He’d been in situations like this before. He knew if he could push himself by his feet, work through the mess on the ground, the movement would eventually shift his limp hand to his hip, where he could wedge it against his distress signal. It would be slow, but criminals didn’t want to get caught lingering, and within a few minutes the GCPD could be on their way.

Not like they’d help him, unless Gordon was on duty.

He began the snail’s journey across the sharp glass, grateful most of his suit reserved ample padding. It would no doubt be annihilated after this trip, and the extent of his injuries would send Alfred down an anxious spiral. He wasn’t looking forward to it.

Something above him creaked, and Bruce afforded just enough energy to turn his head, the ear of the cowl brushing against the floor with an uncomfortable grate. A seam was slowly cracking the ceiling—had someone placed an explosive above? He hadn’t heard any loud sounds, nothing in a good few minutes.

A significant crack was heard above his head, at an angle he couldn’t twist his body toward, but it knew. His heart began to race, and he gritted his teeth as he tried in vain to grip the glassy ground with half-ripped gloves, panting in his effort. The structure was no longer sound, which meant the GCPD wouldn’t be coming in to check, not until it fell through. Either he made it to the opposite wall for the signal, and hopefully someone came fast enough, or he’d have to hope this cement building was an illusion of cardboard.

An obscenely jarring sound of definitely-not-cardboard falling made him wince, far too close for comfort. Some gravel chunks landed on his calves, small enough to bounce off, big enough to bruise. Dizzy from his body’s feeble attempt at producing proper adrenaline, he grappled with the reality that this could be it. He could die right here, right now, and no one else would ever be helped. It ended tonight.

He hadn’t reinforced the suit. He’d barely patched its rips, and he’d pulled an all-nighter again. Maybe if he’d gotten some sleep. Maybe if he’d… he’d… he felt lightheaded, like somewhere he was losing blood. Like everything was hitting him at once.

“Clark,” he panted, conjuring enough energy to push it through his teeth. Another crack. Another seam splitting. He squeezed his eyes shut, every vein white-hot, gasping as he felt a deep throb on his right side. “Clark!” he gasped out, half-scream, half-cry. Blacking out, whiting out, his body was confused. His lids went heavy, then heavier, then darkness.

“Finally lucid, are we?” Alfred’s snark, spoken with a delicately furrowed brow, accompanied his redressing of wounds.

What the hell?

Bruce felt weighted. Simultaneously exhausted and antsy. How long had he been out? How did he get out? “How did I get here?”

“Your friend brought you. Saved your life, in fact.” Alfred snipped the gauze and tucked it under the wrapping. Every touch felt like stabbing a bruise. “He visits every day. You always flinched when I changed your dressings, but never with him.”

Clark? A brightness filled his chest, something like hope. “Is he coming today?”

The old man nodded, placing the scissors on Bruce’s work desk; it took him this long to recognize the Batcave. Bruce blinked until his eyes focused, giving the room a visual sweep. Everything looked as it always had.

“Should be on his way.” He grabbed his cane and headed toward the elevator. “I’ll let him know he can go through the back entrance.”

The clanging sounds of Alfred’s ascent finally let Bruce relax. Either Clark had heard him, or he’d already been stalking. Even if he could get mad at that, he didn’t want to. He wouldn’t be alive to be angry if he hadn’t intervened.

What if he had died? What if the last time they interacted was an argument?

Bruce sighed out the last air in his lungs, his stomach clenching over the realization that the next time Clark would’ve seen him would have been a funeral. He shivered, carefully pulling the thin wool blanket over his shoulders, and stared at the entrance to the abandoned terminal. What could he say to him in return?

Eventually anxiety got the better of him, and he stumbled to his stool to look at the footage from that night. Listed as happening five days ago, all he could make out were flashes of gravel, glints off shards of glass, some red streaks, and then the sky.

He wrote some findings in haphazard, shaky handwriting. Where did this leave his work? Did he require a sidekick? Was it selfish to continue fighting crime if he couldn’t guarantee not needing to be saved himself? Where did that leave Metropolis, the rest of the world, if Superman’s time was taken up by being the Batman’s bodyguard?

“Oh, Bruce.”

Clark was present on the monitor in little blips while he plucked out the lenses. Bruce leaned forward on the desk, mesmerized.

“Kinda surprised you asked for me, to be honest. I’m just glad I could help.” Clark’s dry grin sent a pang through Bruce’s chest, slicing at the lining of his lungs. He shouldn’t be surprised. Bruce was too cold to him. “Even though you’ll probably kill me when you wake up.”

“You really should be resting.” Clark’s voice echoed off the balmy brick; the man strolled in with his arms crossed, a nearly incomprehensible grin wearing his lips. Bruce sucked in a quick breath, holding it.

“Clark.” Ridiculously simple, but calming just to say.

He put his hands up. “I just came to get my things, don’t worry. I didn’t want to bother Alfred.”

Bruce watched him walk to his cot, kneel, and pull out a small backpack. He’d kept some things here? How long were his visits?

“He’s a great guy, makes this incredible soup. I need to see if he can send the recipe to Ma.”

“You saved my life. Thank you.”

Clark rose, slinging the pack over his back. He nodded, and it looked like he was unsure of how to proceed. The two men stood, in limbo, until Bruce broke the silence with a soft admittance.

“I’m sorry for what I said.”

“Look, Bruce, you don’t owe me an apology. I inserted myself into your life and refused to respect boundaries. Even if I was correct, and you do need help sometimes, it’s not right. I’m sorry.”

A lump rose to Bruce’s throat. How had he ever treated this man like a fly buzzing in his ear? He was at a loss, feeling the true depth of the canyon between them. The one he’d only widened, despite all of his kindness. Bruce didn’t think he deserved it, but he asked anyway. “Can you stay?”

“Do you want me to?” Clark meandered closer, making Bruce lean against the tabletop to keep from touching. His gaze dropped to his chest again. “Dude, you really need to get that checked out.”

Clark’s freckles. He had… freckles. Dotted across his nose and under his eyes, perfectly kissed by the sun. He was pretty. I missed you sat on the tip of Bruce’s tongue.

Clark’s tone softened, bringing forward an almost inaudible midwestern lilt. He looked like he was admitting something long-held. “I’m just worried about you. I’m not used to a teammate being so fragile.” His sigh wafted across Bruce’s cheeks like a warm breeze. “It scares me.”

Why him? When there were so many other humans to worry about?

Though his brain was barely functioning, Bruce thought about if the tables were turned, and he was a metahuman while Clark was entirely breakable. And… he’d… never had to genuinely worry about the Kryptonian before. Just the thought made him sick.

He needed to bridge the gap somehow. Express these feelings welling up in him before they were stuffed down indefinitely.

“Bruce, you really need to see someone about—”

Bruce leaned in for a kiss, causing Clark’s eyes to widen as he stepped back to dodge it. A wash of shame fell over him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask, I…”

“You want to kiss me?” Clark laughed, resting his hands on his belt. “I thought you hated me. All this time…”

A streak of rebellion entered Bruce’s bloodstream again, though his tone didn’t have the usual bite to back it up. “Not all this time,”

Was it all this time? From the very beginning?

“Are you sure you’re not loopy off the medication? I mean, Bruce, you just woke up. Though Alfred said you were awake, but not awake awake, I…”

Wary and self-conscious, Bruce only made fleeting eye contact. He clamped his hands to the side of the desk to steady himself, the wash of rejection making his limbs numb. But what else should he have anticipated, after months of bickering and showing nothing more than a crumb of kindness to the man? He wasn’t good at this sort of thing. Especially not with someone sweet like Clark Kent, whose face was twisting into a soft grin that made his dimple pop.

“Believe me, I want to. When you’re more… healed.”

Bruce swallowed hard, a tingle running up his spine at the twinkle in Clark’s eyes. His lips pulsed like he’d bitten into a jalapeño, mouth filling up with spit. Though Bruce had rarely been rejected—in fact, he couldn’t remember the last time—this didn’t feel like being given a placation. Like air had been pumped into the man’s lungs; he was almost beaming, brimming with newfound energy.

“My lips are fine.” Why did talking about a kiss feel so lewd? So foreign? Clark stepped closer, forcing Bruce’s breath to hitch. Gave a genuine, sweet little smile, and spoke a sentence that would replay on Bruce’s mind like a mantra until he could see him again.

“I don’t know if it’ll just be that.”

He took his leave at that critical moment while Bruce’s mind fought to catch up, and the room slowly stopped spinning. Jesus Christ.

If Bruce was one thing, he was patient. There was something about delayed gratification that made the final clue that much more satisfying. If Bruce was another, he was stubborn—and in the days that followed, he mused on all the ways he could make Clark tick. Bring that dimple and that blush to his cheeks. Make him stutter. It trumped every introverted bone in his body. He’d make it up to him.

He adjusted his gold cufflinks as he waited for the elevator. The usual hushed whispers, people trying to decide whether or not to approach. “If that’s even him,” he heard from a man to his left, probably speaking to a coworker. In the shined steel, he saw the reflection of wide eyes trained on him. He held a groan.

The trip up wasn’t as quick as he would’ve liked, the building itself old and ‘historic’; he shut his eyes and took some regulating breaths as the elevator dinged for his stop. He knew this would be overwhelming, but he was dedicated to unraveling one…

“Mr. Kent.”

Clark looked up from his desk, startled. A stack of papers slipped from his desk down below his rolling chair, making him unable to shift around to face him. For the first time in ages, Bruce struggled not to laugh.

“M—Mr. Wayne! I wasn’t expecting you.”

His glasses looked too big for his head, and his suit looked the same. Overblown shoulders and a tie that was begging to be tightened. Bruce’s hand clenched, offsetting the tension to keep his tone light, conversational. “Don’t tell me you forgot?”

“Uh,”

“Clark! Perry wants copy on his desk—Bruce Way…” A man donned in a brown polo stuck out a hand, grabbing Bruce with surprising strength. “Mr. Wayne. What are you, uh, what made you make the trip out of Gotham City?”

“Jimmy.”

Out of the corner of his vision, Bruce watched Clark shake his head at the fellow. Just above his waist, Clark made a cutting motion with his hand. Bruce bit his cheek; it was already working.

“Here for an interview.” Tight smile. Casually tucking his hands into his slacks.

It took Jimmy a few seconds to compute it, and he could practically see his gears turning. “Sounds good. I’ll let Perry know.”

He stood behind the desk, stooping to gather various papers and folders. “I haven’t cleared a room for us, Mr. Wayne, and my schedule this afternoon is pretty booked. I don’t know if I can fit you in.”

“Already cleared it with Mr. White.”

Clark lowered his voice, the glasses slipping down his nose. “Bruce. I have two interviews today. You could have called me instead.”

He stared at the deepening pink spreading across Clark’s face, and flexed his jaw. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Befuddled, Clark gathered his suitcase of materials. Bruce wondered if the reporter actually believed him; he hadn’t thought up any answers for said fictional interview, and he doubted his ability to handle anything off script. It was entirely overwhelming to be around Clark now that he knew what they both wanted.

Clark scurried to the elevator, Bruce following close behind. With people filing in behind them, he abandoned the loosely-formed plan to stop the elevator and start in right then. Shoulder to shoulder, Bruce wondered what the man would like. What he might want. The suite had a California king, a pretty massive loveseat, and a balcony overlooking the east. He could imagine a hundred different positions. A thousand different sounds.

Bruce kept a few strides ahead of Clark, leading the way to the finest hotel in the city. It didn’t compare to the luxury of Gotham, people in Metropolis being a bit more everyday, but the wealth disparity here was less great. Sure, Luthor’s malignant presence was very apparent here, but the lows were less low, the highs less high. In plenty ways, it was better than Gotham. Sunnier, kinder. He felt exposed here, like you could read every pore, see every thread in someone’s clothing. Where the sun would wake you every morning.

“Shoot, I left my recorder at home. Good thing the other interviews got cancelled today…” Clark grimaced, taking off his glasses briefly to wipe them on the inside of his tie.

“We’ll make do.” Bruce hummed, dodging someone’s dog lapping up a bowl of water on the edge of the sidewalk. Did Clark really think they were still doing that?

“No, I need to have exact quotes. For the Planet’s first interview with Bruce Wayne?” He sped up to match Bruce’s stride, raising his heartbeat.

“Clark,”

“Perry will kill me otherwise.” He mumbled to himself, frustrated. “Probably didn’t even contact them, just wiped them off the schedule. What kind of reputation does that leave the Planet? Print media’s practically obsolete,”

Bruce never considered that the man might take him at his word. His pulse thundered in his ears. If… Clark needed an interview, he could come up with something. Change plans. Had he been placated? Had he sorely misread things, and was about to put Clark in an uncomfortable position? Dear god.

“I’m gonna run in here really quick. Want anything?” He pointed at a café to his right, dashing in the millisecond Bruce shook his head. Maybe Clark didn’t want to say much about it in public? The last thing he ever wanted to do was make him uncomfortable. Put an expectation on their time together. He wouldn’t push Clark away like that any longer.

A few minutes later, he emerged with a comically small latte. It looked more froth than anything, covering a significant portion of his upper lip with the white foam. He caught sight of his stare, and looked confused. “Is there something on my face?” He wiped it with his finger, mesmerizing Bruce at how he sucked it off with unwavering eye contact.

He felt faint. Oh.

Clark pressed on, leading the way to his apartment. Every shred of confidence had left him at the likely unintentional innuendo; he hadn’t expected to get so weak so quickly.

An unassuming older building made the reporter turn toward the doors, and Bruce spun on his heel to keep up. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck. Would he be able to play it off back at his suite? Should he even ask to go there anymore? An interview could be done anywhere. He must’ve overestimated the conviction in Clark’s eyes the week before. Projected his own feelings onto it.

“The elevator’s broken, sorry.” He gestured apologetically to the stairwell, explaining that he lived on the fifth floor. By the third flight, Bruce was keeping his winces to himself, feeling the stitching on his torso begin to fray. Sweat bled into his roughly-healed wounds, and it didn’t help that Clark abandoned his suit jacket at the fourth floor. Too fixated on the ripple of his back muscles, he tripped on the following stair, catching himself on the railing.

“Here I am!” Clark was chipper, like only a person endowed with superhuman abilities would be after such an expedition. He stuck his keys into the lock without struggle, while Bruce struggled to tame his nerves enough to step through the doorway.

He rustled around his kitchen counter until he pulled out a slender device. “What are you wanting the interview to center around? Your family, Wayne Enterprises, future goals for the Wayne Foundation? I know there’s a bit of tension around that point.”

Bruce settled into the chair closest to the door at Clark’s two-seater dining table. Had he forgotten about their last conversation? Had he meant something different by ‘wanting it’? Had his brain fuzzed up ‘kiss’ with ‘interview’ and this was one big misunderstanding, borne out of Bruce’s pathetic desperation for the man’s touch?

“Alright. You ready?” He abandoned the glasses and rolled up his sleeves as he sat, making Bruce chew on the inside of his cheek. This was what he got for assuming.

He gave a meek nod, and wrung his hands under the table. The device dinged as it set to RECORD.

“So um, Mr. Wayne. I know you—”

“Clark, I didn’t…” He felt dirty being here, acutely aware of his ulterior motive. “I didn’t come here for an interview.”

“Is something wrong?” He paused the recording, brushing his notepad to the side. Concern twisted his features, and Bruce’s heart sank. “Why’d you come then?”

He tensed every muscle in his body, hesitating before speaking. Silence had never felt so impenetrable. “I’m healed.”

Nothing flickered across Clark’s face. Like their conversation had been a mirage. “Glad to hear it, buddy. I’m sure your city will appreciate having their knight back.”

Dumbfounded, Bruce stared at the curly-haired, friendly man who evidently had changed his mind and wanted to remain platonic. This hurt had nowhere to go, entirely self-imposed. “I’m sorry, uh, I should be going.”

“Have a safe ride.”

Bruce nodded. The chair creaked when he stood. He turned and headed for the door, each step a prayer that he’d make it to the hallway without crashing. This was fine; Clark didn’t have to do anything. He’d made an unfortunate assumption, he hadn’t been clear enough, and the man hadn’t even been expecting him today. Dismay of his own creation.

“Come on, Bruce.”

He paused, hand hovering above the doorknob. Clark’s tone was lower, more evocative.

“Why do you think I brought you home?”

He didn’t know who moved first. If he had to bet, it might’ve been Clark, because it didn’t take half a second for his back to be pressed to the wall. He’d never noticed it before, but Clark was a good few inches taller. He really felt it this close.

“It was too much fun to tease you, sorry.” Clark’s saccharine blues oscillated between Bruce’s mouth and his eyes, and he raised a flirty eyebrow. “You wanted to kiss me?”

Bruce wanted to do a hell of a lot more than that, and glanced at his half-windsor, wondering how fast it would be to undo.

“You like looking at my ties.”

Damn. Clark was on him like a hawk. He gulped down the saliva gathering in his mouth. “They’re loose.”

“I’ve wanted to tighten them, but…” he grazed his nose on Bruce’s cheek, lowering his voice to a sultry whisper. “Every time you look at them your heart beats like crazy.”

Clark’s mouth met his with surprising force, like his earnestness had all been funneled into it alone. Stars immediately swarmed his vision, dizzy from the lethal reality of Clark’s body pressed hard to his. Bruce’s hands found their way around his broad, strong back and held him closer, tighter. God it felt good to give in.

Over half a year of unresolved tension snapped as Clark dug his teeth into Bruce’s lip. Bruce fought not to pass out, trembling fingers rushing to undo the buttons on Clark’s dress shirt. The fabric was rough and tactile, and when he fumbled too much, he moved to his own shirt, not caring about ripping it.

He got halfway down, drunk off of Clark’s kiss, when their lips separated. “You’re better, not healed.” Clark sucked on his teeth, giving Bruce a once-over. “The elevator works just fine, I wanted to know if you were pushing yourself or not.”

“I don’t care.” He wanted this, his body buzzed with it. The kiss electrified him, removing the filter from behind his words like it’d never existed. “I want to make you feel good.” Bruce moved his fingers back to his buttons, undoing the last two just as Clark broke away, stepping into the kitchen.

“You don’t owe me sex, Bruce.”

He took deep breaths before stepping around the corner, finding Clark leaned against the kitchen counter with his head in his hands. This wasn’t repaying a debt, this was honoring a truth he should've recognized ages ago. “I know that.”

“You’re not healed enough anyway, I don’t know why you keep doing this to yourself.”

Bruce crept closer, stepping in front of Clark as carefully as approaching a feral cat. Something tender floated between them, and the desire to be manhandled by the superhero fell away. Clark’s care was palpable, slicing a thin cut into his pale skin. He felt a pull away, but resisted. If he kept running, he’d never stop.

“I want to thank you.” He slowly dropped to his knees, trailing his hands along the sides of Clark’s toned thighs. Wow… he flicked his eyes up to Clark’s, tucking his lower lip under his teeth. “Unless you don’t want it?”

The man’s resolve was wearing thin, Bruce could sense it in the slight tremble of his voice. “Of course I want it,” he sighed, his jaw ticking. “But you don’t need to thank me.”

Bruce grinned, sliding his hands up to Clark’s belt. Blush colored his cheeks, shocked at how smoothly the words fell out in this position. “As good an excuse as any.”

“Bruce.” Spoken like a warning, Bruce paused his unbuttoning of the man’s slacks. “I don’t want you pushing yourself.”

It would be monumentally harder for Bruce to walk away, but he would. “You want this, I want this,” he was practically salivating. He let his hands fall, waiting for Clark to give permission. “Let me taste you.”

If Bruce was anything, he was patient, and that was still true despite the way his slacks strained in the moments Clark stared him down, trying to get a read on him. When he thought he might call it off and go back to work, Clark slowly worked his belt, then the button on his pants, scooting them low on his hips. Smooth, even skin stared back, a little happy trail disappearing into his briefs. Mmm.

Bruce locked his hands on Clark’s waist, pulling himself parallel to the hottest body he’d ever seen. Thick, wide, and strong, he was grateful he hadn’t pulled his shirt clean off or he might’ve lost it. No way he was here right now. He trembled with anticipation, nervous to touch a man who looked carved from marble.

The hair was soft under Bruce’s tongue as he licked up to Clark’s navel. A slight salt taste danced in his mouth from the sweat of the stairs, and he plunged his fingers under the elastic waistband. Tugging lower with each inch he lapped down Clark’s trail, he withheld a gasp when his dick sprang free and knocked him in the chin. Clark immediately apologized.

“I didn’t mean for—sorry,”

“For what?” Bruce didn’t let him respond, taking him in his mouth with a soft grin. A head rush ravaged him, and he mounted his hands on Clark’s thighs to anchor himself. His cock was thick and warm, filling his mouth with a delicious weight. He wrapped his hands around Clark’s legs—as much as he could, anyway—and pushed him all the way into his mouth, the velvet of his head hitting the back of his throat.

He gasped, and Bruce didn’t realize how touch-starved he was until Clark threaded his fingers through his hair. Gentle, strong fingers locked into swirls of his sweaty black strands. Bruce pulled away and caught his breath, hoping that his gentle touch might draw insistent. He looked with half-lidded eyes, wrapping a hand around the base of his throbbing, achingly hard dick in lieu of his mouth.

Clark’s pupils were blown, his lips parted; filthy little sounds slipped out of it, making Bruce’s cock twitch in his pants. The hand that wasn’t petting the back of his head was gripping the counter’s edge with such strength that the paint was crumbling off of it, falling in chips. Shit.

Bruce went to town, suddenly desperate to bring him to climax. His slick hand pumped the base, his mouth working the rest. He toyed around with his tongue, swirling his frenulum until Clark shuddered, a heaviness weighing down the hand at the crown of his head, pushing him deeper.

Bruce gagged, and Clark tried to pull away, stammering an apology, but he shot him a look and yanked him closer, doubling down. A guttural noise fell out of Clark—music to Bruce’s ears. He’d live and die by the lewd sounds threading out of him. His mouth was so filled, his cock silken, and hard, so fucking hard it rocketed Bruce’s confidence to high heaven. He made Clark feel like this?

He felt a hard tug on his hair, so hard he was forced to look up, cockdrunk. Clark tugged again, persistent, and Bruce moved to unsteady feet. The room was hazy, his head spinning, and Clark cupped his face with quivering hands, pressing a needy kiss to his lips.

“So good,” he praised, a thumb caressing Bruce’s chin, and his knees went weak. “Perfect.” He would pass out. He would pass out and die from dopamine overdose. No one could ever touch him again, it wouldn’t compare to the heat emanating off of Clark’s hands, the way his skin went up in flames with every touch.

“Mmph,” Bruce whined, words failing him as the man grazed his zipper. So sensitive already, he didn’t think he could last more than a minute, maybe two if Clark would only stop kissing him.

“You want to be touched?”

All he could do was nod. Clark unbuttoned Bruce’s slacks and pulled his aching cock between them, so hard it was almost embarrassing. He rushed his hand back around Clark’s dick, singularly focused on making him feel perfect. At the base of his palm was a smear of Clark’s precum, and a surge of pride slammed through him.

Bruce’s brow furrowed, his face scrunching as Clark wrapped his large hand around his dick. “Fuck.” His head fell to the man’s shoulder, abs rolling with each pump of his fist. Concentrate… it was so difficult when… when…

He sped up on Clark, needing to know the sounds he made when he came more than air, more than water, more than he’d needed anything in his life. This heady, all-encompassing feeling was overwhelming, intoxicating, his breathing ragged and pathetic. He couldn’t last much longer, and Clark had barely touched him.

Clark’s grip was firm, and his hand deceptively soft. Bruce breathed through pursed lips, his wrist beginning to burn with the intensity of his strokes. His building arousal threatened to peak, his dick straining against the man’s hand for release. Still, Clark didn’t seem as thrown as him.

Maybe Bruce’s hands were too calloused, maybe he wasn’t good enough—

“Ah, hah,” Clark’s abdomen clenched, making Bruce’s thoughts staticky.

A strangled noise came out as he dug his head into Clark’s shoulder, and his gasps became wanton sounds, his body hot and sweaty, careening towards climax. “I’m close.” His eyelids dropping, stomach clenching, hand tightening around Clark’s cock with a vengeance. He felt its twitch, heard the man’s frayed panting in his ear, and let his eyes shut. Bruce swallowed hard, steeling himself to his own orgasm; jamming his teeth into his tongue, he spun his wrist on each stroke, relishing in Clark’s lilting gasps filling the apartment.

“Right there, yes,” Clark groaned, his breathing growing shallower as Bruce overrode every overworked muscle in his arm to speed up. Clark was too much, this high was absolutely ridiculous. He’d never had to fight so hard not to finish, his body never twisted this tightly. Clark hit every pleasure center at once, with his lips, his hands, his voice, and the slip of Clark’s dick in his hand at the same time was pure poetry.

“Bruce,” Clark panted, an octave lower. “I’m—I’m,” he locked into a deep, wet kiss. Bruce swallowed the moans off his parted lips as he felt the man throb in his palm, ropes of hot cum decorating Bruce’s abdomen. His body convulsed, each spurt seemingly stronger than the last. He looked between them and caught sight of Clark’s pulsating cock, and Bruce’s mouth opened with an involuntary moan.

The tension snapped, hardly able to appreciate the last throbs of Clark as Bruce flew into his orgasm, ratcheting into the stratosphere as his body folded against the man’s wide chest. Their mouths separated, and Bruce bit at Clark’s neck as he thrummed with oxytocin, body straining to spill every last drop.

He felt like it would never end, Clark’s hand coaxing him through it, prolonging the high. Sweat dripped down Bruce’s forehead, mixing with the other man’s as it fell in beads down his torso. Holy fuck.

Both Clark and Bruce stood pressed against each other, panting, allowing their bodies to reach equilibrium at its own pace. The aftershocks were subtle, yet undeniable; a skip in his chest, a twitch of his half-hard dick, feeling a weak throb in his limp hand. For the first time since entering the apartment, Bruce’s side stitches began to yell. His head rush morphed into a headache. He’d do it over again in a second.

Bruce’s vision fluttered back to normalcy when Clark pressed a tender kiss to his brow. “Go rest on the couch while I clean up.”

Dazed, he let Clark lead him to the small sectional and place a pillow under his head. He disappeared in one blink and reappeared the next with a damp washcloth, carefully wiping the cum off his abdomen before it dried. Bruce must have looked confused, because Clark grinned. “Didn’t think I meant just me, did you?”

The doting was kind, but a streak of rebellion still remained. He let Clark finish without comment, tolerating the affectionate gesture until he simply had to say otherwise. “I can clean myself.”

“I know. I just do it so much better.” Clark stood and discarded the tattered rag into the trash, the ripple of his back igniting Bruce all over again. His heart became a sledgehammer, even more so now he knew Clark tracked it. Refusing to give him a break, Clark winked as he undid his tie. “Stay as long as you need. I’ll make us something after I shower.”

Hearing the water run and the soothing hum of Clark’s singing, Bruce thought he could stay here, at least for a while. Whether or not it would be a break was another story.

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dork-star · 2 months ago

Text

crow choir: seven minutes

min. four - flight (batfam x neglected!reader)

ms. 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08

september brings heavy rain, turning the poorly-drained streets of gotham into canals. when you were younger, the people in your building would stock up on food before the rain, to avoid leaving the house for weeks on end.

a cloudburst surprises you, jumping at you, catching you outside while you’re speed-walking to the bus stop. isn’t that just awesome? the other kids at school go home by cabs, or get someone to pick them up. you’re too nervous to even ask, brushing a displaced twig off your uniform, pulling at the coat to shelter yourself from the cold.

it’s been only a few hours since the rogue attack that’d come up around your school. there wasn’t… much damage done, at least by regular standards. a few minor injuries, two, maybe three unusable classrooms… nothing a few generous donations from the waynes couldn’t fix. gotham prep seems to be an attractive spot for such things, absolutely crowded with children who have net worths larger than the economies of a few small countries, bound to earn a rookie rogue some name.

some things, however, are not easily fixable. you'd been in maybe one classroom away from the place where the rogue crashed through the ceiling, sending dust and bits of the building flying. maybe got scratched by just a bit of debris, enough for the aid team to pick you and drag you along to get patched up. officer gordon had been there, his brown coat sticking out from a little pride of navy-clad others. you’ve seen him before, but not so close.

slow work, there were only so few nurses, and for the most part; you were just sitting around. the worst injury was a broken leg, your’s was just a scratch under the eye. gordon stood at the outskirts of the crowd, talking to the other officers. the matter must’ve been over in an hour or so, you lost track of the time picking at your nails, but when you looked up from your fingers, most of the other kids had already dispersed to a few dramatic, howling parents or stiff faced and sick looking wardens. no sign of alfred, and you wouldn’t dare ever hope to see bruce.

there was only you and some junior girl left in a few moments, and you feel yourself quiver uncomfortably when gordon walked up to the two of you. he nodded to the girl, saying something about an aunt, a taxi, and only after she stood up wobbly and left, he looked at you.

and he looked at you with pity.

you tried not to think too much about it. you weren’t really hurt anyway. it wouldn’t matter to you if anyone, any wayne, you think a little humorously, came to see you. you really don’t care, even when you looked away from gordon and he pulled back the hand he might’ve put on your shoulder. you don’t need comfort, because you don’t care.

the bus ride home feel like forever, but not anymore than a few minutes. you close your eyes, but don’t sleep, because it’s dangerous to be vulnerable in gotham. or dependant. or soft. damn, you can’t be anything in gotham other than miserable all the time.

when you get to the manor, the front door’s locked. with a lot of frustration, you make your way to the back, a couple billion miles away, because heavens forbid you have to hear that awful tolling doorbell ring or have someone open the door for you. the kitchen’s usually empty this time around, alfred’s little garden door is probably open, you could sneak-

“that’s all of them,” a voice says, and you fumble with the doorknob while in the process of closing it. “once robin reports back we can update gordon and close the situation.”

robin? you shut the door quietly, glimpsing out from behind a half-wall casually. it’s just bruce and tim, what business do they have with robin and gordon? must’ve been important… you shake gordon’s pitying expression out of your head, very important.

“he’s said that all the casualties at the school are being handled, all the students and teachers have already gone home.” you want to roll your eyes to ward off the sad little thing in your chest that starts to swell, before tim speaks up. he always catches you off guard. you hate it.

“what about (name)?” the small second of silence that follows makes you uncomfortable, and you shift on your feet. you can sense it in bruce’s voice too, a hesitant unsureness, unfamiliar, dare you hope; guilty?, twinge to it. “gordon said all the students.” another pause. “i’ll ask.”

you’re flooded with very few feelings. nothing that breaks your dam and drowns the villages under it, just enough to make a mess around your windows. just leave, (name), something coos at you, you don’t have to care about this. you don't care about this, remember?

maybe they see you go up the stairs. maybe they don’t notice you at all. maybe they’ve left already, you didn’t try to see if they were still there, lest they catch a glimpse of some expression in your face, some expression you didn’t know you were making. a small, selfish part of you hopes they notice.

you don’t care, you don’t need to. these are trivial things, you’re not even hurt. anywhere. they don’t notice.

you find out next week, while giving some girl at the back of a convenience store piercings with a stapler pin, with reina, that the basement-rink was broken into that same day. a lot of the folks had kept their dogs down there, and the whole lot had gone off. “boy wonder maybe,” the girl chewed on the words to avoid squeaking from the pain from the staples, “or the cops. can’t go no-where near now.”

the news makes you a little dejected, but you don’t… care. you don’t need to. you had no dogs. the girl gives you a little cash, walking off hissing and touching her ears gently. reina catches your eye, raising a plucked brow. her uncle’s house is the worst place to hang out, but it’s better than nothing.

you spend all seven evenings of the week on the stairs next to his apartment with reina. her birthday passes in november, you celebrate it at her house, with a few of her cousins and friends you don't know. the girl who’s ears you’d pierced passed away that same month, you hear from a guy she’d been with in the rink, shooting at a store- the dynamic duo a few minutes too late. reina’s uncle starts smelling more and more like cheap booze and weed, airing out his apartment does nothing, so the two of you shift to the terrace. you think see robin one day, then giggle over the absurdity of it, chasing down a blob of red with your eyes before the ‘boy’ turns out to be a stowaway shirt.

you push away the intimate words reina says to you, how you’re practically her family, and struggle to say it back. she just grins; “it’s no big deal”, but you notice how she looks away for a millisecond.

in december, your sister is a stranger. no blur of colours come to mind, when you squeeze your eyes and try to think about her. her voice feels fake, plastic in quality, a mumble through a discarded vintage speaker. you only remember how she feels. she feels cold.

you get a few gifts on christmas, a mug from damian, tailored suits from bruce and dress shoes from alfred (you doubt you’ll ever wear either) and a whole canary from dick. you let it out the next day, perplexed and annoyed. you're not lik your little brother. you don't have any energy to care for anything.

when he comes to visit in january, dick, that is, you’re forced to go diner-hopping with damian and tim, the only ones available apart from you, and listen to them mutter about the weather and “back when…”’s and “remember how…”’s. small talk, skirting around things they really want to say. want to say- but not in your presence, you realise. you can’t blame them. it’s not their fault. you’re imposing.

you stay quarantined in your room for a few days after, the doctors from quora saying “mood sickness” can be cured by retreating into yourself like a cryptid. it doesn’t work. reina lends you a tablet, and it dissolves in your mouth like chalk. doesn’t do anything, since it takes choking over a few disgusting toffees with her to forget how awful you’ve been feeling, but it tastes good.

you grow up. you press yourselves onto the jackets on drunk strangers to sneak into their after parties, and reina bets on new dogs, the breeds being cards and dice. she racks up a score, a man offers to sneak her into a club. she drops you home before she goes, but texts you only an hour later- “busted. red hood.”

you see jason at midnight again. he’s sitting on the couch, a hand on his head. he doesn’t notice you, so you pretend you don’t notice him. somedays, you feel bad for him. you wonder if he'll jump, or hiss, or run away if you call out. you wonder if he'll stay. you don't dare try to find out.

don’t think about it (name), a voice coos again, you don’t need to care about any of this.

the fourth minute passes quickly.

˖ 𑣲 a/n: this insert has forfeited all material possesions and attained enlightment. cassandra cain has found her sibling wasting away in a tub. reina is a non-confrontational coward and is plotting to run away from gotham forever. dick grayson wonders where your christmas birdie went :((( sorry for the late and (relatively) short update, but thank you for reading!!

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