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hyacinthandmoss · 3 days ago

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Anomaly (Ongoing Series)

Part IV: Flutter

A plus-size AFAB reader-insert polyandry fic (Clark Kent, you, Bruce Wayne).

Previously: Part III�� Inheritance

Next: Part V— Echoes of the Unsaid (In Progress)

WC: ~8k

Summary: You’re twenty weeks along, and everything’s shifting. Gotham, the way Clark looks at you, the way Bruce doesn’t.

Content Warnings⚠️: Pregnancy (20 weeks), emotional vulnerability, themes of found family, subtle romantic tension, brief mentions of past abandonment, introspective dialogue, unspoken grief, and the quiet weight of choices not yet made.

A/N: This year I’ve thrown outlines out the window and decided to write like I’m being chased by a deadline I made up in my head. No charts, no chapter-by-chapter breakdowns. If you spot inconsistencies, typos, or plot bunnies running wild, thank you for your grace, and feel free to gently point them out. Normally, I plan everything down to what tea the characters are sipping mid-heartbreak, but that version of me never actually wrote anything. So this? This spontaneous, heart-first storytelling? It’s terrifying. And freeing. And mine.

Thank you for being here. Here’s to stories that bloom out of nowhere, and to trusting that the next sentence will always find its way.🖤🥂

You hadn’t meant to linger by the mirror. You were mid-change, blouse halfway over your head, when you glanced sideways and paused. There you stood, barefoot in the quiet of your Gotham apartment, half-dressed and wrapped in the moody gray hush of morning. The sky beyond the window was overcast, just shy of rain, typical for the city, heavy and undecided.

The curve wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t the kind of bump that made strangers coo or point or ask how far along you were. But it was there now; subtle and steady, soft beneath the knit cardigan you’d shrugged on, just visible above the waistband of your slate-gray trousers.

Twenty weeks, already halfway.

For a long time, you weren’t sure if your body would look pregnant. You’d carried softness your whole life, familiar, lived in softness, and part of you had wondered if the change would even be noticeable. If maybe it would only ever feel real on the inside.

But here it was. A quiet becoming. You let your hand hover gently above the swell, then lower, smoothing the fabric like a hello. “Hey,” you whispered. “I see you.”And this time, it didn’t feel like something to hide.

You tucked your blouse into the high waist of your pants, adjusted the cardigan at your shoulders. You were still adjusting your earrings when a gust of air brushed past your shoulder. Not harsh, just fast enough to stir your cardigan and pull a quiet gasp from your chest.

“Hi,” Clark said, almost shyly.

Your chest tightened, then softened. “Hi.”

“I know you’ve got the Wayne meeting,” he said, his voice low, “but I wanted to catch you before you left.”

You stepped closer, tucking your bag higher on your shoulder. “You ran here from Metropolis?”

His smile deepened. “Technically, yes. But I only stopped time a little.”

“Clark…”

You turned, already smiling. “You know, doors exist for a reason.”

“I know,” he said, a little breathless. “But I missed you. And I was in the neighborhood. Sort of.”

You raised an eyebrow. “The neighborhood… being several miles away?”

He shrugged, that bashful grin you were beginning to adore settling across his face. “Metropolis misses you. I might, too.”

Your breath caught, not enough to knock you off balance, but enough to feel. It always felt like this with him lately. Like the quiet between words meant something.

Clark stepped closer. “You look incredible, by the way. I mean—” he paused, gesturing vaguely, “—not that you don’t always, but this—” his gaze dropped momentarily to your midsection, “—you’re radiant.”

You blinked, startled by the honesty in his voice. Not the kind that fumbled or tried to flatter. The kind that saw you.

Your instinct was to deflect, joke, move past it. But instead, you stepped toward him and lightly brushed your fingers against the front of his shirt.

“You’ve got glitter on your collar,” you said, brushing it away with a smirk.

“From what?”

“My perfume. You flew into it.”

“Oh.” His ears pinked.

“And by the way?” you added, voice low. “You’re kind of a walking comfort blanket. If I wasn’t on my way to a boardroom, I’d probably let you hug me for an hour.”

Clark’s smile faltered just enough for something vulnerable to peek through. “You can still let me.”

And you did, just for a breath. His arms around you, careful and strong, made the morning feel a little less like pressure and a little more like possibility.

When he pulled back, he asked softly, “Can I take you to the ultrasound later? Maybe spend time together after, if you’re up for it? I cleared the rest of my day.

Your brows lifted. “You cleared your day?”

He shrugged sheepishly. “Metropolis will survive a few hours without me. Probably. Hopefully.”

You laughed, and his chest warmed at the sound.

You hesitated to speak for half a second, not because you didn’t want to, but because part of you was still learning how to accept this kind of tenderness.

But Clark… Clark was patient.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’d like that.”

He let out a breath, relieved.

You stepped closer, brushing your fingers against his lapel, gently straightening it with quiet care. “You’re a little wrinkled,” you murmured, teasing.

He smiled. “Guess I need someone to keep me in line.”

You didn’t say anything at first. You just looked at him, your hand still resting on his chest for a breath too long.

And then he surprised you.

Clark caught your hand before you could drop it, bringing it to his lips with a gentleness that made time bend inward. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. The kiss was warm and steady as if he was making a silent promise.

You glance down at your hand in his, still warm from where he kissed it. There’s a quiet you don’t rush to break, but eventually, you murmur, “I should go. Meeting downtown.”

Clark nods, though he doesn’t look thrilled about it. “Then let me walk you.”

You grab your coat and bag, and the two of you head downstairs together. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s full, settled, like neither of you wants to say too much and risk disturbing it.

Outside, a cab waits at the curb. Clark steps ahead and opens the door for you, one hand on the frame, the other offering support as you step in.

You pause, glancing up at him. “You’re really good at this, you know.”

He arches a brow, amused. “Opening doors?”

You laugh softly. “Making someone feel safe.”

His smile falters for just a second, like your words caught him off guard in the best way. Then he steadies. “I’ll always try.”

Bruce walked into the boardroom late. Not drastically late. Not enough to raise eyebrows. But late enough that every chair was filled except his.

The patrol had run long, the intel had gone sideways, and somewhere between the Narrows and Old Gotham, he’d gotten too far under to surface cleanly.

The room quieted slightly when he entered, as it always did. Executives, engineers, stakeholders—most of them straightened. The screen at the front flickered with an ongoing slideshow about infrastructure grid capacity.

And then he saw her.

You were seated near the far end of the long table, posture composed, hair tucked neatly behind one ear. You weren’t speaking as someone else had the floor, but your fingers tapped lightly on your pen, listening, absorbing. The collar of your soft knit cardigan curved over the tank beneath it, your trousers cinched just under your subtle swell. Twenty weeks, he recalled. Twenty weeks and two days.

You’re breathtaking, was the first thought that hit him, uninvited, unwelcome, and unavoidable.

Bruce moved to take his seat. He shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d seen you before on security feeds, in medical reports, in that gut-wrenching rooftop confrontation. He’d even caught sight of you days ago, unannounced and early at the worksite, standing beneath Gotham’s overcast sky. But here? Here, in his world under the long fluorescent lights and the weight of plans and profit, you felt like something else entirely. You were real, and you didn’t know him.

You looked up briefly, catching his gaze. Your eyes didn’t widen. No hesitation. Just a polite smile that was professional and detached.

He nodded once, defaulting to mask and muscle memory. But something inside him braced. Like the first second before a storm

You turned your attention back to the speaker.

And Bruce, for all his defenses, for all his armor, couldn’t look away.

“…we’ve completed the soil reinforcement survey ahead of schedule,” one of the Gotham site managers was saying, scrolling through the slides. “But there’s still concern about energy backups failing during prolonged weather outages.”

You glanced at the slide and lifted your pen, fingers steady despite the low rumble of thunder outside. “The Wayne Foundation asked for a sustainable grid option,” you said, not interrupting just joining. Your voice was calm, confident. “And this isn’t just about outages. It’s about anticipating environmental shifts ten years from now, not six months.”

Some heads turned and others scribbled notes, but Bruce did neither. He was still watching you and listening.

“We’ve mapped the zone’s elevation and microclimate,” you continued, adjusting the slide forward with one hand. “If we integrate solar battery storage with flood-sensor automation, we could reduce system vulnerability by thirty-four percent. It’s an upfront investment, but it saves millions long-term. And more importantly… lives.”

The last word hung in the air for a second longer than expected.

You didn’t embellish it. You didn’t need to.

Someone from the urban planning side nodded slowly. “You’re proposing predictive tech with emergency prioritization?”

“Yes,” you said. “For both residential and industrial sectors. Especially South Narrows.”

Bruce felt the shift in the room. Engineers leaned forward. The finance lead looked thoughtful. Even the Wayne Enterprises deputy director narrowed her eyes not with doubt, but consideration.

He leaned back in his chair slightly, hands steepled.

You commanded the room. You hadn’t raised your voice. You hadn’t asserted dominance. You’d just… offered sense and vision. You weren’t posturing. You weren’t performing.

You knew what you were talking about and you cared.

Bruce knew brilliance. He was used to it. But this was different. You were grounded brilliance. And it rattled something in him, something he hadn’t expected to feel since that night on the rooftop. Since the way your voice had cracked when you said, “You’re saying I’m pregnant with two babies, and they’re not even mine alone?”

He swallowed the memory, sitting impossibly still.

Across the table, your pen danced between your fingers as another colleague offered a minor objection.

“I’d like to hear more about your projections,” Bruce said, speaking for the first time. Every head turned.

You looked up, and this time your eyes held on his a moment longer.

“Of course, Mr. Wayne,” you said. Not flustered, not gushing. Just respectful and clear. “I have the models saved on my drive. I can forward them to your office or stay after the meeting to walk you through them.”

Bruce nodded once. “Stay.”

You returned the nod.

Just as you finished outlining the last phase of implementation, a man across the table cleared his throat; one of the senior site analysts, mid-fifties, the kind who always seemed just a little annoyed by newer voices in the room.

“Well, it’s solid work,” he said, nodding toward your screen, “but personally, I think we’d benefit from someone who’s stationed in Gotham full-time. Someone who knows the terrain, and not just on paper.”

You blinked once.

Another person beside him chimed in, “Exactly. There’s nuance here that you can’t learn remotely. Someone who grew up here, maybe. Knew the Narrows before it was a bullet point.”

The silence that followed was sharp and heavy. And then you set your pen down, slow and deliberate.

“I am from the Narrows,” you said calmly, not a challenge, just a fact. “Born on 7th and Bowery. Walked around the area with my keys between my fingers. My mother ran a corner store near the red line station. I used to help stock shelves in the summer when I stayed with her. We lost that store to a flood and a corrupt zoning fine when I was thirteen.”

No one spoke.

“I understand the terrain because I lived it. My mother and childhood friends still live it. I didn’t come in from out of state with blueprints and good intentions. I came back.”

You didn’t glance at Bruce, but he was watching you.

“I’ve built infrastructure in places where the rats outnumber the streetlights. So with all due respect, I don’t need to learn the nuance. I am the nuance.”

The analyst opened his mouth then closed it. Someone coughed quietly into a hand.

Bruce spoke again. “Noted,” he said flat but definitive. “We’re lucky to have you.” And when he said it, you were the only one in the room he looked at.

The room emptied with the soft shuffle of papers and the low murmur of lingering conversation. The scent of old coffee and expensive cologne hung in the air, mingling with the tension that had settled after the exchange after you’d reminded them that you were born in the Narrows, that you understood Gotham’s bones better than they ever would from a penthouse window.

You tucked your notebook under your arm, lips pressed together as you started to rise from your seat until a quiet voice interrupted.

“Would you mind staying for a moment?” Bruce said, his tone smooth, deliberate, not quite as bored as he’d sounded earlier.

You paused, glancing over your shoulder. The rest of the team was almost gone. A few glanced back curiously, but didn’t linger.

“Of course,” you replied carefully. You sat back down, posture polite but guarded. You weren’t sure what to expect.

Bruce remained standing for a beat longer than necessary. He wasn’t looming exactly but he wasn’t in a rush, either. Finally, he stepped around the table and settled into the chair beside you.

“I’d like to review the updated infrastructure models,” he said. “Your section on water retention strategies caught my attention.”

You nodded.

“They’re based on a mesh grid adapted from Metropolis post-quake data. I thought they might be viable here since there are similar ground instability in certain areas.”

Bruce nodded once. You met his eyes, surprised to find something quite burning there. Not arrogance, not condescension, just focus.

“I can show you the overlays,” you said, thumbing open your tablet. “It’ll make more sense with the visual comparison.”

He leaned slightly closer, gaze flicking to the screen. “Good.”

And just like that, the two of you bent over the models with data layered over Gotham’s jagged cityscape, your voice explaining structural flow, his questions sharp and informed.

He leaned in slightly as you opened the 3D model of the drainage grid system. Your voice was calm, explaining the layered retention strategies, the adjustments based on Metropolis’ quake aftermath. He already knew most of the data. he’d memorized it, in fact, but he let you speak. Not because he needed the explanation, but because he wanted to hear you.

The scent of your shampoo drifted in that close space; clean, subtle, like summer rain on cement. Your hand hovered over the screen as you pinched to zoom, and without meaning to, his own hand shifted, fingers brushing the table near yours. He didn’t touch you, but the distance between was smaller than it should have been.

It’s nothing. Just proximity. Just attention to detail. Just… biological reaction. She’s attractive. That’s normal. He wasn’t dead.

He kept his face blank, his voice neutral when he spoke again. A question about runoff redirection, but he saw the way you paused for just half a second before responding. The way your eyes flicked to his hand, then back to the screen, as if you’d noticed the almost touch too. He reminded himself that Clark had already started the process. Quiet messages. Gentle visits. The kind of softness Bruce had never offered, not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t trust himself with something that fragile. Still, something twisted low in his chest. Something dark and unfamiliar. Not jealousy, he told himself. Not possession Just… interest. Curiosity, maybe even guilt. He should’ve walked away, but he didn’t… again.

He didn’t trust the next words out of his mouth, but he said them anyway. “You’re heading to the site after this?”

You nodded, tapping something into your tablet. “Yeah. Quick walkthrough. The newer contractors aren’t familiar with the blue line revisions, and I want to flag any material mismatches before delivery.”

Of course you were. Always ten steps ahead. He admired that; too much, maybe.

“I’d like to join you.”

Your fingers paused. You looked up, a flicker of surprise crossing your features. Not suspicion, just the quiet calculation of someone who wasn’t used to powerful people bothering with foundations and storm drain placements.

“I can meet you there,” you said, polite but neutral. “I’ll be grabbing a cab.”

Bruce tilted his head slightly, considering you. “Don’t. I’ll drive you.”

There was no question in his tone. Just the same clipped certainty that filled his boardroom voice. But this wasn’t about dominance. He didn’t like the thought of you in a random Gotham cab, not when he was already going that way. Not when you were this vulnerable and carrying life. Not when the city was still what it was: unpredictable, volatile, and often cruel.

You blinked. “That’s not necessary.”

“It’s not an inconvenience,” he said. “Besides, the site is on the edge of Old Gotham. I know the detours better than most.”

You hesitated again, then slowly nodded. “Alright. If you’re sure.”

He was already standing. “I’ll bring the car around.”

You gave him a curious glance as you followed him toward the door, a half-smile tugging at the edge of your lips. “I figured someone like you would already have a driver waiting.”

“I usually do,” he said without looking at you. “But I didn’t want this part of the day to be overheard.”

You exited the building side by side, the hush of the meeting still clinging to the edges of the silence. You didn’t say much, but he could feel the hum of thoughts running behind your eyes. Always thinking. Always calculating. He admired that and also that you didn’t fill silence for its own sake.

The private drive was quiet, just a few cars lined up in front of the executive wing, and his was the sleekest among them. The black vehicle gleamed under the overcast sky like a shadow waiting to be summoned. He stepped ahead to open the passenger door for you, glancing briefly toward the street when he hears the click before he sees the flash. It’s subtle, nearly drowned out by the hum of the city. But the way you shift beside him, tightening your grip on the tablet, drawing closer to the curb, tells him everything he needs to know.

“Bruce! Over here!”

Another flash.

A second man appears, camera already lifted.

“Mr. Wayne! Is she the one?”

He barely had time to register the next voice before the man was there, camera slung across his chest, practically jogging up the ramp from the sidewalk.

“Oh come on, Bruce, just a quote! are you finally settling down?” Then he turned to you. “What do you do, sweetheart! Is he your billionaire arm candy? Gotham wants to know!”

Bruce moved before he even thought about it. He stepped between them, cutting off the man’s line of sight with one solid move; tall, immovable, his body casting a wide shadow over yours. His hand hovered just behind your back, not quite touching, but protective all the same.

You blink like you didn’t hear right. Like maybe you imagined it. But then another one steps forward, filming now.

Bruce doesn’t hesitate. His body shifts instinctively to block the lens. “Step back,” he says, voice cold enough to freeze concrete.

The man with the DSLR ignores him. “Where did you meet?”

You let out a short, stunned breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Just doing our job,” the photographer shrugs, angling for another shot. “C’mon, this is a big story. Gotham wants to know.”

You flinch as the next flash hits. Not dramatic, not attention seeking. Just a raw, human recoil.

Bruce steps forward deliberately. “You’ll stop filming,” he says, tone steady. “And you’ll delete the footage.”

The man scoffs. “You can’t control the story, Wayne. This is fair game.”

“I wasn’t asking.” He takes another step. The man falters.

Bruce doesn’t raise his voice. But his next words come with the weight of stone. “If her face appears in your segment, I’ll have your agency’s license revoked. If you publish that footage, I’ll buy out the parent company by noon. I will own your servers, your name, your cameras, and your goddamn lens caps.”

You’re silent behind him.

The man blinks. “You wouldn’t—”

“I’ll blacklist you across every corporate contract in the tri-state area,” Bruce continues, like he’s reciting a shopping list. “Red-list your press credentials. Sue you into retirement. And when you try to switch outlets, I’ll own that one too.”

Dead silence. The only sound is your breath.

Bruce doesn’t look away from the man. “One photo. One frame. And I will erase you.”

The photographer lowers the camera. Mutters something under his breath then turns away.

Bruce waits until they’re all retreating fast before he finally turns to you.

Your expression is unreadable. Caught somewhere between stunned and wary. But your eyes are glassy, and he hates that he let it get that far.

“Get in,” he says, opening the car door.

You move without argument. Smooth and silent, like you’re trying to keep control of something fraying inside you. Once you’re seated, he closes the door gently and rounds the car.

By the time he gets in, you’re facing the window. One hand rests on your belly. The other presses lightly against your tablet like an anchor.

He doesn’t speak until he pulls into traffic.

“They won’t touch you again,” he says finally.

You look over slowly. “That was… intense.”

“They crossed a line.”

“Would you really buy the company?”

His jaw tightens. “If I have to.”

You quietly say, “thank you.”

He doesn’t answer because if he opens his mouth again, he might tell you the truth: that he didn’t do it for optics, not for image, not even for justice. He did it because something fractured the second you recoiled, and there’s no part of him that wouldn’t raze everything around him to keep you untouched.

When the car pulls up to the site gate, you exhale slowly, like you’re shifting gears. He watches the transformation in real time: your posture straightens, your jaw sets, and the quiet anxiety you’d carried since the paparazzi faded into something else entirely. Purpose.

The site is buzzing. The kind of chaos Bruce knows well; voices overlapping, machinery whirring, the clatter of steel-to-concrete. But the moment you step out of the car, clipboard in hand, the noise begins to organize itself around you.

He trails a step behind as you approach the staging area. A young foreman turns, surprised and a little relieved.

“Morning, ma’am. We weren’t expecting anyone from the design team ‘til next week.”

“I know,” you reply, voice clear but calm. “I moved up the walk-through. I want to confirm the redline adjustments before they finish the east subfoundation.”

Your tone isn’t sharp. It doesn’t need to be. It’s certain. You’ve done this before. A hundred times before.

Bruce folds his arms as he watches from a short distance. You don’t glance back at him once, not for reassurance, not for permission. You move through the site like someone who belongs here.

You point to the base of a column where someone’s using the wrong grade of mesh. “This should be 10-gauge. It’ll warp before winter.”

You notice the misalignment in a temporary scaffolding rig from fifteen feet away and call it out without hesitation. You walk past a pair of delivery guys arguing about where to stack rebar and fix the issue in four words. You are, in a word, unyielding.

Bruce watches how people listen to you. How they respect you; not out of fear, not because of your proximity to him, but because you’re clearly the smartest, most grounded person on this slab of earth right now. And it makes his throat feel tight.

You pause near a set of temporary blueprints posted under a shade canopy. One of the junior architects is trying to explain something to a concrete team, but it’s all falling apart. You step in, take the plans gently, and speak quietly, but with full authority.

“No, that’s the outdated version. Here.” You turn the sheet. “Use this cross-reference. It shows where the original conduit path overlaps the revised support grid. It’s subtle, but if we don’t adjust now, we’ll have to dig out a full section in two weeks.”

They nod. You hand the page back. No drama nor need for credit.

You’re standing in a patch of shade, fingers absently scrolling through your tablet as you double check the updated site notes.

He steps closer.

“You’re good at what you do,” he says quietly. “They’re in good hands.”

You pause, mid-scroll.

It takes a moment before you glance up, blinking like you’re not sure you heard him right.

“Oh,” you say, soft. “Thank you.” Your voice carries no bravado. No witty comeback this time. Just sincerity. You offer the faintest smile, small, but real.

“I try,” you add, quieter now. “It’s not always easy. But I really do care about the work. I always have.”

Bruce nods once. He doesn’t say I know, though he does.

You look back down at your screen for a second, like you’re trying to keep things practical, keep your footing. But then you shift your weight slightly, letting out a slow breath. “I know this wasn’t how the day was supposed to go,” you murmur. “With the cameras. The assumptions.” There’s no resentment in your tone. Just weariness. “But I’m grateful you stepped in.”

Bruce studies your face for a moment. The lines of tension still around your eyes. The steadiness underneath.

“I wouldn’t have let them near you,” he says.

Your gaze flicks to his. There’s a pause. brief, but weighted. “You didn’t have to do all that. But I’m really glad you did.” You shift the tablet against your hip and glance back toward the office trailer. “I should upload these notes before I forget. Site wi-fi’s terrible, so it takes a while.”

He nods.

And as you step past him, your arm brushes his lightly, just a passing thing, barely a moment of contact.

The door clicks behind you.

Bruce remains still, the site noise rising and falling like waves behind him; steel being hauled, voices calling out measurements, someone laughing far too loud over by the staging crates.

He doesn’t hear any of it.

He’s still thinking about your voice. The way it softened when you said, “Thank you.”

The brush of your arm against his. The way you didn’t flinch when he stepped closer.

The way you looked at him, not with awe or calculation, but with something rarer. Realness, and a clear-eyed steadiness that most people in his orbit abandoned years ago.

His phone buzzes. He pulls it out, expecting a League update or something from Lucius. Instead, it’s a flagged message from his encrypted inbox.

Subject line: RE: Earlier Incident – Private Apology from Emberline Press Group

Mr. Wayne,

We wish to extend our sincere apologies for the incident this morning involving two freelance photographers affiliated with one of our entertainment news subsidiaries. Please know that the individuals in question have been reprimanded, and the photographs have been permanently deleted per legal advisory.

No material will be published.

We deeply value our long-standing press access to Wayne Foundation events and are committed to ensuring no further disruption occurs.

We respectfully request that no further legal action be taken.

Please consider this a formal retraction and a direct acknowledgment of our misstep.

— R. Halbrook

Director, Emberline Press Group

(Privately held. Not for redistribution.)

Bruce reads it twice. Not because he needs to because he knows exactly what this is; fear. They saw the line he drew and they believed him. Enough to bury their own story before it even had a chance to breathe.

He stares at the screen for a second longer. Then deletes the message without replying. They won’t publish the photo. They won’t breathe your name again. And if they do, they’ll never hold another press badge in this city.

You step out of the trailer just then, tablet away, a strand of hair tucked behind your ear, the color high on your cheeks from the sun. You look calm now. Settled. Like you’ve reclaimed the day piece by piece.

You stop a few feet in front of him, glancing briefly toward the edge of the site.

“I think that’s it for me today,” you say softly. “I’m heading back to Metropolis for the weekend. I try to get back when I can.”

Bruce nods once. “I’ll drive you.”

You look up, surprised. “You don’t have to. I was going to grab a cab.”

He’s already shaking his head. “You’ve dealt with enough strangers for one day.”

You exhale through your nose, a tired smile playing at the edge of your mouth. “Is that your way of saying you don’t trust public transportation?”

“You’ve had enough for one day. Let me make the ride home easier,” he says evenly.

That earns a quiet laugh from you. And this time, you don’t protest when he gestures toward the car.

The ride is quiet at first.

Traffic out of Gotham is heavy, but manageable. Bruce drives with practiced ease, hands steady on the wheel, attention flicking between the road and the slow exhale of your breath beside him. You’re turned slightly toward the window, legs curled gently beneath you, one hand resting on your stomach like it’s instinct.

He doesn’t speak until you’ve crossed into calmer roads, just beyond the sprawl of city traffic.

“You mentioned earlier,” he says, voice low, “that you spent summers in the Narrows.”

You glance toward him. “I did.”

“Were you born here?”

You nod. “Technically, yeah. I was born in Gotham General. My mom lived in the Narrows for most of my early life. But she left me with my grandparents when I was five. Said it was temporary.”

You pause, but only briefly.

“It wasn’t,” you add quietly. “But I’d still come back during summers when I was a kid. Stay with her. At least until I started college.”

Bruce doesn’t interrupt.

“It wasn’t always… easy,” you say. “Gotham never is. But I guess it stuck with me. The rhythm of it. The way the buildings breathe at night. The way people survive, even when they’re told they shouldn’t.”

He doesn’t expect that last line. But it stays with him.

“And now?” he asks. “Why come back?”

You exhale, steady. “Because I understand it. I don’t romanticize it. It’s never going to be clean or easy. But I know the neighborhoods. I know what neglect looks like in concrete and rust. I wanted to help rebuild, not just restore old structures, but make new ones better. Safer.”

That quiet settles again. Bruce watches the curve of your reflection in the glass, the flicker of shadows across your features.

You glance over at him, just briefly. “Besides… you never really leave Gotham, do you?”

Bruce says nothing for a moment. Then he says quietly, “You belong here more than most of the people who try to run it.”

You go still at that, just for a moment. “Thanks.” There’s no irony in your tone. Just quiet gratitude.

He pulls into your driveway just after two. The light is sharp, one of those Gotham afternoons where everything looks a little too vivid. Your building stands quiet, ivy curling along the railing, your sidewalk freshly swept.

You shift in your seat beside him. “Thanks again for the ride. And the backup. And everything.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Bruce says.

You reach for the door handle, but he’s already out, moving around to your side. You blink as he opens it, hesitating before stepping out.

He offers his hand. You take it.

He helps you to your feet, steady, hand lingering a second longer than it needs to.

A familiar voice cuts through the still air.

“There you are.”

Bruce’s head turns. So does yours.

Clark stands a few paces away on the walk, holding a bottle of juice and a small brown paper bag. He’s dressed casual; pressed jeans, sleeves rolled to his forearms, glasses catching the sun just right. He’s smiling, easy and casual, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes that Bruce doesn’t miss. Territorial. But polite.

But Bruce sees the way his eyes flick to your hand in his. The way his jaw tightens for a split second before relaxing again.

You let go of Bruce’s hand.

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark said before you could even open your mouth.

“I’m Clark Kent,” he added, extending his hand, smile still perfectly intact.

You blinked. Clark had… introduced himself. Quickly. Smoothly. Before you had a chance to fumble over any kind of label.

“We’ve met,” he says. “A few interviews here and there. You probably don’t remember.”

Bruce took the handshake, his grip unreadable.

“Right,” Bruce says. “Daily Planet.”

“Still not a fan of follow-up questions, I’m guessing,” Clark says, pleasant as ever.

Only Bruce hears the sharpness beneath the smile. A jab hidden in polite banter. And Bruce, he doesn’t rise to it.

“Thanks for bringing her home safe,” Clark adds warmly.

“Of course. Gotham’s not always kind to its visitors.”

Clark’s smile didn’t budge. “No. It isn’t.”

You glanced between them, something unspoken crackled there. Not hostility, not exactly. But recognition. As if these two men, both cloaked in their own civility, understood something you didn’t.

Before you can step away, Clark leans in. It’s not a dramatic gesture. Not possessive. Just warm and familiar. He wraps one arm carefully around your back, mindful of your shape. Your body eases into it like second nature.

Bruce watches it all. And something in his chest tightens; not jealousy, not even anger. Just that quiet constriction of recognizing something settled. Something already claimed. Even if it wasn’t meant to be.

You pull back from Clark, smiling faintly, then turn to Bruce.

“Thank you again, Mr. Wayne. For today. For everything.”

He nods once. “You did good work. Gotham’s lucky to have you.”

Your expression shifts; slightly stunned, like you weren’t expecting that kind of sincerity from him.

Bruce steps back.

Clark gives him a polite nod. “Drive safe.”

Bruce doesn’t answer. He just turns, slipping back into the driver’s seat, one smooth motion of control and armor.

The door shuts. But he doesn’t drive away yet. He watches, through tinted glass, as you open your building door. Clark hovers at your side, still smiling, his free hand cradling the small of your back like a promise.

The sunlight catches in your hair. And Bruce, silent, still, sits behind the wheel, one hand resting on the leather, the other clenched around the shift.

Eventually, he exhales.

Starts the engine and pulls away. He doesn’t look back. But the shape of your silhouette caught between concrete and warmth, follows him anyway.

The door clicks shut behind you. You lean your shoulder against it, exhaling slowly as the tension of the sidewalk dissolves into the quiet hush of your apartment. Familiar scents greet you; cedar shelves, that faint mineral tang of Lumen’s enclosure, and now... Clark.

You move farther in, kicking off your shoes with a slow roll of your ankles. There’s still a hum in your chest, unspoken and electric. You cross to the living room and settle on the couch, fingers brushing over the curve of your stomach as you sit. The twins had been quiet during the car ride, but now… they flutter. Just enough to ground you.

Clark joins you, resting beside you at an angle, comfortably close as he’s watching you.

“Hey,” he says gently, “you’ve gone quiet.”

You blink, then laugh softly. “Sorry. I’m just processing.”

“Bruce?”

You huff a breath, the sound half-laugh, half-sigh. “Yeah.”

Clark tilts his head. “What about him?”

You shake your head slowly, gaze fixed on a spot near the bookshelf. “I don’t know. It’s just… strange. I mean, I’ve met a lot of funders and stakeholders. Important people. But I wasn’t expecting Gotham’s crown jewel CEO to drive me home.”

Clark smiles at that. “Having interviewed him, i can say he does have a flair for the unexpected.”

You glance at him, something gentle curling behind your eyes. “He was very nice.”

Clark’s brow lifts just a little, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I mean it,” you continue. “I thought he might be the kind of guy who only speaks in boardroom bullet points. But he opened the door for me. Asked if I was okay. And the way he just stood there… like he was waiting to make sure I got inside safely.”

There’s no accusation in your voice. Just curiosity. The kind of puzzled warmth you give when you can’t quite fit a person into a neat box.

Clark shifts slightly, but still says nothing.

You tilt your head, thoughtful. “Maybe it’s because I’m pregnant. Some people just become more… I don’t know. Protective? Maybe he felt awkward letting someone pregnant catch a cab.”

You blink once, then smile, trying not to melt. “Anyway, let me just grab my stuff and—oh. Lumen.”

You turn toward the custom enclosure near the bookshelf. Your little tortoise is lounging under the glow lamp, limbs relaxed, bioluminescent specks shimmering faintly across the top of his shell like constellations.

“C’mere, sleepyhead,” you murmur, crouching carefully as you unlatch the travel enclosure.

Clark steps closer and lowers himself beside you, watching with quiet wonder.

“I’ll never get over that,” he says softly, tilting his head. “He looks like he’s glowing from the inside out.”

“He kind of is,” you whisper back. “Residual effect from the lab, but the vet says it’s stable. Harmless. Just… a little magical.”

Lumen lifts his head slightly, then slowly ambles forward into your waiting hands.

Clark reaches out a cautious finger. “Can I…?”

You nod.

The moment Clark’s fingertip brushes Lumen’s shell, the tortoise pauses and then leans into the contact. You blink in surprise.

Clark’s eyebrows lift. “Was that a cuddle?”

“He doesn’t do that with just anyone,” you murmur, genuinely impressed. “Wow.”

Clark smiles at Lumen. “You’ve got good taste, little guy.”

You glance between them, heart unexpectedly full. “Okay, well… clearly you two have bonded. But we should go before I start crying over how soft this is.”

Clark grins. “Too late.”

You carefully lower Lumen into his secure travel habitat and gather the rest of your things; water bottle, folded sweater, backup charger.

As you straighten up, Clark takes the carrier from you without a word, his grip gentle, steady. “I’ve got him.”

“You sure?” you ask, teasing. “He’s kind of a diva. Demands optimal temperature and constant affirmation.”

Clark glances down at Lumen. “We have that in common.”

You burst out laughing, the weight of the day finally loosening from your ribs.

Clark drove with quiet confidence, one hand on the wheel, the other brushing now and then against the enclosure as if to reassure himself that your little companion was still there.

“So…” he began, a smile in his voice. “What’s the story with the little man?”

You glanced over at him. “Lumen?”

You turned slightly in your seat to face Clark more fully. “I found him in Gotham. About two years ago, when I was consulting on a structural audit near the Narrows. There was an old warehouse flagged for demolition. It looked abandoned, but I noticed weird ventilation rigs that didn’t match the original plans. It just… felt off. So I went back after hours.”

Clark gave you a look. “You went into a flagged building at night. Alone.”

“Yeah, I clearly had no situational awareness. But I had pepper spray,” you said flatly.

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You continued. “I found a hidden lab in the basement. No staff, but the equipment was still humming. Cages, containment units… half of them empty. The others,” You paused. “There were a few surviving reptiles. Mostly tortoises and small lizards. But only Lumen was stable. I think they abandoned the place once the legal heat got too close.”

Clark’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “What were they experimenting on?”

“Bioluminescence,” you murmured. “Genetic splicing. Splicing light into life. Some twisted version of innovation, I guess.”

He shook his head. “And no one did anything?”

“I reported it. Eventually it got traced to a shell company, but they dissolved it before charges stuck. Typical Gotham.”

Your gaze drifted to Lumen. “His shell was cracked when I found him. He wasn’t eating. I didn’t think he’d survive the week.”

“But he did,” Clark said softly.

You nodded. “I took him home. Built him a recovery habitat. He perked up after a few weeks, started blinking slower when I’d talk to him. The vet said he was stable, but… he’s still small. Still hasn’t grown like he should. I think his growth was stunted. I’m worried he won’t live out the full lifespan his species usually gets.”

Clark was quiet, but his gaze flicked briefly toward Lumen’s glow; faint, steady, a little miracle nestled in his carrier.

“But he has a life now,” Clark said gently. “And love. And safety.”

You looked at him, throat tight.

“He’s glowing,” Clark added. “That alone feels like a rebellion.”

You didn’t mean to, but you reached over and touched his hand where it rested beside the enclosure. Just for a second.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

Clark didn’t move his hand. “He’s lucky to have you.”

“I think I’m the lucky one,” you murmured.

The waiting room smelled faintly of lavender disinfectant and overripe magazines. You checked in with a small smile, Lumen tucked securely in his soft carrier at your feet. Clark had insisted on carrying it in, despite your protests.

“I’ve got him,” he’d whispered, smiling at the glowing tortoise like he was carrying treasure.

Now you sat together, side by side, in the last row of chairs near the window. Clark’s knee brushed yours. His hand rested palm-up between you on the seat, not touching, just there. You placed your hand in his.

The nurse called your name.

Clark rose beside you as if tethered by instinct. The nurse’s gaze flicked to him. Then down to the chart. A blink of curiosity crossed her face, but she said nothing, only nodded and led you both down the hall.

Inside the room, the lighting was soft. A monitor glowed beside the ultrasound machine. You settled back, shirt gently pulled up, gel bottle poised nearby. Clark stood off to the side, fingers loosely interlaced in front of him. The tech entered and greeted you with a polite smile before looking at Clark.

She paused. That same flicker of curiosity, just a breath of hesitation, before she focused on the task at hand.

They didn’t ask who he was. But you could feel the question. It hovered in the air like static. You didn’t offer an explanation. Instead, you reached for Clark’s hand again as the wand pressed to your skin, and the screen lit up with two growing shapes. Two little worlds inside you.

He watched in wonder, his breath catching slightly when one of them shifted.

“They’re so…” he murmured, trailing off as he leaned in closer.

The moment slowed. Your fingers stayed wrapped in his, the monitor quietly pulsing in the background.

“There they are,” the tech said gently, moving the wand with slow precision. “Both heads down. That’s good positioning.”

You watched the screen, breath caught somewhere between nerves and awe. One of the twins shifted, tiny limbs stretching. The other remained curled, steady.

“That one,” the tech pointed, “looks like they’re staking out territory already.”

You laughed under your breath. Clark’s thumb brushed your knuckles.

“Everything looks healthy so far,” the tech continued. “We’ll take the measurements now.”

You nodded, and when she was done, you reached into your tote and pulled out a small cream-colored envelope. There was a delicate sticker on the flap, with two tiny stars drawn in ink.

“Would you mind…” you said, holding it out, “putting the genders in here?”

The tech looked at you, then at Clark.

You turned your head to glance at him, your voice softer now. “If that’s okay with you.”

He didn’t answer right away. But when you looked into his eyes, the warmth there was steady. He nodded once, slow, sure, and smiled.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s find out together.”

The tech took the envelope with a small smile, scribbled something on a folded sheet of paper, and tucked it inside before sealing it.

“Here you go,” she said, offering it to you with both hands like it was something sacred.

You looked at Clark again. He looked at you the same way.

After the ultrasound, Clark didn’t take you straight back.

You noticed it the moment the skyline of Metropolis disappeared behind you and the streets turned quieter; more rural, more shadowed. No city lights. Just trees. A soft hum of gravel under the car tires.

“Are we lost?” you asked lightly, glancing at the window.

Clark smiled. “No. Just taking a small detour. If you’re not too tired.”

You weren’t. Something in his voice made you curious enough to nod.

The rest of the ride was silent, but not uncomfortable. Lumen shifted once in his little carrier, and you reached back to check on him. Still glowing faintly. Still content.

And then Clark stopped the car.

There wasn’t a road here. Just wild land. A hill. Trees that parted like an unspoken invitation.

He got out first and came around to your side.

“I want to show you something,” he said, offering his hand.

You blinked. “Is this where you bury your enemies?”

He laughed softly. “Not today.”

You took his hand. He helped you up the hill slowly, always keeping pace with you, watching your steps, steadying your balance. It wasn’t far. Just enough to make you feel like you’d crossed some invisible line between the world and something quieter.

It was a field that was opened and untouched. Wildflowers scattered low across the grass like stars had fallen and forgotten to rise. A lake rested quietly to the side, still as glass. And above… the sky stretched impossibly wide. No buildings. No noise. Just stars.

Dozens. Hundreds.

“You can see so many,” you whispered.

Clark looked up with you. “The city dims them.”

You turned slowly. “How did you even find this place?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “It found me.”

He stepped forward, motioning you to follow. “When I was younger, just after I moved to Metropolis, I used to get these… aches. I didn’t understand them at first. But they felt like homesickness.”

You listened.

“For Krypton,” he continued. “Even though I never grew up there. Even though I don’t remember it.”

There was no bitterness in his voice. Just a quiet longing.

“I’d fly for hours sometimes, just trying to shake the feeling. And one night, I landed here. I didn’t mean to. I just did.” He looked around, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “It felt… safe. Like I could breathe.”

You stepped beside him. The wind moved softly across the grass, brushing the hem of your dress.

“Does it still hurt?” you asked.

“Sometimes.” He looked down at you. “But less, now.”

You both settled in the comfortable silence, but after awhile your fingers stilled around the envelope.

“I thought I was ready,” you said quietly. “I really did.”

His gaze shifted, warm and steady. “You don’t have to be.”

“I know,” you murmured, thumbing the edge of the envelope. “But I feel like I should be. Like I’m supposed to want to know. Everyone else gets excited about this part. Cake reveals. Balloons. Announcements.” You swallowed. “But something about keeping it a mystery a little longer…” You looked over at him, eyes uncertain. “It feels like the last piece of the dream I haven’t figured out yet. The part that’s still just mine.”

Clark leaned forward slightly, expression tender. “Then keep it. As long as you want.”

You gave him a shaky smile. “You’re okay with that?”

“I’m more than okay,” he said. “You’re carrying two little lives inside you. It’s not just about what they are it’s who they’re becoming. And that part doesn’t come in an envelope.”

That made you laugh, a soft breath through your nose. “You always know how to say the thing that makes me feel better.”

He smiled back. “Only with you.”

You looked back at the sky. The stars twinkled like a lullaby. You placed the envelope in your bag, gently, like it was something sacred.

“Maybe when I’m ready,” you said. “Maybe when I feel less like I’m holding a fragile secret and more like I’m ready to share it.”

“I’ll be here,” he said, no hesitation.

“I know,” you whispered.

He pulled off his jacket and laid it down for you, even though the night air was still kind. You rested one hand on your belly as the twins stirred again, shifting with quiet curiosity.

Clark glanced at your hand. “Can I…?”

You nodded.

He placed his palm gently over yours, warm and wide. A hush passed over both of you as he felt them move, a soft ripple beneath your skin.

“They feel strong,” he whispered.

“They have their moments,” you said. “I think of them like the sun and the moon.”

Clark blinked. “Yeah?”

You nodded, watching your fingers trace slow circles over your belly. “One feels like light; bright and steady. The other is quieter. Watchful. Like shadow, but not in a bad way. Just… deep.”

He smiled. “Two sides of the same sky.”

You met his gaze, a little stunned. “Exactly.”

Clark was quiet for a while beside you. Not in hesitation, but in reverence. Then, his voice dropped low; deeper, softer than you’d ever heard it. “Hi,” he said quietly, his palm still splayed over your belly. “I know you can’t really understand me yet. But that doesn’t mean I won’t keep talking to you.”

He adjusted, lying on his side now, propped on an elbow as he faced you, or rather, your belly. His gaze was fixed, warm and impossibly gentle.

“I’ve been waiting to meet you,” he murmured. “And I know I’m late to the party. I’m still learning what this is supposed to look like. But I promise I’m showing up. Every time.”

You swallowed hard. The twins shifted under his hand, as if answering.

Clark smiled faintly. “You’re not even here yet, and you’re already making my heart work harder than it ever has. Which is saying a lot.”

Your laugh broke the quiet. A little choked. A little watery.

And then he said their nicknames.

“I don’t know your names yet. But I know you. I know you’re the sun…” His hand moved slightly left. “And the moon,” he whispered, shifting right. “You,” he said to the left, “are already glowing with so much light. I can feel it. Like you’re going to burst into every room and make it yours.” Then he turned slightly, eyes softening as he spoke to the other, “And you… you’ve got secrets. You’ll watch everything. The kind of quiet that makes people listen harder.”

He exhaled, voice rough with wonder. “You two are going to balance each other. Just like you’re already doing in there.” His hand flattened across both sides of your belly now, covering what he could. “I’m going to protect you. Both of you. No matter what.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until Clark looked up, and his smile faltered a little with tenderness. He leaned up just enough to press his forehead against yours.

“They already know,” you whispered.

He nodded. “I hope so.” He paused, “I love them,” he said wholeheartedly.

#plus size reader #tzinia sol writes #bruce wayne x plus size reader #batman x plus size reader #clark kent x plus size reader #superman x plus size reader

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