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sassatoru · 4 days ago

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a wife's desires — a husband's insecurity

summary | you feel as if your husband doesn't want you anymore, as he ignores every attempt of seduction. until you take the secret weapon and your only feeling besides desire: anger.

pairing | bruce wayne x wife!reader

warnings / tags | hurt/comfort, fluff, insecurity, thoughts of being cheated on (doesn't actually happen), SMUT :D

smut tags | unprotected sex, oral (f & m receiving), p in v, so much love it's actually crazy, a bit of spanking????literally minimum, hair pulling, body worship, slight choking, bruce wayne is a certified MUNCH and man loves eating

word count | 5.9k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is NOT part of the kent!batmom!reader series but it could definitively fit right into it. you don't need to read the other parts to understand.

YOU KNEW YOU WERE PRETTY.

Since you were young, your parents had made that very clear to you. Growing up alongside Clark reassured of that. Your brother was no liar —you didn't think he even knew how to lie: not telling everyone he was Superman wasn't a lie, it was concealment of reality—, and he always told you that you were the prettiest girl he knew.

So yes, you were pretty. Perhaps not as beautiful as the supermodels that used to cling to your husband's arm when you weren't there, or the unreal kind of pretty as Diana, whose strong genes characterize her as more than gorgeous to you. But still, very attractive.

That was exactly the reason why you couldn't understand Bruce's recent coldness with intimate moments.

You've been married for quite the time by now, a mother of five — not counting Stephanie and Duke, whom you still cooked for, comforted, disciplined with the occasional glare and softness reserved for the very loved —. Your three oldest children were already off the Manor, living their lives not so far away. Your two youngest, Tim and Damian, still under your care.

Therefore, you could understand if his stamina had dropped a little. It wasn't easy having sex while your sons still lived under the roof, especially when Damian used to appear at uneven hours at your bedroom. Gone were the days where you could have your fun around with your husband.

Despite of that, you still used to have some: like a quick dry-humping, or a sloppy make out in the Cave. But that seemed months ago —years, if you had to be dramatic—. It's not like you were a nymphomaniac, nothing like that. You just wanted to have sex with your husband, was that so difficult to achieve?

You could understand, as well, that he was tired. By night, he was on continuous patrol, and by day he was at the Enterprises. Of course Bruce was going to be tired, and quite frustrated after the reunions with the League. But when that feeling used to grow on his chest, you usually were the one that received it . . . on the bed.

Now, not even that happened.

He still kissed you — soft kisses on your temple, your cheek, your shoulder. He hugged you every morning like it was the last time. He held your hand at Wayne Gala events. You were never without his touch in public or private. He bought your favorite chocolates on his way home, picked flowers you loved with his own hands from the conservatory, left little notes in your coat pockets with inside jokes only the two of you would understand.

But every night… nothing.

No heat. No wandering hands. No flirtation that crossed the line into something primal. No desire. Or, at least, none acted upon. Not once in the last few months.

That night, you decided to push back.

You waited until the Manor went quiet, listening from the reading nook as Damian’s voice finally tapered off into silence in the guest wing. Tim was downstairs still — probably half-asleep in front of some triple-screen setup in the cave — but Bruce was in his study, door open, tie discarded, collar loose.

He looked like he always did: tired, half-shadowed by the low light, papers in front of him, brooding and beautiful in the way only Bruce Wayne could be. You walked in barefoot, a glass of water in your hand, and leaned against the doorframe.

“Long day, handsome?”

His eyes flicked up. His lips curved just barely. “You could say that.”

Your voice came out lower, a little thicker. “Want some company?”

He nodded without hesitation — of course he did — and gestured toward the armchair near his desk. You didn’t take it.

Instead, you walked behind him, let your hand drag across his back, your fingers slipping into the collar of his shirt. He tensed — just a little — and then relaxed again.

You leaned in slowly, hair falling forward over your shoulder, and placed a kiss right at the nape of his neck. Soft, lingering. The kind of kiss that used to mean something more. Your lips barely brushed the skin there.

“You’re always so tense lately,” you whispered, your voice like syrup. “You know, there are better ways to unwind than tax reports.”

“I’m sure there are,” he replied, still typing something into the tablet.

Your hands ran over his shoulders now, firm, practiced. You knew his body as well as you knew your own — where the old wounds lived, where the skin still twitched under light touches, where he craved pressure the most.

“You remember that massage trick Alfred taught me?” you murmured, bending down so your mouth was right against his ear. “The one with the lavender oil? You practically begged me to do it every other night when your ribs were healing.”

He didn’t stop you. But he didn’t move either.

“Darling…”

That’s what you called him when you were truly trying to get under his skin.

“Are you even paying attention to me?”

He leaned back a little now, eyes closing briefly under your touch. “I’m listening.”

“Listening is one thing,” you said softly. “Wanting is another.”

Your fingers slipped down his chest. Button by button, you undid the top three of his shirt with a kind of reverence that almost hid the hurt you were starting to feel in your chest.

He reached up then — not fast, but firm — and caught your wrist gently.

You paused.

He looked up at you with eyes that were unreadable.

“I’m tired,” he said simply. “I just want to finish this tonight.”

Your heart dropped like a stone.

You weren’t expecting him to throw you onto the desk, not anymore. You weren’t even expecting a wild night. But you thought maybe a kiss. A real one. Something more than the distracted affection that had become routine.

Still, you pulled back without a word.

You didn’t want to beg.

Instead, you leaned forward, cupped his jaw, and kissed him — slow, deep, long. You kissed him like someone trying to light a match in a storm.

His lips moved with yours. Just enough to make your body arch into his, just enough to almost fool you into believing he’d let it grow. But then he pulled away. Softly. With love. With that infuriating gentleness he always used when he didn’t want to hurt you — but was doing exactly that.

“I’ll come to bed soon,” he whispered. “Okay?”

You straightened up, swallowed the ache, and rushed your hands down the front of your silk robe.

“Okay,” you answered. No expression. Just that polite, practiced tone you’d inherited from years of keeping it together.

You walked out of the study with bare feet silent on the floor, heart thundering behind your ribs, skin burning with rejection.

And behind you, Bruce returned to his work, never looking up again.

It annoyed you. To no end.

That was the truest thing you could say about it. That ache in your chest, that slow burn just under your ribs — it wasn’t just disappointment or even confusion anymore. It was pure irritation. You weren’t mad that he was tired. You weren’t mad that your days of spontaneous sex on every surface of the Manor were long gone. You weren’t even mad that time, life, and five kids had changed the rhythm of your marriage.

You were mad because none of it made sense.

If Bruce didn’t want you anymore — really, truly didn’t want you — then why keep pretending? Why kiss you like he meant it? Why touch your waist when passing you in the hallway? Why whisper soft things against your shoulder in bed, hold you like you were still everything to him, and then roll over like his own body was just… done?

It made you feel insane.

You weren’t some naïve newlywed. You knew marriages went through phases. You’d weathered years with him — years of grief, of Gotham’s never-ending ache, of emergency hospital visits and skipped holidays and raising traumatized children into stubborn, brilliant people. But you’d done it together.

And you missed that together.

You missed him.

And in missing him, in aching for him, you began to question everything. That night, hours later, you found yourself in the big clawfoot tub in your bathroom, surrounded by white foamy bubbles and the soft scent of rose oil in the air. A record played quietly in the next room — a jazz instrumental he’d picked for you once upon a time. You liked the way it filled the silence without crowding your thoughts.

Steam curled around the edges of your bath, fogging the antique mirror. You sank deeper into the water, let it hug your shoulders. You should’ve found peace in it. You usually did.

But tonight, your skin prickled with unease.

You stared at the ceiling for a long time before grabbing your phone from the marble stool beside the tub. You didn’t think. You just tapped the name that always helped you make sense of yourself.

Lois.

The call connected after two rings.

“Hey,” she said softly. “What’s wrong?”

That was the thing about Lois. She never started with “Hello” or “How are you?” — she went straight to the point. She always knew. And you’d always loved her for that.

You let out a sigh, staring down at the water sliding between your knees.

“I think my husband doesn’t want me anymore,” you said plainly.

There was a beat of silence on the other end. Then, in typical Lois Lane fashion, “You want me to break his nose or his heart?”

A short, helpless laugh escaped your mouth. But it faded quickly.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” she replied. “But okay. Let’s back up. What happened?”

You leaned your head back against the rim of the tub, water rippling against your collarbones. “It’s not just tonight. It’s been building for months. We still do all the couple things — date nights, dancing in the kitchen, breakfast in bed when I’ve had a bad night, gifts, flowers, notes, the whole damn fairy tale — but when it comes to anything physical? I’m practically throwing myself at him.”

“And he’s not reacting?”

“He is. That’s the problem. It’s not like he’s shutting me out completely. He kisses me, touches my hair, lets me climb on top of him on the couch sometimes — but it always stops right there. Always.”

Lois made a thoughtful noise. “Huh.”

“Huh?” you repeated. “That’s all you’ve got? Huh?”

“I’m thinking,” she said, and you could practically hear her pacing. “Okay. Tell me this — do you think he’s doing it on purpose? Like, is it something you feel, or something you know?”

“I feel it,” you admitted. “I feel it in my bones. I feel it when I kiss him and he pauses, like he’s deciding something. I feel it when his hand goes to my waist and then just… stops. And it’s not like he’s afraid I’ll say no. I’m half-naked in the study and he says I’m tired, Lois.”

A sharp exhale. “Okay. First of all, I’m going to say this as delicately as I can: your husband is an idiot.”

“Agreed.”

“But he’s not that kind of idiot. Not when it comes to you. You’re the only person he doesn’t let the world destroy. If he’s pulling away, it’s not because he doesn’t want you. It’s because he’s protecting something. Or hiding something.”

You stared down at your knees, eyes hot. “Yeah. That’s what scares me.”

“Because you think it’s about you?”

“Because I don’t know what it’s about,” you admitted, voice cracking just slightly. “I don’t think it’s an affair. God, if it were that, I’d burn Gotham to the ground with him inside it. But it’s not. He’s not distant in that way. He’s… soft. Too soft. Like he thinks I’ll break.”

Lois hummed. “Do you think he’s avoiding it because of you? Or because of himself?”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you sure this isn’t something physical or psychological on his end? That man has been beaten, stitched, crushed, and set on fire. What if it’s not about desire, but… I don’t know. Pain? Or fear? Or age catching up with his ego?”

“I tried to ask him,” you said, sinking lower into the water. “He shut it down before I could get a full sentence out.”

“Well, of course he did. Bruce doesn’t talk until he’s cornered. You know that. And if it’s something vulnerable? He’ll never bring it up first. You’ll have to start the war.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, well. I’m too tired to start another war.”

“No, you’re not,” Lois said calmly. “You’re tired of not being chosen. There’s a difference. And honestly? You’re going to have to make him look you in the eyes and see you again. Because he does love you — even when he’s an idiot, he loves you — but sometimes they need reminding. Especially the ones who wear capes.”

You sat with that. Let it settle deep.

Because you knew she was right. You were tired, but it wasn’t just the sleepless nights or the pacing between rooms waiting for a hand that never reached for yours. It was the ache of invisibility. Of wanting someone who didn’t seem to want you back — not in the way he used to. Not in the way you still craved.

“I hate this,” you muttered. “I feel stupid. Like I’m begging for scraps of attention. Like I’m trying to sell him something he already owns.”

Lois’s voice softened. “You’re not selling anything. You’re reminding him you exist. That’s what marriage is sometimes. Not a constant state of lust. Just two people re-learning how to want each other in the cracks of routine.”

You swallowed hard. Closed your eyes.

“What if I’ve changed too much?”

“You have,” she said, without hesitation. “We all do. But the right man keeps learning you. Over and over. You just have to shake him out of the cave long enough to remember what he’s got.”

You opened your eyes slowly, staring up at the old chandelier above the tub. One of the boys had tried to climb it once, years ago. Jason, probably. Or maybe Dick. That chandelier had been through as much as you had. Still holding.

“I don’t know what to do next,” you admitted quietly.

“You do,�� Lois said. “You just haven’t decided to do it yet.”

You sat in that bath until the water grew lukewarm, the bubbles dissolved into thin lace over your thighs, and the scent of rose oil faded into something faint. When you finally stood, your skin was wrinkled, your eyes clearer. You toweled off slowly, moving like someone who’d just been told they were going to war and had no armor yet.

But you’d find it.

You always did.

Because if Bruce Wayne thought he could coast through a marriage with you by kissing your forehead and calling it love, he was deeply mistaken.

And you were going to remind him — not only with seduction, not with sweetness, but with the only weapon you had left in your arsenal.

Anger.

You let it pass. Three days, one week, until it turned to exactly twelve days. Twelve nights of cold sheets and soft forehead kisses. Twelve mornings of waiting to feel something — anything — more than brushed fingertips and rehearsed affection. You smiled. You nodded. You played your role. But inside, you counted down in silence.

On the twelfth day, you made your move.

Tim and Damian were sent off to the Kent farm. Jon was already there, and Conner too. You’d said something about giving them time away from the city. Time to stretch out and rest, get out of the Manor for once. They bought it. No suspicion.

And Alfred? Alfred was harder. He’d raised Bruce. Which meant he knew the both of you inside out. But you cornered him in the kitchen, hands folded neatly, voice too sweet.

“I want you to take tomorrow off.”

His brows rose. “Is something the matter, ma’am?”

You smiled. “No. That’s the point. Nothing’s the matter. And I want to keep it that way.”

He studied you for a long moment — the glint in your eye, the way you were biting your tongue behind your molars, the way you were clearly plotting something. And yet, he simply gave a slow nod.

“I’ll be gone until tomorrow evening, then.”

You kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

And just like that, the house was empty.

You started the morning with a shower that lasted longer than usual — hot, thorough, indulgent. You scrubbed away every last trace of resentment and sadness and left the water with only one feeling left in your chest: intent. The robe you wore trailed behind you like smoke, but only for the walk to your closet.

There, you reached for the black piece.

It had come after a long coffee date with Selina. The two of you had met up earlier that week, tucked away at a downtown café where no paparazzi dared linger, and while sipping espresso, she had looked you dead in the eye and said:

“Do you want to be loved, or do you want to be wanted?”

You had blinked at her, caught off guard. “Aren’t those the same?”

“Absolutely not,” she’d said. “Bruce loves people from afar. That’s his whole thing. But he only wants people who know how to make him feel. You’ve been with him too long. You’re safe now. He’s probably terrified.”

“Of what?”

“Of not being enough,” she said plainly. “He knows you’re beautiful. He’s known it forever. But the man is aging. Slower than most, sure, but still. And you? You’ve only gotten hotter.”

You snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“No, I’m Selina Kyle,” she said with a grin. “And I’m telling you right now — if he’s retreating, it’s not you. It’s him. Which means you have two options: you can wait until he figures it out alone, or you can remind him of exactly who he married.”

Hence the shopping trip.

Hence the black sheer piece — a floor-length number made from a whisper of fabric, the kind that clung where it mattered and floated where it didn’t. Underneath, a matching lingerie set, all dark lace and suggestion. Red lipstick. Light perfume. No jewelry. Just you, barefoot and deliberate.

You waited in his study. The sun was beginning to dip low, the shadows stretching long against the floor. You perched on the edge of his desk, back straight, legs crossed. Every line of your body was arranged with precision — relaxed but watchful.

Bruce stepped into the room a few moments later, as if summoned by thought. He looked like always — suit still on from a long day, tie loose, hair slightly mussed. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, he paused.

You didn’t move. You let the silence sit.

You smiled slowly. “Hi, handsome.”

He said your name like a question. Quiet. Cautious. “What’s going on?”

You stood, crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps. Let him see every inch of you. The curve of your hip under sheer black, the arch of your back, the shadow of your thighs. You stopped inches from him, dragged one painted nail along the line of his collar.

“I missed you.”

His jaw tensed. “You look… stunning, and dressed for… something.”

“I am. Do I tempt you, Bruce?”

He didn’t answer. That silence. That goddamn silence.

You leaned up. Kissed his jaw. Whispered, “Do I?”

His hands came up — not to pull you close, but to gently, gently move you back.

And that was the end of your patience.

You stepped away from him like you’d been slapped. The air between you snapped taut. Your voice, when it came, shook.

“Do you still love me?”

He blinked. “What?”

“I said,” you repeated, “do you still love me? Or am I just the mother of your children now? A warm body next to you in bed and nothing more?”

His face twisted. “Don’t say that. Of course I love you.”

“Why not?” you asked. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? You haven’t touched me in weeks. You haven’t looked at me like you used to. Do you even want me anymore, Bruce?”

“Of course I want you.”

“Then prove it.”

He turned away. Ran a hand through his hair. “It’s not you.”

“Then who is it about? Because you sure as hell aren’t letting me in.”

His hands clenched into fists. “I’m tired. I’m sore. My back hurts in the morning, I can’t sleep through the night, I’m slower in combat and Alfred hounds me about my salt intake—”

“—so you stopped making love to your wife?”

He flinched.

You kept going. “You didn’t stop holding me. You didn’t stop kissing me, or texting me, or dancing in the hallway after wine. But you stopped wanting me. And it’s making me feel like I’m losing something I didn’t even know I could lose.”

His voice cracked then. “Because I don’t feel like I deserve you anymore.”

Silence fell like a hammer.

You blinked. “What?”

He sat back down slowly, running a hand down his face. “I look in the mirror and I don’t see the man I was. I see some guy with back pain and shoulders that ache when it rains. My stomach’s not what it used to be. I feel heavier. I’m not as cut. I’m not—”

“Wait a minute,” you said, stunned. “Is this about your body?”

He didn’t look up.

Your heart broke. And then softened. And then melted.

“Bruce Wayne,” you said, stepping forward, kneeling in front of him like he was the one who needed comforting now, “are you seriously telling me that you’ve been avoiding sex with me because you think you’re not fit enough?”

“I’m not twenty-five anymore.”

“Neither am I.”

He looked at you then, really looked. And god, he looked so young in that moment, despite everything he’d said. Young in fear. In insecurity. In the nakedness of being vulnerable.

You cupped his jaw. Kissed the corner of his mouth.

“You think I care if your stomach’s softer?” you whispered. “If your hair’s graying? I love your body because it’s yours. Because it holds the man I wake up next to, the father of my children, the one who holds me like I’m sacred.”

He closed his eyes. Leaned into your hand.

“I feel ridiculous,” he admitted.

“You’re beautiful,” you said. “And if you don’t believe that yet, then I’ll just have to keep proving it to you. Again and again.”

When he kissed you this time, it wasn’t out of guilt or obligation. It was desperate. Real. Hungry. And when he picked you up and set you on his desk, nothing in you felt hollow anymore.

There was a sharp clatter as a tablet and a stack of reports were swept aside — a small, careless act that told you more than words could. Bruce Wayne never left his desk messy. But right now, he didn’t care. Right now, all he cared about was you.

Your back arched slightly as you shifted on the hard wood, legs falling open just enough for him to step between them. He pressed his forehead to yours for a moment before kissing you again, slower this time, more controlled. His hands rested at your hips, thumbs brushing back and forth over the thin lace of your panties, not with lust but with awe.

“I’ve forgotten how to breathe around you,” he murmured against your mouth.

“You never forgot,” you whispered, your lips grazing his jaw now. “You just held your breath too long.”

He hummed something low in his throat — part agreement, part apology. One of his hands drifted up, fingers catching the edge of the sheer fabric that still clung to your arms and shoulders like fog.

“I love this on you,” he said, voice almost reverent.

You smiled softly. “It’s new.”

“Selina?”

“Who else?”

That earned a quiet chuckle from him, the sound vibrating against your collarbone as he dipped his head, pressing a kiss there. Then another. And another. Each one slower than the last, trailing downward, lips ghosting across skin like he was trying to memorize it all over again.

Your hands moved to his shoulders, dragging his jacket down one arm at a time until it fell to the floor. Then the buttons of his shirt — each one undone with deliberate patience, your fingers lingering on every inch of newly exposed skin.

And there he was.

Still strong. Still broad. But softened now, not by neglect, but by time. The lines of muscle beneath his skin weren’t as sharp as they once were, but you didn’t care. You liked him like this — still powerful, still grounded, but more human.

“You were never meant to be marble,” you said, hands brushing over his chest. “You’re not a statue. You’re a man. My man.”

He exhaled shakily. His fingers slid under the straps of your black piece, tugging them slowly off your shoulders until they fell limp at your sides.

“Can I?” he asked softly.

You nodded.

The fabric slipped down, pooling around your waist. Beneath it, the lace bra framed you perfectly, delicate, a contrast to your heated skin. His eyes dragged over you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered.

“And you’re mine,” you said, leaning forward to kiss the corner of his mouth.

He kissed you back fiercely. The red from your lipstick had already begun to smudge slightly against his mouth, staining him, marking him. He didn’t stop to wipe it away. He didn’t hesitate.

Then his mouth moved lower.

You laid back on the desk slowly, hair fanning across the polished wood, breathing shallow now. He pressed kisses down the valley between your breasts, over the soft curve of your ribs, the edge of your stomach. When he reached the waistband of your panties, he paused merely for a second before kissing your thighs like he was kneeling before divinity.

Your hands threaded into his hair. Your eyes blurred. “Bruce…”

“Shh,” he said gently. “Let me.”

And you did.

He peeled the panties away with care, like they were made of something sacred, and set them aside. Then he leaned in, slow, careful, kissing the inside of your thigh, moving upward with a heat that made you tremble. When his mouth finally found the center of you, you let out a soft cry, hips lifting off the desk.

He held you there, one arm under your thigh, the other hand pressed flat against your stomach. Guiding. Grounding.

“I've been thinking too much of this,” he mumbled, warmth breath over your sensible mount. He pushed his tongue against it, pressing it to taste you better. “Every night, when you thought I was asleep. How could I let my poor wife like that, huh?”

“Bruce,” you tug on his hair a little, and he just smiles against you, sneaking the tip of his tongue around in slow movements. You don't take long to recognize he's spelling his name on your clit.

You gasp and squirm a little, the stimulation getting to you rather quickly since it has been so long. A long palm of his rushes up, ripping your bra without effort to press against your boob.

“Bruce! That was—expensive.”

“I'll buy you the whole damn shop,” he mutters, fully pressing his tongue, lips catching your pearl with vigor, as if it was an elixir he couldn't stop drinking. His fingers roll your nipple, already hardened. “And you will sit on my face after tonight. Religiously.”

A breathy laugh escaped you before turning into a whole moan, your hand tugging on his hair to keep him against your core, the pleasure making you roll your eyes to the back of your head. He dragged the hand on your stomach to your thigh, pushing it more open.

You shrieked when the palm slapped against the skin of your ass-cheek. He just pressed it with his palm, eating you without rest, not even a second thought on his head but to please you. His moans and grunts just made you wetter.

“Feels so good, B,” you mumble, already drunk on the feeling. You tend to be a bit chatty, full of sounds, something he had grown to love in merely the first time you had been together. “Sooo good.”

“Only the best for my love.” He licked a long swipe from your pulsing hole to your clit, finally deciding on sucking on it. You grind against his face, one hand clinging to the wood while the other pressed hard on his locks, keeping him pressed against you.

While his tongue messed into you, his nose pressed just perfectly against the sensitive button, working up your orgasm rather quickly. You moaned loudly, thanking whatever God had brought the idea to get the kids and Alfred out.

“Don't stop!” You gasped, eyes closing for a second before falling to him again. “'M so close, Bruce—”

And of course he wouldn't stop. Not when you tasted that sweet, when your aroma —your sweet perfume mixed with your natural scent— expanded on all the room, when your taste could make him die and come back again. He would die a happy man, though, drunk in you, pressed deeply into your folds.

Before you knew it, you came over this tongue, moans coating his ears as sweet honey. He didn't even let you squirm, drinking all your nectar, not letting a drop go to waste. After that, he fully kissed you, his bulge pressing just so good against you.

“I think,” you gasped under his lips, “I saw the light for a second.”

Bruce chuckled, kissing your jaw while letting you come down from the high. You let him do it, as well as caress your waist and tits. After months of nothing, this felt like a gift made in heaven only for you. Pushing him back softly, you sit up.

“Wanna suck you,” you mumble, standing with a little jump. The gown falls, just like the bra, except that one is terribly ripped and the other not. You don't even let him answer, just making him step back until he falls on the couch.

As quick as a flash —no pun intended—, his pants and boxers go off, just beside your own clothes. You had always enjoyed going down on Bruce: he lets you go at whatever rhythm you wish, length, grip. Perhaps it was because you always enjoyed teasing him, thought you would now leave that for another opportunity.

Tonight, you just wanted to love all of him.

So there, on your knees, you grabbed his length, your fingers merely grazing around. You kitty-kissed the mushroom tip, too in love with how red it looked. His hand held your hair, not even with force like you had done with him, but with pure carefulness.

“So pretty,” you whispered over it, blowing softly. “And all mine.”

You licked a strip up from the base, taking him on your mouth by the time you reached the final. With that, you pushed inch by inch down your throat. Bruce was large and thick, both things that drove you crazy more than once. He had ruined you for every other man.

He let out a soft moan, mouth hanging open, thighs that opened more and more to let you accommodate between them. You gripped his base, not taking him all in. Your jaw asked for freeness with that length already, it would probably lock if you took more.

So you kept your rhythm, licking and humming with your red lips making a mess on it. His sounds got louder and hoarser with your movements, hips slightly pushing up, which you accepted delightfully, bobbing your head with all pleasure.

A puddle of pre-cum and saliva grew at the base, splashing around his pelvis, but neither of you cared enough about it. A gag escaped you, forcing tears in your eyes, and when he tried to pull back you just pulled deeper, not wanting to let him go. You looked at him through your lashes, merely able to see his form.

“Doing so good,” he grumbled. “My sweet—wife. I've neglected you, and you repair me like this—so perfect-”

You hollowed your cheeks, one hand kneading at his knee, taking him deeper before going up for air. With a 'pop', he escaped your lips, dripping a mix of liquids. You smiled, a bit dazed, and continued to jerk him.

The hand in your hair let go for a second, caressing your cheek. A bit out of breath still, you licked the sides of his cock, kissing it, leaving red, faint marks all over it. His fingers, messing into your locks, pulled you back gently.

“Don't wanna cum if it's not inside of you,” he explained when you looked at him, frowning. Within a second, he already had you face down—ass up on the couch, hands gripping into the armchair while his cock circled your clit, pressing on it to see it slip from how wet you were.

“Bruce, if you keep teasing, I swear to God—”

You gasped as he slipped into you slowly, moaning lowly at the feeling of your velvet walls clenching on him, warm and made for him. The first thrusts were calm, merely getting you used to his size once again, getting used to your heat as well.

Then, there was no way of stopping. Your loud moans sounded all over the room and the halls, as the obscene sound of his hips slapping against your ass, skin-to-skin. He grabbed your waist with one hand, the other drawing eights on your clit.

“Feels so good! Don't—don't stop,” you whined, grinding down, face pushed to the side to breathe and throw back glances.

“Yeah? You feel good?” Bruce licked his lips, dragging you up by the nape of your neck, still sliding up and down his cock. He kissed below your ear, licking the salty taste of your throat. “Want more?”

“Yes! Yesyesyes— Please, B.”

“You're taking it so well,” he bit softly into your skin, pushing with more effort. His pressure on your pearl increased as well, making you squeal in pleasure.

You pushed your hands up, squeezing your tits in full delight, almost cock-drunk. His continuous thrusts into your already sensitive hole made you just moan, nothing else able to come from your mouth. You could feel your climax already building up.

It seemed like he could also feel it, since he pulled out, making you change positions, entering just as quick, all before a single complaint could fall from your lips. The missionary had always been a personal favourite of Bruce, as he could see your face, kiss you and get as close as possible.

You grabbed one of your knees, expanding the space so he was able to move even harder inside. The other was on one of his hands, the bone touching your chest with how much he pushed it. But it was all worthy, his weight pressing into you, his pelvis grazing your clit, all for his kiss.

Your mouths clashed against each other, alongside a mix of moans and grunts. His free palm rested on your throat, merely pressing into it, just enough to make you melt, trying to grind down to get everything. It just made him thrust more and more, making you cry in ecstasy, throwing your head back.

“There! Oh, fuck— There, B. There! So good. Fuckfuckfuck,” your sobs of pleasure increased as his mouth caught one of your tits, sucking and slightly biting into it while not losing the rhythm. “Bru-ce, 'm coming. 'M so close.”

You let go of your knee, pushing your hand into his hair to take him back of your tit, kissing him while clawing at his back, mewling with pleasure, eyes teary. Everything was too much —the sweated skins, the pulses of his cock, the veins pushing against your gummy wall just right—, but you knew it was only because of your soon climax.

You came first, clenching down so hard it forced his own. He completely drenched the inside of your walls, painting them white, a ring of the same shade at his base. His face fell on your neck, biting and kissing while your moans descended to hums of pleasure.

“Love you,” you mumbled, hands trembling but grabbing his face to see him. ”Love you so much, Brucie.”

His lips clashed against yours, cock still inside of you but softened —though you knew it wasn't going to be like that much longer than a few minutes—. A single thread of saliva united your mouths.

“I love you as well, my love.”

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader

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