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dearlawdimasimp · 9 days ago

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rear suspension - [bruce wayne]

free drinks at the iceberg lounge sounded all too tempting when you first heard of tonight’s event, but what you hadn’t known is that some of gotham’s finest faces would be in attendance, and a certain suit and tie has his eyes set on you…

ft. batman / bruce wayne x f!reader

18+ MDNI. if you do not have your age on your blog you will be blocked, you must be 18+ to interact with and follow this content.

content: porn no plot, smut, p in v, safe sex, v fingering, car sex, chance encounter, playboy bruce wayne, tiny bit of alcohol, one batman mention, comic bruce with batman forever inspiration (happy thirty years batman forever <3)

word count: 10.5k

ao3 ver. (must be a registered user to view)

Ice at the bottom of a hurricane glass. You swirl it idly as it melts down, nudging increasingly smaller cubes with the end of a straw. You contemplate another as you swing your feet with your boredom but the bar staff are already inundated with constant orders. You’d hate to contribute to the onslaught any more than you already have.

But, for you, the night has already run its course.

While others are just finding their momentum, whisked away in the mindlessness of a drunken buzz, you’ve about run out of the patience you had reserved for the evening. And even then you didn’t start with much.

It’s Oliver Queen’s birthday, or so you’ve been told. You haven’t actually caught a glimpse of the man all night but on occasion you’ll hear a voice obnoxious enough to be his echo over the crowd. Raucous laughter always follows but it’s hollow, performed to please and believed by the man in the middle.

It’s the kind of people you’d expect to find, suits and ties and dresses with plunging necklines. All of these people attend as a formality, business partners and investors, acquaintances and maybe even rivals. You doubt that there’s a single person among them who would call tonight’s host a friend.

At least that’s one thing you have in common.

Maybe it wasn’t worth being here after all. You weren’t invited but it seems like nobody formally was. Queen had rented out The Iceberg Lounge, opened the doors, and given it no further thought. Even as a total stranger getting in was easy.

And sure, the couple of drinks you’d managed to get from the open bar certainly tasted pleasantly expensive, but the novelty quickly wore off thanks to all the tipsy businessmen you had to trade pleasantries with.

You should leave before they get any worse.

Though, just when you thought you’d found a safe table tucked in the corner to call yours, yet another suit and tie decides it’s the perfect time to meet your eyes. But he’s not just any suit and tie.

“Mr. Wayne.” If you had a sip of your drink left you may well have choked on it.

Dark, slicked back hair with a few strays that hang down from a widow's peak and reach the eyebrows. Greying strands by the temples and a clean shaven, sharp jaw. His expression is steeled and eyes cold behind thin framed glasses, but there’s a flashing glint of acknowledgment that shines briefly. He looks gorgeous, as neatly put together as is typically expected of him.

But he almost looks startled when you address him, despite standing across the table you’re clearly situated at. Although he quickly muscles down the telling way his brows jumped up.

“Apologies.” He nods, clearing his throat and fixing you a stare down his nose. “I didn’t realise there was anyone over here.”

You’re not sure if you should think of him as rude for that. Though, it is quite true that the corner you’ve tucked yourself into is otherwise desolate.

It’s not particularly close to the bar but instead above it on one of the balcony type floors the venue boasts, giving you a good look down at it. The DJ of the night is as far from you as you could manage and the wall speaker that should be interrupting you is broken, creating one of the few pockets of relative quiet in the whole building. The light is less abrasive, too. The rest of the place favours white light that stings like LED headlights but they don’t reach you over here. It’s a nice spot, actually.

And the man across from you must’ve thought the same.

If you knew him you would’ve known that he considers this ‘his table’, would’ve known that this is where he always slinks away to when the unpleasant company of the place becomes too overbearing. No one ever joins him over here, it’s an unspoken rule of sorts, so he stands unsure for a moment upon making eye contact with you.

His tolerance for socialising has already been pushed to a limit this evening, patience worn down even worse than yours. But something about you makes him hesitate. He looks you over, eyes sweeping up and down what isn’t blocked by the table, and reaches for the chair opposite you.

“Is this seat taken?” Mr. Wayne asks with a casual confidence about him, a voice that’s smooth as velvet. He doesn’t wait for your answer before he starts pulling the chair out.

Nervousness makes a grab at you, upskittling something uneasy like butterflies in your stomach. His gaze is immobilising, it wipes your mind of any rebuttal. You nod, pursing your lips and sitting back in your seat in an effort to look more presentable.

All night you’d been trying your hardest not to get trapped with someone like this, successfully making a getaway the other times men of money had tried to engage you. The energy it takes to humour them and their out of touch conversation topics is never worth it, after all. But now you’re cornered.

“Sorry to intrude,” He starts, setting a mostly empty whisky glass down on the table. “I hope you don’t mind too much.”

You glance at it beside your own. No ice. Neat. And right about now the last sip of it is looking like the perfect remedy for your throat that’s suddenly gone dry.

“That’s alright. I was just about to make my way out of here, anyway.” You shrug, trying not to look at him for worry your expression will give away your antipathy.

“So soon?”

But you can't deny that the sound of his voice is alluring. He’s well spoken, purposeful, and lacks the grating drawl that all of his associates seem to possess.

“Uh, yes.” You stammer, made shy under his unwavering gaze. “Not to be rude but this isn’t my sort of crowd. I can't stand these types.”

He either ignores or fails to realise the fact that the generalisation you made includes him, and hums a low noise of understanding.

“Not rude at all. Neither can I.”

It seems the irony is lost on him.

You can’t help but laugh, trying to bite back the coy giggle that begs to fall from your lips, poorly hidden behind your closed fist that conceals your smile. The sound sets goosebumps running down Mr. Wayne’s arms, a little electric thrill that catches him by surprise.

Maybe it’s not so bad that you’re here, after all.

A more muted, polite chuckle comes from across the table, a deep rumble that’s heavy in its charm. His social battery is suddenly rejuvenated, awake and alive as the sweet sound of you fills his ears. The stare he gives you only becomes more brazen as he looks through his brows with something like a hankering starting up at the back of his mind.

You feel scrutinised. Ear tips flush hot and a shudder down the column of your spine has you clearing your throat and stopping your tittering with a cough into your first.

“Sorry.” The whisper comes before you can register the thought. “I don’t know why that tickled me so much.”

A grin tugs his lips, a flash of white teeth that’s most fetching. You’re not a regular, he can see that much, and he’s disappointed by the idea that you won’t be here to rescue a sour night in the future. The realisation brings on a sense of urgency.

He can’t let you slip through his fingers.

“Are you sure I can’t interest you in another drink?” He prompts, reaching for his glass to polish off what’s left.

There’s a pause, a moment of reservation, surprised by both his asking and the fact that you don’t immediately hate the idea. You’re loosening up, growing somewhat used to his company and finding yourself intrigued by his unexpected chatter. But maybe it’s just the jealousy over that last sip.

“You’d be lucky to get to the bar.” With a nod you guide his eyes to the crowd of drunkards surrounding the place from all angles. All seats are taken and some unsophisticated types have taken to sitting on the bar top, much to the chagrin of the staff.

Mr. Wayne hums. “I suppose that does look rather univinting, doesn’t it?”

“Mhm.” You look back at him.

There’s a poignant pause, a tsk of his lips pursing and you feel inclined to reach for your glass again, maybe swirl the ice around some more.

You thought he’d be glad to hear that you’re leaving, working under the assumption that he was seeking solitude as you’ve heard that he so often does, not half the socialite he’s said to be. You also thought you’d be in more of a rush, that you would’ve stood by now and taken your leave. But something keeps you in your seat.

“Well then. Can I at least see you to your car?”

Eyes dart up, something like bemusement lingering. But behind thin glass lenses the look he gives you is as resolute as ever, giving nothing away. You want to groan but you bite it back.

“Oh, I appreciate it but that’s alright. I walked, actually.”

Finally, his expression falters.

It’s discreet, something you would’ve missed had you not been staring. But a crease pulls between his brows that knit taut together, the bridge of his nose scrunched, and the corner of his lip twitches with what could’ve been a frown. He composes himself too quickly for you to know for certain.

It’s a late night in Gotham and a weekend too, Saturday having turned to Sunday only a couple of hours prior. It’s the worst night for it, really, at least according to patrol records. But the greater of his worries is this damn event. All of the criminals that would typically be in the lounge at this time have been kicked out for the sake of this egofest, making the streets an even bigger risk than what’s typical.

Walking home amongst them, especially looking as you do, would no doubt be a grave mistake.

“Right.” Mr. Wayne nods, curt and visibly tense.

The pads of his fingers drum on the table in front of you and he glances into his empty glass as if the idea he’s looking for will be swishing at the bottom. You wait, left to sit with your confusion while he muses.

“I’d hate to be…” He starts, trailing off in uncertainty. It takes him a moment to find the right words, suddenly careful in how he regards you. “Brash.”

You watch him wince, growing skeptical. “But?”

“But,” He huffs. “I know this area well enough to suggest that walking home isn’t the best idea, unfortunately.”

Another pause. Shorter this time. You glance at your hands where they rest in your lap, thumbs twiddling. You can feel his gaze draped heavy on you, expectant and resolute.

“Well, I don’t really have another option.”

He jumps in rather hastily. “I can drive you, instead.”

You don’t dare to look at him, knowing you’ll find out how persuading he can be. “I appreciate that, Mr. Wayne. I really do but—“

“Bruce.”

“Pardon?”

“Call me Bruce. I insist.” He sits back in his chair and holds his head a little higher, recovering some of the nonchalance and bravado that’s typical of him.

The tension is nearing on stifling, a heady presence in the air that feels to push on your chest with its eagerness to have you acknowledge it. It doesn’t look to make the same impression on Bruce, though. He’s relatively composed by comparison, but with another glance down at your lap you miss the way he tugs at the collar of his shirt as if it’s suffocating him.

“Oh.” You feel your cheeks warm, whole body flushed by an ardent heat that makes you shy.

“Well, Bruce, as nice as it is for you to offer, I'd hate to waste your time.”

He almost looks offended, incredulous that you’d suggest such a thing.

“You wouldn’t be wasting my time, you can be sure of that. I was looking to get out of here myself, anyway.”

And just like that he’s twisted your arm.

A combination of his charming timbre and steady tenacity were sure to be your undoing. You’d anticipated it when he sat down, but still you could kick yourself for it. Although, you could soon be thanking yourself instead.

“Well, only if you’re sure.” You concede.

“But uh, without sounding rude, should you be driving?” He raises a sharp brow and you point at the empty glass that his fingers are still wrapped around. He scoffs but finds your concern endearing.

“This is all I’ve had. But if you’d prefer, I don’t mind sitting a while to sober up.”

To your relief he takes no offence, shrugging suited shoulders coolly. If anything he’s glad to have the opportunity to talk some more, set on bypassing the formalities and banal small talk, all of the things that create an obstacle between you both.

“I’d like to, if that’s alright with you.” You nod, a polite smile pulling at your lips. His breath hitches in his throat, a skip of his heart.

All this over a smile. He has to wonder if you know what you’re doing to him.

“Of course. But let’s talk there, not here.” Finally, Bruce lets go of his glass and rises from his seat, walking around to your side of the table. Extending an open palm he offers you his hand, his stature imposing at this angle.

Your heart races as you slip your hand into his, the heat of his touch bristling up your arm when he closes his grip.

“My car is right outside. Shall we go?”

The music fades, the bass grows weak, lost beneath the crowd of murmurs that you leave behind. You’re surprised no one notices him passing by, a head above the horde with a notorious grin that’s sure and no doubt on show right now. But no one seems to care.

You don’t know why you thought that they would. After all, a dolled up and otherwise unfamiliar girl hooked onto the arm of Bruce Wayne is nothing if not typical. But to you it’s slightly troubling.

For no apparent reason you expect someone to notice that your hand doesn’t rest comfortably on his blazer clad bicep, that your steps don’t fall in a nice rhythm with his. You don’t feel like you fit the bill of his usual conquest and yet he himself has this eager glow about him, satisfied to have you at his side and keen to escort you out of this underwhelming event.

To think that your evening has strayed so far from expectation, it’s nerve-wracking but electrifying. Perhaps you would be better off taking it in your stride.

This isn’t an opportunity you’ll see again, after all, company you’ll likely only share in once.

You hold your head a little higher and by the time you’ve somewhat quieted your mind you’ve reached the back exit. Security offer Bruce a steady nod and a man of intimidating stature opens the fire door for you, holding it steady as you both pass through, you ahead of Bruce.

The night is bitter, a biting breeze turning the air cold and eliciting goosebumps down your arms. You look over your shoulder for Bruce who is barely a step behind you. His hands take purchase on your upper arms, tepid palms sweeping up and down to encourage some warmth into your skin.

“That’s me over there.” He nods ahead and you follow his eyeline, landing on a pristine black jaguar.

You know it immediately from the hood ornament, the big cat polished and proud. However, despite this it’s a less flashy pick than what you had expected. It’s no doubt expensive, of that you can be sure, but it’s otherwise a classic little car that’s surprisingly quaint.

With a grip that's steadfast on your arms he walks you toward it, his presence behind you acting like a push forward. He only takes a hand away to fish in his pocket when you’re standing by the passenger side. It’s three doors, relatively low to the ground, and through the window you can see the beige leather interior.

It only takes a second for him to have it unlocked, the jingling keys hooked onto his index finger as he opens the door for you. But before he invites you in he unexpectedly folds down the passenger seat. It slides forward on its rails and opens up access to the back bench, a comfy, deep seat in the same pristine leather.

Bruce steps back, an outstretched arm holding down the collapsed front seat when he turns to you.

“I figure we can sit in the back for now, if you don’t mind. More comfortable since we’ve got some time to kill.”

“Oh?” You utter, barely more than a breath. But he isn’t discouraged, looking at you with a patient smile. You nod and duck into the back seat, shuffling over to the furthest side.

It only takes a moment to appreciate that he’s right, it is more comfortable. Relaxing against the back bench you find it to be surprisingly spacious, having been concerned about the amount of room when you first stepped in. It looks cramped from the outside but once you’re situated it’s more than pleasant.

Tinted rear windows offer a sense of security and privacy while blocking any harsh light that tries to shine in. And with the front seats pushed forward you’re allowed plenty of legroom, which is a clear necessity for Bruce as he gets comfortable next to you.

Leant forward he pulls the car door closed, leaving the seat folded as he leans back with a sigh. His knee is pressed snug against yours and for some reason it makes your heart jump, a giddy skip of a beat while he doesn’t even seem to notice. You make no attempt to move away.

“Much better, don’t you think?” Bruce asks, a sidelong glance over his glasses trained heavy on you.

You nod, returning a less confident look. “Mhm.”

The tension is mounting again already, if it had ever abated at all. There’s something about him that’s causing this nervous energy to thrum through you, an eruption of butterflies in the gut and a heat down the back of your neck.

It’s commanding you but you feel no inclination to stop it. If anything, you're enjoying it.

“I haven’t seen you before, have I?”

And there he goes making it worse. The question comes impassively enough, innocuous on the surface but you’re not ignorant enough to not hear his further implication.

When you give no answer he reaches for you with an assertive hand taking purchase on your leg. Lithe fingers hook around your thigh while his thumb sweeps soothing strokes just above your knee, an unexpectedly chaste ministration. Regardless, a breath catches in your throat, a gulp you strain to swallow down.

“Uh no.” You manage your quiet retort. “This isn’t my kind of place.”

Bruce hums, now gazing passively at where his touch rests. “Then what brought you here?”

You shrug. “Honestly? I just wanted to sneak a couple of free drinks, they were letting anyone and everyone in, so.”

“Of course they were.” He seems unimpressed. “Queen’s security are a joke.”

“Don’t mention him. It was bad enough knowing I was in the same building as him.”

Bruce laughs, a break through his composed and collected attitude to something more hearty and sincere. He’s glad you’re finding your voice now, working past that shyness and giving him a proper look at you in all your sweetness.

“Not a fan then, I take it?” He asks knowingly.

You’re quick to shake your head and mimic a more coy type of laugh. The mirth that’s found its way around you allows a far greater sense of comfort, abandoning your unease as you’re finally able to drop your shoulders and give up your performative properness.

“Good, me either.” He squeezes your leg and the press of his fingertips makes you shudder. But he doesn’t comment.

He’s eating up every reaction, every giggle, every smile. It’s all so earnest and he simply isn’t used to it. But he needs more of it, craves being a familiar person to you, not someone new you have to hide yourself from.

But he knows that isn’t an option. Instead, he’ll need a quick fix, something a little more improper that can still sate the desire you’ve roused in him.

“Will I see you again?”

As easy as that he shifts the mood, a sense of severity brought in by his raspy timbre.

“Hm?”

His hand slides up your leg, resting mid thigh. “Well, given that this isn’t your type of place, do you think I’ll see you again?”

For some reason you find it difficult to answer, tempted to ask him to repeat himself just to buy some time although you heard him loud and clear. It’s a weighted question and you don’t want your answer to be taken as rejection. But you speak truthfully.

“I suppose not.” You again shrug and sigh. “I can't say I liked it in there.”

Bruce nods. “What about out here?”

“Out here’s much better.”

He smiles and you do too, a silent understanding.

“In that case,” He keens forward, ducking his head close to you and glancing at where his hand rests. Your heart thunders and you can do nothing but stare at his smug smirk. “If I may not get to see you again, how about we make the most of this?”

Your response is uncharacteristically quick. “Is that why you brought me back to your car?”

He scoffs, nonplussed but pleasantly amused. The smirk becomes something toothier.

“Not entirely. I will still be making sure that you make it home safely tonight. But if that’s all you need from me we can get in the front and—“

Then his hand starts to withdraw, whether because he’s unsure or because it’s his way of giving you the choice you don’t know. You grab it anyway. Perhaps a little too eagerly.

“I uh, I thought we needed to kill some time first?”

Finally his gaze flickers upwards, a glint in his eye as he stares over frames that slide down his nose.

“You’re right.” He’s absolutely beaming, eyes pushed to squint by a grin so wide it pulls dimples into place either side of it. His touch climbs higher, a tenacious grip that stills once his fingers brush the hem of your dress.

“Is this okay with you?” He asks patiently, trying to tamp down his hungry grin.

You nod, a breathy whisper of ‘yes’ falling from your lips.

“Come on then. I want you on my lap.”

Brows shoot up, your heartbeat droning in your ears as it quickens. You forgot to anticipate his boldness, forgot that this is nothing atypical for him. But it only furthers your excitement as he reaches over you to take you by the waist, a guiding pull and command to straddle him.

Take it in your stride, you remember. Enjoy the experienced touches he can offer you and let go of your inhibitions.

Knees plant either side of his hips, the leather seat moulding beneath the weight of you both. The hem of your dress is forced upwards as your legs spread over his thighs and his eyes immediately dart to the exposed skin, gaze greedy and climbing up your figure until your eyes meet.

“There you go.” Bruce hums, hands resting comfortably on your waist. His grip falls stronger now, thumbs pressing valleys into the soft give of your body. “How’s that, sweetheart?”

You gulp, the pet name hitting your ears heavy. He sees the way you shiver, the way your eyes glisten and hips unknowingly shift. He swears to himself that he won’t miss a thing, that he’ll truly make the most of this, of you.

“Good.” You nod with a sweet half-smile, your hands coming to rest on his broad shoulders. He returns the grin, again leaning forward but even closer now, his breath fanning hot on your cupid's bow.

“Good. Can I kiss you?”

One hand comes up to cup your jaw and his thumb rests idle by the corner of your mouth. You feel dwarfed in his hands.

You nod into his palm and he pounces.

Haste lends him to roughness, a bruising kiss that’s all hunger and no hiding. Bruce pulls you toward him with fingers hooking around the back of your neck, thumb resting on the apple of your cheek and he could groan at the heat radiating off of your skin. You can’t help the gasp you let slip into his mouth, fingertips curling into the collar of his blazer as if to brace yourself.

You feel you should be startled but the way his affections immediately set shockwaves rolling over your skin leads to something much more pleasant. You’re brimming with excitement, pulse quick and body pliant.

It’s a fumble to match his fervor, trying to follow his lead but he’s evidently got a better handle on this than you do. The press of his lips is confident, a graze of teeth on your bottom lip while your ragged breaths dance over his defined cupid's bow.

A muffled yelp peaks at the back of your throat and seems to snap him out of his carnal greed.

Bruce slows like it never happened, becoming much more deliberate with his actions and offering slower, sweeter kisses like apologies before pulling back. You’re left breathless at the loss of his lips.

“Sorry.” He clears his throat with no real sense of remorse to be found in his tone. His glasses are askew and the lenses foggy, cheeks ruddy and smile boyish. The sight makes your eyes wide and you feel the same smugness he so often shows for the first time tonight.

“Getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?” He laughs airily. “You’re just so sweet I can’t help it, darling.”

Mimicking his cheery laugh you turn away from him as bashfulness bubbles up in your chest. You can feel his spit on your lips and it makes you dizzy, mind slowly but surely fogging over with lust. His hand settles back on your jaw while you catch your breath, a light touch that now seems to hover patiently. You can hear his expensive watch ticking with his hand so close to your ear and it only scrambles your mind more.

“I don’t mind.” You utter after a moment, leaning into his touch and lifting your head. He immediately locks eyes with you, pupils blown and murky with something lying within.

“You don’t?” Bruce’s voice falls deeper, raspy with his asking.

You shake your head and find yourself unable to break the fierce eye contact. You could swear that a spark bounces between you, something unseen but palpable, perhaps even undeniable.

His hand falls away from your waist as he reaches to remove his glasses, folding them neat and discarding them on the neighbouring seat.

There’s a shift, his gaze far more intense without the obstruction. He favours your thigh now instead as fingertips nudge underneath the hiked up fabric of your dress and grope at supple flesh. They rest like they belong there, squeezing experimentally.

“Good.” He hums, low, satisfied. “Wouldn’t want to scare you off now, would I?”

Another laugh, short lived but earnest with your nervousness boiling over.

“It would take a lot more than that.” One of your hands slides off of his shoulder and down his chest, palm pressed flush against toned musculature. Despite his cool demeanor his heart is racing just as fast as yours, thundering beneath your touch.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

He’s back on you in an instant but maintains his composure this time around. His kiss is teasing and brisk, making you shudder as the chaste exchange does little to satiate the way he’s got you wound up already.

You know he’s doing it purposefully when you feel his pleased smile and your little whinge of protest only makes him worse. Pausing a breath between each slow kiss he tortures you with his sudden leisure, touch drifting from your jaw to your neck.

It forces your hand, spurring you on to chase him and press deeper into the kiss in search of what you ache for.

A low huff hits your lips when you reach and tug his tie, desperate hands seeking to urge him closer. His shoulders leave the back seat as he leans deeper in answer to your command and the leather creaks with the shift of your bodies. It makes your head spin, having not anticipated the way he bends to your wishes so gladly, emboldening you all the more.

Your breath hitches when his hands take purchase on your hips, one over your dress and one pushing further under it. With a steady grip he pulls you flush against him, hips to hips, and you shiver when he very intentionally guides you to grind over his lap.

A shy, unbidden moan escapes the back of your throat. You can feel him beneath you, a hard, heavy warmth that nudges your thigh as he rocks your body into his.

His doting deviates away from your lips, open mouthed kisses along the line of your jaw that drift down the column of your throat. A shaky breath tumbles from your mouth and you tip your head back to accommodate and encourage him.

Without thinking you begin to rut down against his lap, pliable in his hands and following his lead as if urged to. Bruce easily slows and lets you take over with your newfound fervor driving you.

It’s as if he’s been showing you precisely what he wants and guiding you to do it, wordlessly asking by planting the seed and pushing to advance the exchange.

First, the kiss. He was heedless and unabashed, immediately looking to dash decorum that had kept you at arms length when he first found you and instead make way for prurient curiosity. Then, his touches. His hands search your body like they know it already, brazenly exploring and searching for soft skin, mapping out the shape of you. There’s no time to be proper or reticent, no need either.

Bruce simply needed to show you that, show you what you can have and encourage you to seek it out, invite you to match his ardour.

Biting your bottom lip you find your breathing becomes more ragged as you beg to chase the sensation that’s shaking you. It’s like a fire starting low in your gut, embers steadily coming to life that make you hot from head to toe. But it’s not enough friction.

His lips pepper a generous slew of kisses over your collarbone, nipping testingly and seeing what kind of rise he can get out of you. All the while you’re panting above him.

His hand under your dress shifts, making a path from your hip over the top of your thigh, fingers rolling around to the inside and resting by your bikini line. The pad of his thumb barely nudges you, a featherlight drag over your underwear.

It sends a searing spark bouncing up your skin.

You gasp and your hand flies to reactively grab his wrist, lithe fingers wrapping around the line of his pulse. His touch stills.

“You okay?” Bruce rasps against your skin, hovering at the base of your throat. With bated breath he watches you swallow a gulp and nod a strained ‘mhm. But he stays frozen for another maddening moment before pulling back.

“Need to hear you say it.” He says flatly, meeting your eyes with an immobilising gaze as he sits back. “Can you do that for me?”

Your momentum is halted and it dizzies you for a moment, pausing to gather yourself. “Yes.” You choke out with a dazed look about you.

Your eyes flicker to his lips and you slowly let go of his wrist, thumb gliding along the pulse point there for the satisfaction of feeling it thunder when you say; “Touch me. Please, I need it. I need more.”

A grin takes over his features, wicked with satisfaction.

“More?” He croons. Turning his palm to the sky he picks back up with torturously drawn out movements. Your dress is more like a belt as he pushes further beneath it and forces it to gather above your hips, leaving you open to him. With eyes on you he cups the bump of your cunt over your underwear, middle two fingers gingerly grazing a line over dampened fabric.

“More.” You nod ardently. With a roll of your hips you try to press down into his palm but his other hand on your waist keeps you held how he wants you, stuck still in place.

“Please.” You repeat, a weaker voice and shakier breaths.

Bruce hums like contemplating your pleas, kiss bitten lips smirking.

The pad of his thumb barely skims over your clit, light enough it could be mistaken for an accident, but the way he’s observing you now tells you it wasn’t. Nothing is an accident with him. He’s very meticulous, learning your body and responding in kind to what your reactions give away to him. You’re putty in his hands.

A small, shuddering sound escapes you and your eyes close instinctively. You’re wound so tight that frustration begins to make a home with you and you’re biting your tongue in order to not whinge at every fleeting sensation he offers you. But he can feel it how tense you are, see it in how your jaw is clenched. His pity is your liberator.

Two fingers press heavier, rubbing you through your underwear and teasing the wet spot that’s gathered there. The fire in your gut flickers and eyes close tighter, face scrunched and chest heaving. Hot breath fills the car and the windows begin to fog.

“Eyes on me.” His thumb comes back and nudges tentatively, drawing loose circles that have you arching with anticipation. Static thrums beneath his fingertips, it warms your skin and steals your breath, taking you a moment to concede.

Blinking bleary eyes open you find him staring, ink drop pupils trained on your face.

“There you go.”

Lithe fingers push sodden cotton by the wayside and his middle draws a line up the centre of your cunt, spreading you open and gathering a wet pearl on the pad of his finger. You shudder deeply and your hands fly to his shoulders, bunching up luxury fabric in clawing at his blazer. He doesn’t seem to mind.

Steely eyes never once leave your own as he begins to toy with you. Smearing the wetness he finds you sat in he returns his attentions to your clit, rubbing loose rings. His touch is much firmer, purposeful, as he begins to dote on the sensitive bud.

You fold with the force of it, head hanging down as you grit your teeth around a sharp moan you struggle to bite back. Bruce clicks his tongue but his ministrations don’t still.

Shockwaves rove up your skin like electricity making bouncing connections that wrack you from head to toe. It comes on fast, facing the brunt of your frustration head on and amplifying each sensation. But it already begins to feel like bliss.

With thumb replacing his finger Bruce steadily works you open, easing the tension out of your body and coaxing you to be pliable in his lap. His other hand migrates from your waist to your stomach, trailing up, up, until he’s brushing his fingers along the bottom curve of your breasts. He pushes gently, a steadying touch that sits you up right so he can see you properly.

Your neck cranes, your mouth slightly ajar, and he smiles a particularly cloying smile when he’s got your focus back.

You expect him to speak, to croon a sweet something that’s equally smug. But he just bites his lip and brings his middle finger back to your weeping cunt, shallowly nudging and teasing your hole.

The emptiness suddenly becomes glaringly urgent, a chasmal nagging low in your gut that aches to be soothed. You squirm, your thighs burning to keep yourself seated still.

“Please.” Is all you can manage through a gulp. He can see the desperation in your half lidded eyes, feel it in your fingertips pitting into his shoulders. His gaze shifts to something contemplative, an unsure brow.

“Please, Bruce.” Your voice comes splintered by a whine, kiss swollen lips almost daring to frown.

“Fuck.” Bruce surges forward, a strong arm wrapping around your waist as his chin comes level with your collarbone, hot breaths rolling over the hollow of your throat. Slowly, oh so slowly, he pushes his finger inside you, crooking ever so slightly at each knuckle until seated.

“You’re irresistible, you know that?”

The shy moan you let out rumbles beneath his lips as he peppers delicate kisses down your neck, overwhelming your senses and wasting no time in beginning to pump his finger. He barely pulls back, working steady and deep and delighting in the way your hips buck in response.

Frustration melts away, the sparks come alive and fire flickers low and lascivious. It’s just the beginning but it already feels so good and you’re wrapped up in the heat of it all. His cologne engulfs you, spicy and sharp and perhaps dizzying, or maybe that’s the soft press of his lips searching your neck for that tender spot he knows will make you shout out for him.

Once he finds it he’s a headache.

You shudder deeply when his lips drag over the soft spot and he zeroes in on it, open mouthed kisses sullying your skin with a hint of tongue to soothe. Your mind is hazy, thoughts thrown somewhere else, extent to which you don’t realise his ring finger teasing alongside his middle until he’s pushing in hurriedly.

Choking out a ragged moan you again grit your teeth and tense involuntarily. It’s a welcome intrusion but his fingers are larger than your own and noticeably so as it takes you a second to let out the shivering breath you found yourself holding. But now he’s got you right where he wants you.

It’s not a rush but Bruce doesn’t waste time, fucking you on his fingers and keeping the best pace he can muster without getting selfish. You welcome him easily, rivulets of arousal running over his knuckles with each pump inside you, slick and soft and so ready for him. He can't get enough.

You make him want to be selfish.

Picking back up those languid circles he again bullies your clit beneath the tip of his thumb, this time aided by the wetness spread over you that makes a mess of you both.

His name slides off your tongue, over and over again in increasing volume as he picks up the pace of both fingers and thumb. Your eyes water, lash line beaded damp, and the ripples of pleasure begin to pool something tight in your gut.

Deft fingers strike deep and rhythmic and at a seconds notice he curls them, seeking and soon finding the sweet spot nestled inside you. Your body jolts, you throw your head back, and an unflattering cry escapes your throat.

“Fuck!” It’s right by his ear when your head drops again and he groans against your skin, shuddering as the beautiful sound rings in his ears. Teeth graze and lips suck at your neck, a particularly sharp suck before he parts in order to get a good look at you, taking in your undone state.

You’re trembling. You don’t realise it but he does and cradles you tighter, muttering strings of praise to get you through.

“That’s it.” Bruce coaxes, timbre low and thick with lust. “Just like that. You’re doing so good, sweetheart.”

The fire burns blue, all encompassing and ardent as it soars brighter with each passing second. With every upsurge of his pace you’re feeling the knot tie low in your stomach, tantalising but harsh with how it makes your legs quake and breaths short.

The strike of his fingers is unabating and he draws increasingly tighter rings with his thumb, never sloppy and always blissfully precise. Your nails are in his suit, if you had the mind to think you’d worry about damaging it but there’s nothing in your head other than the heat of his hand, the puddle that has been smeared to the crease of your thighs, and the cord pulled taut that signals your approaching climax.

“Bruce,” You whine, broken and breathy. “I-I think I’m gonna—“

He sits back hurriedly and levels you with a dazed stare, nodding like encouraging you with actions never once letting up or faltering.

“Go on.” He grunts. “That’s it. That’s right.”

You screw your eyes shut, body thrumming with red hot anticipation that hurtles you towards the edge. You’re whining, panting, grinding down into Bruce’s hand all up until you’re sent falling into your orgasm.

A screaming moan is pulled from your chest and you collapse in on yourself with the force of it. It cascades over you in a blistering wave, seizes agency of your legs as you shake through it, and there’s nothing you can do but ride it out.

Through the fog you can hear Bruce croon fondly and faintly. His hand slows but doesn’t stop, guiding you through the high of nerve-numbing bliss. You can’t stop the trembling when you slowly come back down, slumping your head onto his shoulder with hands braced on his biceps.

“There you go.” Bruce rasps, kissing at your hairline as his free hand sweeps up and down your back. It’s surprisingly sweet and grounding. “God, you’re beautiful, that was beautiful.”

You hiss as he withdraws his fingers, your wetness running sticky all down them and into his palm. He doesn’t mind one bit, though, as he spreads the gush of your orgasm just to hear your overwhelmed whinge right by his ear.

“Sorry, darling.” He isn’t.

Watching as his hand comes away from under your dress you see the sheen on his skin, sitting yourself up as he brings the two digits to his tongue. You almost feel inclined to look away but you can’t, mind hazy and transfixed on everything about him. It makes you flush warm as he hums and pulls sullied fingers from his mouth, his spit replacing your slick. You bite your lip.

“Fuck, that’s good.” His voice is gravelly, timbre deep, and he huffs with amusement. Licking his lips with a small dart of his tongue he pauses to muse, eyes sweeping you up and down before ultimately landing between your legs.

“Oh shut up.” You finally manage, words finding you again.

His head shoots up. “Hm?”

Nervous laughter rolls off your tongue, shoulders quaking with giddy mirth. He’s got that bemused look again, incredulous, and sharp brows crease in the middle.

“What? Do you think I don’t mean it?” It’s lighthearted but you can hear the lilt of challenge, the suggestion of a point to prove.

“Well—“

“Because I do.” He doesn’t waste a second. “I can even show you how much I mean it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Give me your hand.”

It’s not as if you were genuinely harbouring any self doubt in this moment, your mind too scrambled to even consider it, but if you were it all would’ve melted away.

With a domineering grip Bruce guides you to palm him through his trousers, hard cock twitching the second your touch grazes him. Your breath hitches in your throat and your words die on your tongue, mouth going dry and face burning hot.

Fingertips trace the outline of him, rubbing with the heel of your palm and shuddering at the way he groans a throaty sigh. He’s straining against the fabric and between the weight of his cock in your hand and the way he holds your touch against him you notice the ache creep back in almost immediately.

Desire. It bubbles up inside and fills you with an ardent, commanding need. The same type of urgent lust that’s afflicting Bruce.

“See?” He stares, trying to catch your eye but you don’t look away from the tent in his pants. “You’re really getting to me, driving me crazy.”

Your eyes deviate to his belt, as does your other hand.

“Can I?”

His hands withdraw to make way for you, idle at his sides. “Please do.”

The leather snaps against itself as you hurry to pull it loose and the clink of the buckle seems to ring in your ears. You don’t bother to pull it free from the belt loops, instead hastily unfastening the trouser button and rushing down the zip. Then you push your hand beneath the clothing.

As Bruce tips his head back with a groan you see his adams apple leap, the sound rich and rewarding. You run your thumb along his cock over white briefs, silently gasping a breath when you find a small but noticeable wettish patch by the tip. You rub at it and feel his cock jump at your touch. It makes brisk heat roll over you in a shiver, molten down your spine.

He clears his throat and levels an indiscernible look at you. “Teasing me now, hm? I suppose it’s only fair.”

Pulling his dress shirt free from beneath the waistband he rucks it up around his waist, a peek of happy trail and a surprisingly defined v-line gracing your eyes. He notices you stare but you don’t get the privilege of seeing any more than that.

“But I really can’t wait any longer, sweetheart.”

Thumbs push beneath both briefs and trousers and usher them down his hips just enough, no more than is necessary to fist his cock out from its confines. Your eyes flicker from his eyes down to where he slowly strokes himself, spit pooling in your mouth as he spreads the sheen of precum over the ruddy tip, and you hear him huff a chuckle that’s all air through the nostrils.

“Me either.” You mutter, forcing yourself back to his eyes and meeting him with a glassy gaze. He smiles, surprisingly sweet, and looks at you fondly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Bruce leans in to kiss you but the hunger he displayed before is nowhere to be found. It’s a chaste peck, soft to an almost startling extent. You go to lean in, to chase him for something headier, but he’s already pulling away and leaning his forehead against yours.

“Just give me a second then, darling.”

With brief difficulty he shucks his blazer off, freed of the fabric that had been stifling him as the heat in the car had risen. Uncharacteristically, he doesn’t fold it, just sort of screws it up and ditches it on the seat with his glasses. But not before reaching into the pocket for a recognisably square packet.

It occurs to you to roll your eyes, click your tongue or have any quick witted thing to say because of course he keeps a condom, if not a couple, sat waiting in his blazer pockets. But you don’t care enough to poke at him for it, because today it’s worked to your advantage. Besides, there’s barely any thoughts left between your ears at this point, too blinded by the oneiric bliss that’s within your reach.

He makes quick work of it, you’d expect no less, and the foil is abandoned somewhere on the floor of the car.

“Ready?” Bruce asks gently, eyes searching yours for any forthcoming hesitance. But there is none. You nod and smile coyly, hands taking purchase on his shoulders while one of his takes you by the waist.

You hum a terse ‘mhm’ and let him guide you into position. Weak legs strain a subtle burn as you sit up, hips forward and hovering above his, anticipation eliciting goosebumps down your arms. With his free hand he makes sure your underwear is suitably pulled to the side before encouraging your hips down, pausing when his cockhead nudges your cunt and you shudder deeply.

“Let me hear you say it, sweetheart.” He drawls. “You know how this goes.”

You can’t help the frustrated groan you let out, head slumping forward and you scoff, unbelieving.

“C’mon, Bruce.” His name falling from your lips, exasperated but still sweet in your way, tugs at him more than he’d like to admit. “You know you want this, too.” It doesn’t sound half as confident as you’d like, mousey if anything, but it does the job.

“Of course.” He smirks, canines biting his bottom lip. “But I want you to tell me how much you want it, too.”

His fist wraps around the base of himself to guide and again he drags his tip over your cunt. It’s slow, teasing, and sets a spark bouncing up your skin that’s torturously tantalising. You moan quietly behind closed lips and rock your hips forward to chase the motion.

“Bruce,” You begin, hand trailing down his chest with nails barely grazing. You watch him suppress a shiver that emboldens you.

Fingers wrap around the luxury black tie he wears and with a tug he’s brought forward until your lips are level, your tepid breaths fanning over his sharp cupid’s bow.

“Fuck me, please? I thought that’s all you wanted?”

Dark brows keen up and his mouth falls ajar, bravado dying on his tongue. You wait in the silence and keep him pinned with a begging stare, eyes wide and hopeful, pupils darkened and blown.

Another drag has you both tense as he lines up at your entrance, the hand on your waist encouraging you to ease downward. His grip keeps him steady as you comply and begin to sink down onto his cock, the fat head bullying inside you as you hiss through gritted teeth and screw your eyes shut.

“But, for the record,” Bruce grunts, words bristling over your lips. “If I were to be so lucky, I’d want an awful lot more than just this.”

“Wha—“

You’re left without a second to process his words as he greedily snaps his hips upwards while continuing to tug you down, forcing his cock to seat deep inside as your bodies become flush, hands now squeezing your hips with an iron grip.

“Fuck!” You gasp, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes and nails again digging into his shirt-clad shoulder.

The sting throbs, not impossible but not yet comfortable as you try to get used to the stretch. It’s not subtle, at all, it feels like he’s split you open but it stokes the fire within you so thoroughly. There’s a fullness about it that's hot in the gut and without so much as meaning to you’re rolling your hips in search of the sensation.

He groans but doesn’t interfere, staring down at where your bodies meet and reaching to slacken his tie, unfastening the shirt's top button that seems to choke him. The windows have long turned foggy, the temperature in the car a stark difference to the bitter night outside and neither of you care to remember where you are.

“There you go.” He croons. “Just like that. Good girl.”

The praise goes straight to your cunt and you squeeze around him, earning a chesty moan that rumbles free from his throat. You pick up a more confident pace as you grind on him and your hips stutter with the exertion, but the sting is slowly melting away with each rut forward and turning into something fervid.

He notices your expression relax, monitoring your reactions until your face is no longer scrunched and your mouth falls open with strings of whines so hushed they barely reach his ears. You wrap his tie around your first and yank as if holding yourself up on it. Bruce can’t help but to smile cloyingly.

“Does that feel good, sweetheart?” He hums, honeyed and sickly saccharine, almost tipping toward mocking. “Making yourself feel good on my cock, yeah?”

“Oh god—“ You mutter beneath your breath, the best answer he’s going to get.

Hands on your hips begin to slowly raise you up just a fraction, barely an inch before bringing you back down. But it sets off a whole other shockwave. It starts light, raises the hair on the back of your neck, but elicits fiery flickers low in the body where that pooling of lust sits.

With commanding touches Bruce bounces you on his cock, steadily working faster, bringing you higher, until you’re left with barely the tip before he slams you back down and seats himself fully inside you. It’s bliss for both. Every stroke gets easier as he works you open even more and your dripping arousal spreads a mess on both of you, making it easy for him to slip inside with every motion.

Lewd, wet noises start to echo already but you’ve no mind to be embarrassed about it, too wrapped up in every slap of skin to care. You have to wonder if the car is rocking, unsure if that’s what you’re feeling or if it’s just all Bruce, but you could swear you feel the back of the car jounce.

You let yourself be moved by him, arching your back and biting your bottom lip hard when he begins to snap his hips up to the same rhythm.

It sends bolts of electricity running through you, a bone deep, nerve sizzling pleasure that fills your body. The heat curls low and wet, all encompassing and distracting. It seems to block out the world around you, everything but Bruce, no concept of time or place, nothing.

Or so it seemed.

Your heart jumps a frog in your throat and you stiffen up, head snapping to the side.

From outside of the car suddenly comes an awful lot of chatter. The drunkenness is apparent from both the volume of the voices and the way the words spoken sort of slur together, many drawn out and others said wrongly. The people holler and giggle, you hope just passing through the car park, filtering out of the venue, but it makes you unsteady.

Bruce groans at the sound of them, unbothered if not inconvenienced, but notices the way it startles you. His hips slow, but don’t stop, and one of his hands comes up to cup your jaw and coax you to face him.

“You okay?” He asks carefully. “Does that bother you?”

Your eyelids flutter, torn between resting closed as ripples of pleasure still grip you or snapping wide open and trying to check behind you.

Eventually, you give a small nod. “Can they see us?”

Only then does Bruce go still, leaning forward and attempting a glance through the steamed up windows, then over your shoulder at the windscreen. Nothing. He sits back and shakes his head.

“Nope. If I can’t see them, they can’t see us. Is that okay?”

“But the car—“

“Suspension’s good, ‘promise.”

You aren’t quite satisfied with that answer and he can see it in the knit between your brows. His thumb sweeps soothing over your cheek and he leans in close, a gentle, tender kiss that stays pure for a moment.

“Come on, sweet thing.” He coos, timbre low and velvety. “I’ve got you, it’s alright.”

Slow and testing he starts again with his hips, barely rocking and encouraging you to ease back into a steady rhythm. You let your eyes close and lean your sweat dewy forehead to his, sighing shaky before you nod.

“That’s it.” Another kiss, reassurance and coaxing. “It’s just me and you, yeah?”

The dulcet ‘yeah’ you huff against his lips is all he needs to allow himself to pick the speed back up, this time holding you still and focussing on thrusting up to meet you. It’s even easier than before and your body immediately gives in to whatever he makes of you. Your inhibitions gradually melt away again, brain enveloped in that same haze that allows your salacious side to take the helm, worries assuaged and desires reignited.

You slump your head onto his shoulder and your hands brace on his stomach, fingertips curled to claws that bunch up his shirt. He scoffs a laugh and his dominant hand comes down between your bodies, seeking the bump of your cunt and immediately zeroing in on your clit.

A hot jolt surges through you and you arch with a choked moan of his name falling free. Your ears begin to ring, every grunt and groan he lets out bouncing around inside your head and boring a way into your memory.

More voices pass by but you don’t allow yourself to care, forcing focus on the heat of his body, the snap of his hips, and the calloused pad of his thumb. He reintroduces the tight circles immediately, a heavy pressure under the tip of his thumb that bullies your poor, oversensitive bud.

“Oh shit.” You squirm in his lap, fingers digging dips into his sides and you can feel his muscles tense with every upward thrust. Pressure coils in the deepest pit of your stomach, tying a taut knot that scorches with ticklish familiarity and sets off the trembling of your thighs, if it had ever really stopped.

“God.” Bruce curses, head lolled against the back bench, chin tipped skyward. “You feel so fucking good.” His other arm snakes around your back, hand anchored on your waist, keeping you posed perfect right where he needs you.

Again you feel the car begin to jostle, mimicking the rhythm he maintains with subtle rocking up and down on the rear wheels. Bruce either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.

Your head feels heavy with the haze and you let it take over. The fire turns blue much faster this go around, nagging more desperately with each ripple of pleasure that tears through you. It’s funny how it makes a priority of itself, how quickly other matters are pushed to the wayside in carnal pursuit of your climax.

“Bruce,” You utter meekly, words bristling against his neck where you duck. You feel him hum more than you hear it, the thrum vibrating through you.

“Please, I’m so—“

“Me too. Fuck. Me too.”

Resisting the weight that bears down on you, you pull back to look at him, really drinking in the disheveled state you’ve brought him to. His perfect hair falls tousled from how he had it neatly styled, a couple of stray strands long enough to reach his eyes while others stick to his forehead. The shirt he wears has been creased plenty by your grabbing and his tie is much the same, loose, askew, and you’re drawn to reach for it again.

A tug and your next moan has his eyes flickering open, fierce eye contact locking you in. His jaw is tense, throat bobbing. He smiles.

“Are you going to come for me, hm?”

His voice is thick, gravelly, pulled from a throat slowly growing hoarse from each groaning utterance he lets slip. You nod urgently.

“Please, please let me.”

The rhythm is lost, his hips stutter and with his steadfast grip he slams you down against him, the ministrations of his thumb never breaking. The heat is blistering, the knot is wound so taut it splinters, and you bite your bottom lip so hard you could pierce it.

“Let me feel it, sweetheart.”

A surge shoots bright hot up your spine and you crush in on yourself, eyes forced shut as white flashes blindingly behind closed lids. The tension snaps and your legs jerk as you briefly lose command of your muscles. You’d be surprised if your roaring moan couldn’t be heard from outside of the car.

But it’s heaven. Hot, wet heaven that gushes and squeezes around Bruce’s cock.

The shocks it sends through you is like nothing else, deep satisfaction that bounces between nerve endings and flushes your whole body with a wave of warmth. You lose yourself to it.

“Yesyesyes—“

Bruce hisses through gritted teeth. His hips buck wildly and both hands grasp roughly at your waist, pulling you down and using the leverage to push him over the edge. It has you teetering on the verge of overstimulation as he slams you down once, twice, and one final time as he crashes head first into his own orgasm.

He cranes toward you with the power of it, face returning level to your collarbone and nose nudging at the base of your throat. You can feel him quaking, large thighs tensing and relaxing in quick succession as he spills into the condom and blabbers incoherently into your skin. Your nails rake up the nape of his neck into his scruffy hair, cradling the back of his head as you both roll through the high.

The world slows and the car goes still but bodies continue to shake, wracked with aftershocks in the comedown.

Then he chuckles. Not at you, not at anything, he’s giddy in the glow. Sitting back lazily against the leather bench he pulls you with him, a much softer embrace as you both gasp down breaths like panting dogs, chest heaving and hands shaking as they wrap around his neck. His touch stays resting around your waist but goes lax from the bruising grip he had, now favouring caressing up and down your sides dotingly.

“That was…” You start but trail off for a lack of words, head spinning while you try to hold yourself up.

“Mhm.” Bruce grunts, draping chaste kisses along the sharp of your jaw, the underside of your chin, anywhere he can reach. It brings you back down to earth, helps you back into your body, but keeps you blushing warm.

Steadily, you raise, guided by his hands. You both cringe when he slips out of you and you whine at the rush of cold air, features scrunching up as you startle. Dutifully, he reaches and rights your underwear back into place, regardless of the sullen state of them.

“And,” He says, bringing his hand between your bodies with the face of his watch angled up, still ticking away.

“I think we killed plenty of time.”

A smirk tugs at his lips, pulling the corners up with the worst smugness you’ve seen of him yet, simpering sly.

“Shut up.” You scoff, incredulous. But it does earn him a small laugh, that same giggle that enchanted him earlier. Bruce leans in to steal another kiss and lingers for a second longer than needed, greedy for the sweetness as your night together draws towards its end.

“I’ll give you a minute. Still got to get you home, yeah…?”

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#GAWD DAYUM #WE'RE WELL FED AUTHOR #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne smut #batman x reader

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dearlawdimasimp · 1 month ago

Text

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

⋆.˚ ✎ᝰ sweet dress. sweeter girl. ⏤ “possession” 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭.

𓂃⠀⠀⋆₊ 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔⁺˖° ꗃ 𓈒 ⠀𝖻𝗋𝗎𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗇𝖾 𝗑 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋⠀ ˚ₓ̣̇₊·

⠀ ☁️⠀⠀ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 ✦ ⊹ ⠀⎯⠀𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝖻 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒, 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗆’𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗑𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗐.

⠀ 𖥔 ༝ 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑒 ⠀⁺˚ ⛧⋆｡°✮ MDNI (18+ only) · 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗒 · 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗋 · 𝗉𝗎𝖻𝗅𝗂𝖼 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 · 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 · 𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗈𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 · 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗄 · 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝗂-𝗉𝗎𝖻𝗅𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝖾𝗑 · 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝖼𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗇𝖾 · 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 · 𝗉𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗆𝖻𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 · 𝗇𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇

The car glides to a gentle stop, like it’s been here many times before, softly purring on the gravel of the Daggetts’ circular driveway. You sit quietly in the passenger seat, your heart racing like a hummingbird. Your hand is comfortably resting in your lap. The other is toying with the hem of your dress, the dress.

You despise how beautiful it makes you feel.

It's soft and light, the color of cream and early cherry, strappy, and slightly sheer in the sunlight. You're not used to this sort of thing. Not designer. Not handpicked for you. Certainly nothing Bruce Wayne had personally laid across the foot of your bed that morning with a wink and a "Try not to outshine me."

You had laughed. Told him he was ridiculous.

And he had just grinned, poured himself orange juice, and reminded you that “Robert Daggett throws parties like he launders money, obnoxiously, and only to prove he can.”

The memory isn't helpful. Especially not now, with the estate standing like something from a gothic dream, featuring white archways, a pristine lawn, and a valet who likely knows three senators personally.

“Still breathing?” Bruce’s voice cuts in.

You jump. He’s smiling lazily at you from the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other casually draped over the back of yours.

“I’m fine,” you say and try not to sound as breathless as you feel.

“You’re tugging the dress again.” He leans in slightly, tilting his head, brows arched in theatrical concern. “Is this the part where I’m supposed to tell you how beautiful you look or how everyone’s going to stare because I finally brought someone with a pulse?”

You stare at him. “Do you ever just say nice things like a normal person?”

Bruce hums thoughtfully. “I’ve been told my delivery is part of the charm.”

With that, he jumps out as smooth as can be. A mix of charcoal gray and understated affluence. That's the kind of entrance that only someone like Bruce Wayne could pull off as if it were no big deal.

He's waiting on your side of the car with his hand outstretched and a smile that could land him in jail in seven different countries as you rush out after him, almost tripping in your heels.

He grabs your hand before you have a chance to think twice and links your arm through his as if it's something you both do regularly. And then he leans down.

"Let them look," he says, his voice rich, low, and dry like aged whiskey. “You’re the best-dressed scandal I’ve ever had.”

You blink at him.

Meanwhile, Bruce Wayne, the most infuriating person in Gotham, leads you straight into the fire.

The first thing that catches your attention is the sound.

Not too loud. Not inappropriate. Yet the subtle buzz of old wealth masked as politeness. Their laughter is like pearls gently clinking in a glass. The sound of champagne flutes clinking together. The string players are playing a piece from a century you don't recognize. Amidst everything, you can hear the gentle sound of water from the marble fountain at the heart of the Daggetts’ private terrace, where the summer garden party takes place with a sense of ease and polished elegance.

The second thing you notice is the eyes.

As soon as you step through the French doors and onto the open lawn, they turn to face you. The sunlight has faded, giving way to a warm glow from countless lanterns hanging among the branches overhead. Their glow flickers over white tablecloths, the smooth stone of the terrace, and the crystalware. The sunlight dances across the grass, the tall hedgerows, the sleeves of tuxedos, and the bare shoulders of gowns.

You can sense the gazes on you. They aren’t direct; they know better than that. But they’re there, dancing toward you like candlelight, always drifting back to Bruce. Then to you.

He strolls as if he owns the ground under your feet.

Bruce is quick to act. His arm remains steady under your hand, his posture relaxed and charming as usual, yet each step is deliberate. His expression carries that familiar blend of boredom and charm, as if the whole evening is just a lightly entertaining joke, with him as the punchline. Or the setup.

You can sense his eyes on you just before he says anything.

As you both walk down the stone steps and onto the flagstone terrace, he whispers, "Take a breath. You look like I’m leading you into a firing squad.”

You lift your chin, eyes flicking toward the low tables where the Daggetts’ guest list is already sipping and watching. “Are you not?”

He smirks. “Only metaphorically.”

The lawn looks broad and immaculate. Every detail refined, every light thoughtfully placed. Guests are gathered in clusters under pergolas and umbrella canopies, surrounded by a palette of white, green, and gold. The cocktail tables are dressed in linen and adorned with fresh arrangements, tulips, orchids, and a few things that are totally out of season. You swear there’s a live harpist hanging out somewhere by the hedge maze.

Bruce steers you gently toward the heart of it.

You cling to his arm like you know what you’re doing.

“I’m not nervous,” you say quietly, as he begins leading you along the outer garden path, where the lesser lords of finance pretend they aren’t watching.

“No,” Bruce agrees. “You’re beautiful. Scared out of your mind, but beautiful."

You shoot him a glare.

He winks. And the bastard looks pleased. He glides through the party like a smoke ring.

Giving a smile to people you don’t know. Laughing a bit too loudly. Giving compliments that don't really hold much weight. Men give him a pat on the back. Waiters navigate around him as if he owns the space around him. Bruce Wayne embodies the ideal performance: slightly tipsy, a touch reckless, and effortlessly charming.

But he never misses a beat with his eyes.

He pays attention to everyone. He has you by his side like a special privilege that only he gets to enjoy.

The night deepens.

The guests grow bolder.

Some ask who you are. Some pretend to know already. A few women ask where you found the dress. One man asks if Bruce is “serious this time,” as if you aren’t even standing there.

Bruce never lets go of you. Not fully. Sometimes it’s just his fingers brushing your wrist. Sometimes it’s his voice behind your ear. At one point, he wipes lipstick from your cheek with his thumb, murmuring, “Collateral damage.”

You find it challenging to keep track of how many times you force a smile through clenched teeth. And then, you catch the shift. It’s in Bruce’s posture. The way his hand stills. He’s looking past the terrace. Toward the upper garden, where the fountain gurgles beside the marble stairs and the air is quieter. More private.

Andrea Beaumont stands in the shadows there.

A black dress. Exposed shoulders. Flame-red hair swept to one side. She’s the ghost of the past, the memory that often goes unspoken. Not here. Not in a direct way.

Bruce is already stepping away.

“Wait—” you say, startled.

“I won’t be long.”

He says it like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t mean everything.

You turn your head just in time to see her notice him. Their eyes lock. Andrea doesn’t smile. Not quite. But she doesn’t turn away either.

He walks toward her slowly. No performance now. No act. Just him. Just her.

They’re chatting softly under the warm light of a hanging lantern by the marble fountain. You might not catch a single word, but it doesn't matter. The way he holds himself, the slight angle of his head, the calmness in Andrea’s shoulders, and the unspoken connection between them all speak volumes without needing anyone else around.

You wrap your fingers tighter around your glass. The condensation slicks your palm.

The laughter around you feels heightened at this moment. The terrace hums with a laid-back kind of cruelty, the sort you've begun to notice. Everyone's paying attention, but it's mainly the women who show it clearly. You notice their looks, the subtle smirks, and how they lean in to whisper behind their expensive glasses.

'She’s a bit too young for him.'

'Not assertive enough.'

'A bit too sweet.'

'Way too disposable.'

Your stomach twists.

You take a slow breath. You tell yourself to relax. It’s just a party. Bruce will come back. He always—

“You must be his.”

The voice glides behind you, smooth and slick like oil on silk.

Low. A bit too close for comfort. Joking around in the unpleasant atmosphere.

You turn around, and there he is.

Robert Daggett.

The host. The successor. The man in a five-thousand-dollar tuxedo that somehow still looks a bit off on him. His skin shines softly with sweat under the light of the garden lanterns, and his smile is just a bit too broad. It seems like he's putting in an effort to be charming. As if he's accustomed to hearing it, even when it leaves a bad taste.

“Wayne’s date,” he says, as if confirming it for himself. “Of course. You’re exactly his type.”

You blink. “I—hello.”

“You’re prettier up close,” Daggett says, tone dripping like syrup. “Much prettier.”

You’re not sure what to do with your hands. You’re not sure where to look. You force a smile because you can feel how many eyes are on you right now, and this man owns the place. Literally. You’ve read the headlines. You’ve seen his name on buildings. He’s the kind of man who can ruin people with a call.

His eyes stay fixed on your chest. You move, just a little. Daggett sees. He smiles.

“I saw you come in earlier,” he says. “That dress—you know it’s doing you a lot more favors than the other way around.”

You blink, heat rising uncomfortably in your face.

“It’s just something Bruce picked out,” you say, trying to be polite.

“And doesn’t that just say everything?” Daggett purrs. “He dresses them like he collects them. Did you ever see the one from last year? Venezuelan, I think. Legs for days, but couldn’t hold a conversation.”

You laugh softly. You really shouldn’t have laughed.

Daggett leans in, his breath heavy with bourbon.

“But you,” he says. “You’ve got presence. That walk, that mouth—”

He pauses, eyes dragging across your lips in a way that makes your skin crawl.

“It’s wasted on him, you know. Bruce doesn’t notice women. Not really. He likes the idea of them. The image. You’re a mirage to him. And when the illusion fades—” he shrugs, “well. We both know how that ends.”

You try to step back. The heel of your shoe hits the edge of the stone planter behind you.

Daggett steps with you.

“I wouldn’t waste too much time playing pretend,” he says softly. “You deserve to be seen. Known.”

His hand reaches out, as if to tuck a loose strand of hair away from your face. Or maybe just touch.

You flinch before he makes contact.

He stops.

Smiles again, mock surprise, like you’re the rude one.

“I’m just being friendly,” he says. “You don’t need to be so shy.”

Your mouth opens, but you don’t know what to say. You glance over your shoulder instinctively, and Bruce is still by the fountain. Still standing with Andrea. Still not looking.

Daggett sees it. Oh, he lives for it.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he drawls. “He gets… distracted. But if he does leave early—”

His eyes flick over you again. Slower this time.

“I know a few places where we could talk.”

That word hits like a slap.

You stiffen. “I’m fine.”

He chuckles, low and indulgent, like you just said something sweet but wrong.

“Of course you are,” he says. “But it doesn’t hurt to have options. Bruce has plenty.”

You hold your glass a bit more firmly.

His presence is palpable before you see him.

The atmosphere shifts, similar to how it feels when the pressure drops just before a storm rolls in. A shadow slips into your side view, subtle yet authoritative. The slight change in the atmosphere reveals more than any footsteps might.

Bruce came back.

You look up, and he’s right there, just behind Daggett, his expression hard to read, standing casually in that unique way he always does. He has one hand in his pocket. The other one is empty. He stands tall against the warm golden light of the terrace, looking, for a moment, like he belonged to the darkness he just emerged from.

“Robert,” he says smoothly.

Daggett tenses up.

He turns slowly, drink in hand, still grinning, but there’s something different about it. Smaller now. Maybe a bit overly cautious.

“Brucie,” Daggett replies, putting on the voice he uses when he knows he should start measuring his words. “Didn’t know you were back so soon.”

“I’m always nearby,” Bruce says, with a smile so bright it gleams. “Especially when things get ugly.”

The tension slices right through the background buzz of the party conversation. You notice people around you stop for a moment, just a little. It’s not entirely obvious. Just enough to show that everyone is aware of who’s in charge of the moment now.

Bruce takes a quick look at you. Only once. He captures the tension in your jaw, the rigidity in your shoulders, and the empty glass you’re holding. Then his hand rests on your waist. It touches down softly, yet the message is anything but gentle. His palm feels solid. It’s not quite possessive but comes across as a form of protection. It’s as if he’s drawing a line in the sand while wearing a silk suit and expensive shoes. Daggett's eyes drop for a moment, and he notices the contact. Notices you lean, just a bit, into Bruce’s side.

He laughs, but it’s forced. “Didn’t mean to rattle her. We were just chatting.”

“Mm,” Bruce murmurs, amused. “You always were good at making women uncomfortable under the guise of small talk.”

Daggett raises an eyebrow. “It’s a party, Bruce. People mingle.”

“You don’t mingle. You circle.” Bruce’s grin grows wider. “Like a vulture with too much cologne.”

You almost laugh, but you hold it in. Daggett doesn’t.

He lets out a breathy laugh, trying to save face, taking a sip from his glass like it’ll give him back some control. “You’re always good for a line.”

“I’m good at many things,” Bruce replies. Calm. Precise. “But restraint’s always been a favorite.”

You can sense the calmness under Bruce’s skin. It’s as if he’s challenging Daggett to move just a bit closer. Just one more glance. Just one more inch of disrespect.

Daggett tries for smug. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.”

Bruce lets out a soft breath. Almost a chuckle. “Jealousy implies competition. And you haven’t been in the running since the SEC took interest in your books.”

Daggett’s mouth twists, but he covers it quickly.

“Careful,” he says. “Wouldn’t want to make a scene. Not here.”

“Oh, I’d never make a scene,” Bruce says, tilting his head. “But I do make examples.”

The words feel like velvet. But they come down like a guillotine.

For a brief moment, Daggett stays still.

Then he straightens his jacket. Finesses a wrinkle that isn't really there. He steps back like someone gracefully leaving a lion's enclosure.

“Lovely seeing you both,” he mutters, already turning.

Bruce watches him leave, his smile faded, his expression neutral. Daggett blends into the crowd, glass still in hand, shoulders tense with embarrassment. He keeps moving forward. The silence he leaves behind has a metallic taste.

Bruce stays quiet for a moment. He just keeps his hand resting at your waist. His thumb glides once, lightly touching your side as if to say he’s present, that he notices it, that he witnessed everything.

The party continues, but it seems a bit far away now. The quartet plays something easygoing and smooth under the buzz of chatter, but you’re not part of it. You find yourself in the serene center of the storm, next to the man who allows others to think he’s just another socialite.

He finally turns you gently toward him, hand at your back now.

You don't pull away from him. Not now. Not after everything. And as Bruce brings your hand to his lips and kisses the place just above your knuckles, it no longer feels like a show. Yes, it feels like possession. But this time, the feeling is mutual.

His hand on your waist never leaves you.

Not once.

Bruce says nothing. He doesn’t have to. His grip alone speaks volumes, thumb pressed firm between your ribs, palm guiding you forward with precision, fingers curling just slightly like he needs the contact or might lose control of something deeper. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t break pace. Just moves.

The party recedes into the background, enveloped by the double-glazed doors and the serene elegance of old-money decor.

No one notices. Or if they do, no one says anything.

The Daggetts’ private kitchen is nestled on the west side of the house, hidden behind an arch of dark wood and frosted-glass panes, a bit removed from the curated laughter and candlelight. It’s in perfect condition. Dim. Everything is softly lit and features polished stone. A kitchen that hardly gets any use. The marble countertops are beautiful. Brass fittings. Crystal fruit bowls. Chilly, costly, andquiet.

Bruce doesn't pause. He closes the door behind you.

It clicks shut like a trigger being pulled.

The air shifts.

You take a step back, lips parting, but Bruce’s hand doesn’t let you go.

It finds your wrist. Slides down to your fingers. And then up again, traveling with excruciating care back to your waist, dragging a trail of heat along your skin even through the fabric of your dress.

He backs you slowly into the edge of the counter.

You nearly knock a cut-glass vase behind you, but your hands catch the marble just in time.

Your voice is thin. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

Bruce stops in front of you. Too close.

The kitchen lights glow low and gold behind him, catching the hard line of his jaw and the tension in his throat. His face is unreadable, his eyes unreadable, but his body is wound tight. All restraint and something darker coiled under the surface, just barely held in check.

“I know,” he says softly.

Your breath catches. “Then—”

“You didn’t have to.”

He takes another measured step forward.

You take a quick, shallow breath, and your back straightens against the edge of the counter.

Bruce stands above you, his hands resting on either side of your hips, creating a barrier around you. His suit carries the scent of the garden, with subtle notes of cut grass, cologne, and summer air. However, there's more underneath. Something him. Warm and precise. Prudent.

Your voice falters. “He just… he was talking. I couldn’t—”

“I know.”

His voice doesn’t rise. But it cuts. Low and biting.

“I know you didn’t want it.” His jaw tics once. “I saw his hands. I saw the way he looked at you like you were a thing.”

His eyes search your face now, still tight, still angry, but less at you and more at the memory of Daggett’s breath anywhere near your skin. You see it in the way Bruce blinks, slow and deliberate. How his pupils dilate the longer he looks at you.

He’s seething. And you shouldn’t like that. But you do.

“You think this is about jealousy?” he says, voice low. “It’s not.”

“Then what—?”

“It’s about you.”

His hand lifts, fingers catching your jaw with startling gentleness, and tilts your face toward him.

“You were standing there trying to be polite,” he murmurs. “Trying to shrink. Smile. Endure. Because you didn’t want to offend him.”

He’s so close now that his breath ghosts across your cheek.

“You wore the dress I picked. You looked like something soft and sweet and untouchable. And he still thought he could get close.”

You can’t look away. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“He thought you were just something I’d let go of.”

You swallow hard. “I’m not.”

“I know.” His voice is quiet. “But he didn’t.”

There’s no more room between you now.

His chest brushes yours. His hand drops from your face to your hip, tight again, grounding you. You feel the heat radiating off him. The tension in his jaw. The effort it takes to keep his voice calm.

His eyes flare. He leans in and kisses you deeply. Hard. Fierce. All restraint, finally shattered.

You gasp into it, his hand cradles your jaw as his mouth slants against yours, teeth scraping just slightly, tongue sweeping deep. There’s no gentleness now. No performance. It’s raw and furious, like he’s trying to make up for not being there, for every second he left you at that table.

You feel the marble press into your back as he pushes you into the counter, his body flush with yours. One of your hands finds the front of his jacket, fisting the lapel. The other slides into his hair, gripping tight as he groans against your lips.

You feel everything in it. The protectiveness. The guilt. Bruce pulls back an inch, his lips wet, his breath unsteady. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t let go.

“That’s what I see,” he says, voice low and steady. “Mine.”

Your knees go weak.

He kisses you again before you can respond. Less brutal this time, but deeper. More possessive. As if he needs to leave the imprint of himself on you, in you, to erase what Daggett tried to stain. And when he finally pulls away, just barely, just enough, you’re breathless, lips tingling, body pressed flush against cold stone and hot need.

His hand moves from your cheek to your hair, fingers softly touching the strands. The touch feels soft and grounding, yet there's an element of possessiveness to it as well. A calm yet intense anger, kept in balance by affection. “I saw how he was looking at you,” Bruce says. His voice is calm, even, but beneath it, there’s tension like a taut wire. “He didn’t touch you, did he?”

“No,” you breathe. “But he wanted to.”

Bruce exhales slowly, jaw flexing. He nods once, eyes dropping to your lips.

“I should’ve been there.”

“You didn’t know,” you murmur, voice small, caught somewhere between nervous and comforted. “I didn’t want to cause a scene…”

His eyes meet yours again, gentle and firm. “You don’t ever have to manage their behavior for my sake.”

His hand at your back draws you closer, his palm pressing firmly against the small of your spine. Your bodies are aligned now, your chest brushing his with every breath, the hem of your dress catching the edge of the cold marble counter behind you. You feel caged in, held, not trapped, but kept. His warmth, his scent, the faint scent of cologne, and the trace of Gotham’s summer wind that clings to him—it’s all over you now.

In a whisper, you express concern, "Bruce... what if someone walks in?"

He leans in until his mouth is nearly brushing yours, the heat of his breath warm and unhurried. “Then they’ll remember exactly who they’re dealing with.”

And then he kisses you.

Your breath shudders out against him, your fingers rising to grip his collar as his hand curls more tightly at your back, pressing you into him. His mouth parts slowly over yours, his tongue brushing against your bottom lip, asking and coaxing, and when you open to him, it feels like falling.

You moan into the kiss, soft and startled, and his grip tightens for just a second.

Your back curves unconsciously, the fabric of your dress softly brushing against your skin as you lean closer to him. His hand moves from your hair to gently hold your jaw, his thumb making slow circles just beneath your ear as he deepens the kiss, taking his time but being entirely present. He kisses you as if he wants to remember every curve of your lips, every sound you make.

And you can’t stop making them.

Little gasps. Quiet hums. Breathless whimpers are muffled into his mouth as his lips move over yours again and again, slow, hot, and aching.

He kisses you again, with more intensity this time, yet still controlled. A soft hum escapes his throat as your hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping tightly as your knees start to give way.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw now, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

You smile into the kiss, trembling, lightheaded. “I might have a guess.”

He chuckles softly, but there’s no humor in it. His forehead presses to yours.

You reach up to touch his face, palm warm against the scratch of stubble on his cheek. “You’re not angry at me?”

“Never,” he says instantly, his voice stressing the word. “I’m angry at him. For thinking you could be touched." His jaw tightens again.

His hands don’t roam. They stay deliberate, one cupping the side of your face, his thumb brushing back and forth beneath your eye as though you’re made of glass, the other braced at the small of your back, holding you firm, guiding you against the line of his body.

But then that hand shifts.

Lower.

Sliding down, dragging the fabric of your dress with it. His fingertips skate along the curve of your hip, devoted but with a weight behind it, a quiet pressure, the kind that says stay here, stay with me. Your breath hitches, the warmth of his hand burning a trail across your skin, and you can feel his hesitation, not uncertainty, never that. Just restraint.

You shift slightly against him, thighs brushing his as you tilt your hips forward.

That’s all it takes.

His palm slides down, following the soft slope of your outer thigh, and then curls around to the front, fingertips grazing the hem of your panties.

You break the kiss, just barely, breathing his name into the space between you. “Bruce—”

“I know.” His forehead presses to yours, his breath catching. “Just let me touch you. I need to feel you.”

Now he kisses you more gently, his hand moving with purpose as his fingertips slide under the hem of your underwear. He glides along the edge first, his touch light as a feather, skimming just beneath the soft cotton, the backs of his knuckles grazing skin that’s already warm and quivering beneath his hand.

“God,” he whispers, voice unpolished. “You’re so warm.”

You feel a chill as his fingers move lower, lightly brushing against the sensitive curve of your mound. He pauses, as if he's really taking in the moment, as if the closeness of this—you, vulnerable with him, shaking, trusting—feels sacred. His breath brushes against your cheek as his lips move down to the hinge of your jaw.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, and it’s not just performative; it’s earnest. Quiet and focused. His fingers curl lightly inward, brushing along the edge of your labia now, still slow, still barely touching.

“It’s not,” you whisper, the words catching in your throat. “It’s not enough.”

That gets him.

He groans softly, the sound vibrating against your skin, and then his fingertips slide inward at last, just barely, a gentle parting of your folds, the heat of your arousal slick beneath his touch. His breath stutters.

The pad of his finger drags lightly through the center of you, testing, teasing. He doesn’t push in. He doesn’t rush. He just explores. Feels. His touch is maddening, achingly careful, drawing slow circles just shy of your clit, dipping down to trace you before retreating again.

And the whole time, his mouth never leaves yours for long.

You’re caught between the counter and his chest, breathing hard into his kiss, your hips beginning to rock ever so subtly toward the press of his hand.

“Don’t run from me,” he murmurs against your lips. “Let me take my time.”

“I’m not—running—," you gasp into his mouth.

His fingers glide against you once more, smoother now, your arousal covering him as he maintains his steady rhythm. Every stroke over your clit becomes a bit firmer, a little deeper, until your thighs are quivering against his. Your head tilts back with a soft sigh, and his lips quickly find their way to your neck, kissing softly, savoring the warmth of your skin still glowing from the party… and this.

“You should’ve seen yourself,” he murmurs against your throat. “I didn’t know where to look.”

He trails his lips back up to your jaw, dragging his mouth along your skin like he’s memorizing every inch. His fingers slip lower again, brushing lightly over your entrance, circling, never fully entering, just outlining the shape of you.

Your voice is barely there when you speak. “Bruce, please—”

His fingers are making small, patient circles just above your clit, each one heavier than the last. Your body is arching into him, and your lips are parted against his as you moan quietly into his mouth. Your thighs shake. His mouth moves against yours, still speaking between kisses, voice barely audible, every word like silk dragged across a flame.

“You’re mine. You understand that, don’t you?”

You nod helplessly.

“I don’t care who saw you tonight. They didn’t see this.” His fingers press just a little deeper now, the motion building. “They didn’t hear the way you sound when I touch you like this.”

“Ah—mmmn—” You choke back a moan, and Bruce kisses you again, swallowing it down.

“No one gets this,” he breathes. “No one touches you like this but me.”

And you kiss him like you believe it. Like it’s the only truth in the world.

And it is.

His signature restraint is still present, but it's beginning to unravel in the kiss as his fingers move further between your thighs. You can feel it in the way he groans into your mouth, deep and eager, just for you.

The hem of your dress is hiked up, caught between your hips and his wrist, the fabric wrinkled and clinging, left behind. He doesn’t take it all off, doesn’t remove it completely; he wants it to stay on, wants to sense you unraveling while still partially dressed, like a personalized present meant just for him.

His hand beneath the fabric is slick to the wrist, the pads of his fingers spreading the mess between your folds. When he finally slides two fingers fully inside you—deep—the crude, wet sound resonates in the quiet kitchen.

You suddenly gasp and lean in, your forehead hitting his shoulder as your hands fumble for something to grab onto. His fingers stretch you completely, knuckles brushing your entrance before he pulls back with a slick motion, then dives in once more. Heavy and dense. A rhythm designed to pull you in, to tease your boundaries and drown your senses.

“Fuck,” Bruce breathes, his voice right against your temple. “So tight, sweetheart, gripping me like you need it.”

You do. Your hips twitch against the counter, thighs squeezing around his hand. His palm drags delicious friction over your clit with every thrust, the heel of it grinding right there where you're hottest. You whimper. It’s loud.

Panic flickers, brief and instinctual, and you throw a hand over your mouth, trying to muffle it.

But Bruce doesn’t let you hide.

His other hand catches your wrist gently, pulling it down with quiet force. “No,” he murmurs, eyes dark and focused, “don’t cover those sounds.”

You try to say something, try to protest, but he takes your mouth instead, kisses you hard, tongue pushing in deep just as his fingers sink in to the hilt inside you. His mouth devours the moan that rips out of you. It echoes into him. He swallows it.

“You make those noises,” he breathes into the kiss, his voice raspy and heavy with need. “Let me hear them.”

Then he fucks you harder.

His fingers curl inside you with precision, stroking your walls, spreading your slick with every thrust. You’re soaked, gushing around him, and the filth of it, the wet noise of his hand working in and out of your cunt, makes him groan, deep and guttural.

“God—just listen to how wet you are,” he pants, his voice turning ragged. “You’ve been holding this in since the minute we walked through the door, haven’t you?”

You nod helplessly, lips open, eyes wide and glassy.

“I know, baby. I know.” His thumb rubs against your clit, pressing in slow, vicious circles, each one timed with a thick plunge of his fingers. Your cunt flutters around him, greedy and soaked, clenching tight every time he hits just right.

“You like how that feels?” His tone drops, still gentle but strained now, his voice blunt. “You don’t even need more, do you? You’re already cumming for me.”

“Bruce—!”

It hits fast. Your thighs lock around his wrist, muscles seizing as your orgasm barrels through you, molten and humiliating in its force. Your cunt spasms around his fingers, slick coating his palm, and soaking down onto your thighs. You cry out, sharp and breathless. Your moans break into whimpers, hips jerking in stuttering waves as he fucks you through every last spasm.

He doesn’t stop.

He watches the way your mouth falls open, the way your eyes squeeze shut. Then he leans forward, his voice deep, and whispers against your cheek.

“Good girl.”

Only then does he slow his hand, letting your body tremble through the aftershocks, your juices slicking down his wrist. He eases his fingers out, slow and wet, dragging your arousal out with them. You gasp at the sensitivity, legs twitching.

And he looks at his hand.

Slick, glistening, coated in you.

He raises it slowly to his mouth.

Maintains eye contact.

And then, tongue first, he licks them clean, dragging his mouth down each finger with the slow patience of a man worshiping every drop. His groan is low and broken. Starving.

You are still gasping, dizzy, and your heart is pounding against your ribs as he presses a kiss to your cheek, followed by another kiss to your mouth, this time with a gentler touch.

You're still fully dressed. Dress rumpled but still on. A mess between your thighs. His hand, now clean, slides up to cradle your face.

“You're mine,” he whispers.

And you nod, dazed and breathless, the word forming without sound.

Yes.

The marble countertop behind you is damp where your thighs have been grinding down, and the slick from your climax is still warm between them. Your dress is bunched high, panties askew, your legs trembling as Bruce steps back just enough to look at you.

His hand slides from your face down to your waist, and with the gentlest touch, he urges you to turn. Your body obeys instinctively, pliable, breathless, and needy. You pivot on unsteady feet, chest now facing the counter as he nudges your hips forward, bending you slowly over the cold stone.

The edge presses into your stomach. Your palms brace flat against the surface. Your ass is up, dress still bunched above it. Every inch of you feels exposed, but you don't feel humiliated; you feel taken. Displayed for his hands, his eyes, and his use.

“Stay just like that,” he says, voice low. “Don’t move.”

You freeze, but your thighs tremble under the weight of your own need. Every nerve ending is wide open. You feel the air on your skin. The slickness still glistening down your inner thighs. The heat of his body as he steps back into you.

His belt slides loose with a slow, metallic noise. The gentle click of the buckle. The soft rasp of a zipper drawn down. All of it deliberate. Methodical. Measured like every movement Bruce makes.

You can hear the fabric moving. The soft, damp noise of his hand moving over himself, gliding once, twice, just enough for you to catch it.

You glance back over your shoulder, panting. And your stomach flips.

He’s hard. Thick and flushed and already leaking. His cock curves heavy against his palm, veins prominent, head dark and glistening with precum that he lazily spreads down the shaft in one slow stroke.

He meets your gaze. His hand tightens at the base.

“This what you want?” he murmurs. Not teasing. Not smug. Just confirming what your soaked thighs already confessed.

You nod. Breathless. “Yes.”

His hand comes to your lower back, firm. Holding you in place.

The blunt head of his cock presses downward, nudging between your cheeks. He drags it along your slit, filthy, letting it slide through the slippery heat between your lips, coating himself in your mess.

You gasp when the thick crown bumps your clit on a pass.

“God—” you stammer.

He groans under his breath, like he’s barely holding on. “You’re so fucking wet,” he mutters. “I’m not going to last if you keep making noises like that.”

You hear the need snapping under his voice. But he doesn’t slam into you. He sinks.

One long, slow push.

You feel every inch of it, thick and hot, stretching you open, forcing you to take him. The pressure is brutal. Your walls flutter around him, clenching tight, trying to accommodate his size as he presses deeper, deeper, until his hips are flush with your ass and your pussy’s stuffed so full you can barely breathe.

“Fuck—” he hisses, hand tightening at your waist.

You moan, sharp, high-pitched, and unfiltered. His cock pulses inside you, twitching with the tension he’s holding in check. He stays still for one agonizing moment, just letting you feel it, how full you are. How stretched. How claimed.

Then he pulls back.

Just an inch.

Then drives in again, slow and hard, hips snapping forward with a wet slap that echoes off the kitchen tile.

You jerk against the counter, crying out.

“Keep your hands flat,” he says, his breath stern. “Don’t move.”

And then he fucks you. Not fast, deep. Every thrust is deliberate, dragging the thick ridge of his cock along your inner walls, his pace measured but unrelenting. Your juices drip down your thighs with every wet slap of his hips against your ass.

Your moans fill the space, louder than before, echoing, each thrust drawing a filthy squelch out of your cunt, your body clutching at him like you’re afraid he’ll leave you empty.

“Listen to yourself,” he groans, bending low so his chest brushes your back, breath hot at your ear.

He fucks you harder, faster now, hips pistoning into your soaked pussy, your ass bouncing back into his lap with every snap of his body. His cock grinds deep, the head pounding against your cervix, the base grinding your clit each time he sinks all the way in.

You cry out—scream, nearly—slamming your hips back without meaning to.

He groans, deeper now, "That's it. Take it. Let me in.”

You’re leaking all over him now. It’s a mess, slick dripping down his thighs, coating your ass, pooling on the counter beneath you.

His hand glides up your back, tangles in your hair, and gives a gentle tug, just enough to feel it without causing any pain.

“Mine,” he grumbles, fucking into you so deep your knees buckle. Then his hand slides to your clit, just a brush at first, then firmer, tighter circles as he fucks you deeper. “This messy little pussy’s so fucking eager.”

In the candle-warm kitchen light, your panties hang crookedly, stretched out and useless, and the dress Bruce chose is still clinging to your upper body like a secret, delicate and innocent.

Below the waist, you’re obscene.

Your inner thighs are soaked, coated with your own slick. It's now everywhere, dripping down your legs in slow, sticky rivulets, smeared between your asscheeks, and splattered all over the base of Bruce's cock as he drives it into you over and over.

Gone is the perfect rhythm of restraint, the silent counting in his head. He’s fucking you harder now, not rough, but urgent. Hips slapping into your ass with wet, brutal pressure, filling you over and over with the same slow drag of his cock against your inner walls. You can feel the shape of him, the ridge of the head pulling at your entrance with every withdrawal, the sheer stretch of his girth making your pussy flutter around him every time he plunges back in.

“You hear that?” Bruce murmurs, against the shell of your ear, his tone low but laced with warm authority. One hand splays wide over your lower belly, pressing down ever so slightly as his hips cradle yours from behind, letting the slick sound echo in the hush between you. His lips brush your earlobe, breath hot. “That’s how soaked you are for me.”

Your only reply is a whimper, loud, frail, and broken in your throat as your body bucks beneath him. He holds you down with one hand, his palm braced between your shoulder blades, keeping you bent, arching just right, presenting all of you to him.

“Fuck—this pussy…” he groans, cock plunging deep again, hips driving forward with a relentless rhythm that sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

Your legs are trembling, weak beneath you, bracing against the counter edge. The mess between your thighs makes every movement slippery, decadent, and indulgent. Your release hasn’t come yet, but it’s building, tight and swollen in your core, the pressure like a knot you can’t untie, only tighten.

Bruce’s mouth finds your neck again, soaking the back of it in heat and breath. Then he sinks his teeth in.

You moan, loud and unrestrained, as he starts sucking a bruise into the base of your neck, hard enough that your skin throbs under his lips. The hickey forms fast, deep purple already blooming under his tongue when he licks over it a second later.

Then another. Lower. His mouth dragging across your nape as his hips pound up into you, over and over, his cock soaked and twitching from how tight your walls clamp every time he thrusts. He sucks harder this time, teeth scraping skin, and your cunt pulses like it’s begging for release you haven’t earned yet.

“D-Don’t stop,” you gasp, forehead pressed to the counter, mouth hanging open.

He doesn’t.

His thrusts get filthier. A little harder. A little faster. His pelvis hits your ass with a slap each time, the wet mess of your pussy stringing between you with each pull back.

You’re leaking constantly now.

It streams down the insides of your thighs, hot and shiny, dribbling off your skin with every movement. It beads at the edge of your slit, smearing around the base of his cock and soaking his balls every time he drives in deep. The counter beneath you is getting wet. The smell of sex is everywhere.

“You don’t know how close I am,” Bruce groans, his voice crumbling now, breath driving from his lungs each time his hips slam into yours. “You’re gonna feel it when I come. I’m not pulling out. Not until I’ve filled this pussy so full it leaks back out of you all fucking night.”

Every time your hips twitch, every time your walls start to tighten in anticipation, his rhythm eases, slows, not to tease, not to torture, but because he wants it perfect. Wants you to come on him, not just because of him.

He presses his chest against your back again, hands sliding up, cupping your tits through the bodice of your dress, squeezing them gently, palming your nipples until they pebble under the thin fabric. His cock is still drilling into you from below, heavy and hot, splitting you open again and again with the wet, obscene schlk of each thrust.

You’re past words. Moaning, gasping, broken.

You’re his.

And when his mouth clamps down again, a little too close to an already throbbing bruise, you gasp.

Then you whine.

A soft, broken, high-pitched sound that slips out before you can stop it, something between overwhelmed and aching, the noise pure reflex from a body that’s overstimulated, dripping, owned.

He slams into you harder, cock sheathed to the hilt with every thrust now. His pace brutal in its consistency, pounding your cunt with the kind of force that makes your thighs shake uncontrollably.

“You like that it hurts,” he breathes, thrusting faster. “You want to feel it later, don’t you?”

Your moan is the only answer you can manage, broken and slurred, body folded over the counter like you’ve been offered.

Your walls flutter around him, tighter with every snap of his hips. Slick runs down your thighs in shimmering trails, dripping to the floor. You’re creaming around him now, his cock pounding through it, pulling strings of it out with every pump, only to smear it back in deeper with the next.

And then, he growls.

“Gonna cum,” Bruce grits out, one hand digging into your hip, the other bracing the small of your back to keep you bent. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum inside you.”

You can feel him twitch inside you, thick and pulsing, and the head of his cock grinding so deep that you swear you can feel it in your belly. His pace becomes frantic, sharp, and uneven, and his hips stutter as your cunt tightens around him a second time.

You’re so close.

Your hands slam to the countertop, fingers spread wide, nails scraping marble as your own orgasm claws at your spine. Your legs tremble. Your pussy squeezes him like it’s begging for it, and your breath catches on a gasp, “Bruce—!”

He hears it. He feels it.

His hips snap forward one last time, deep and hard, his cock buried at the base.

And he lets go.

You feel him spill into you with a shuddered groan, hot and thick, gushing deep, flooding your pussy with his cum. It fills you in heavy pulses, and the moment you feel that warmth spread inside you, you snap.

Your orgasm tears through you, sudden and electric, your whole body going taut as your cunt clamps down around his cock, milking it, sucking him in deeper. You scream, high and helpless, your juices gushing around him, soaking his balls, making a sticky mess that drips down your legs and puddles at your feet.

He keeps moving through it, using slow, deep thrusts to fuck his cum deeper into your spasming cunt while your entire body trembles under his hands.

He groans again, forehead pressing to your back, one hand sliding around your waist, holding you there as you both breathe raggedly, chests heaving.

Neither of you moves.

You’re full. Stuffed. Your thighs are still shaking, twitching from aftershocks. His cock is still inside you, softening slowly, your walls fluttering gently around it as his cum trickles out of you in warm, dripping streams.

You’re ruined.

The silence that follows is thick and humid, broken only by the gentle whir of the fridge and the wet drip of fluids hitting the tile, yours and his, mingling in slow, sticky trails down your thighs.

Bruce stays inside you for a moment longer. Your pussy clenches around him with each one, milking the final drops, as the last of his orgasm throbs out in soft, lazy pulses. You're still folded over the counter, fingers twitching, legs trembling. Your chest heaves against the cold marble.

Slowly, he pulls out, and you gasp at the drag. His cum spills out of you in a messy gush as his cock slides free with a slick, filthy sound and an immediate rush of heat. You feel it dribble down your thighs in thick, white streaks, pooling at the backs of your knees. It’s indecent. There’s no stopping it. No hiding it.

He tucks himself back into his slacks with clinical ease, zipping up and refastening his belt with a quiet click.

You stay bent, eyes fluttering, trying to breathe. Your knees barely hold.

Bruce softly palms your ass, dragging his thumb along the curve before dipping to collect the creamy mess that is seeping from your cunt. He leans in. He brushes it between your folds again, smearing it with soft, slow cruelty before pulling his hand back.

And licking his fingers clean.

“Still dripping,” he murmurs.

You whimper. “I can’t move.”

“Yes, you can.” He presses a kiss to your temple, then your shoulder. “We’re not done out there.”

Out there.

The thought hits like a slap.

You jolt upright with effort, grabbing the edge of the counter for balance, dress fluttering back down to cover what little it can. But the damage is done. You’re a mess from head to toe. Your panties hang uselessly around your thigh, completely soaked through. You try to pull them up, and they cling to you like a second skin. You can’t tell what’s your slick and what’s his cum anymore.

Your thighs are sticky. Your skin is damp. The inside of your legs glossy with everything he left behind.

And the bruises, God, the bruises.

Your neck burns. You reach up with trembling fingers, tracing the outline of one along your collarbone, and it’s already dark. Another sits lower, at the crook of your shoulder, angry and red, already deepening to purple.

“No one’s going to miss those,” you mumble, voice hoarse.

Bruce gently lifts your chin with his fingers and gazes at you. His gaze shifts, not out of worry, but with a sense of satisfaction.

“Good,” he murmurs.

You glare at him. “Easy for you to say. You look like—like Bruce Wayne. Like nothing even happened.”

And it’s true.

He’s flawless. His shirt’s tucked, his tie neat again, and his jawline still sharp enough to cut glass. He smells like expensive cologne and sweat and sex, but nothing looks out of place. Just a slight flush to his cheeks. Maybe a smudge at the corner of his mouth. That’s it.

He’s immaculate.

You look fucked.

Hair a tangled mess. Dress creased and damp, a dark patch near your hip where you soaked through the fabric. Lips swollen, mascara smudged. Your neck is a painting of possession, your thighs a ruin of slick and cum.

“Here.” His voice pulls you back. He steps behind you, smoothing down your dress with deliberate care, then reaches for a nearby cloth napkin on the prep counter. The gesture seems almost absurd: white linen, clean and soft. He drops to one knee and begins to wipe you gently, catching the thick trails of cum and slick running down your thighs.

You whimper, shivering at the overstimulation.

“Too much?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head.

His fingers are careful. But thorough. When he stands, he tucks a small, almost smug smile behind his teeth.

“There,” he says. “Presentable.”

You scowl. “I don’t feel presentable.”

“You feel mine.”

He runs his hands along your sides and tweaks the straps of your dress. One shoulder strap is just about hanging on. He gently puts it back where it belongs, then plants a soft kiss on your shoulder.

Your reflection in the stainless-steel fridge door causes you to flinch.

You look ruined.

Marked. Loved. Fucked.

And still glowing.

Bruce’s hand slides around your waist. His palm rests over your stomach as he leans in from behind. “Let them look,” he murmurs at your ear.

You swallow hard.

He turns you to face him fully, gently cradles your cheek, and kisses you lightly this time. Soft. Still bright but now with a hint of something understated and daring just below the surface.

“They don’t get to see this version of you,” he whispers against your lips. “Only I do.”

And when the kitchen door finally opensm, when he leads you back out to the gathering with a steady hand on your waist.

The moment you and Bruce leave the kitchen, the atmosphere shifts.

It’s subtle, but you can undoubtedly feel it, like a chill running along the bare skin of your neck, where his mouth has made its impression. The party is in full swing, glowing beneath strings of golden fairy lights. The Daggett Country Club’s meticulously maintained terrace is bustling with Gotham’s elite, enjoying lighthearted conversations over flutes of champagne and the occasional hint of cigar smoke.

You and Bruce move together, his hand placed comfortably on your back, fingers gently resting against your waist. Your body still feels sore from everything that just happened. You move cautiously, feeling your knees tremble beneath the delicate silk of your dress. Every step brings back memories of how he made you feel and how your thighs still feel a bit sticky even after his careful cleanup.

Bruce had done his best to straighten you out, and you’d fixed your hair with trembling fingers and used a folded napkin to wipe the corners of your mouth. But the real giveaway isn’t your clothes or your walk.

It’s your neck.

The bruises stand out vividly on your skin, deep shades of wine and plum, striking and hard to overlook in the soft glow of the terrace lights. One is positioned just right to enjoy the warm glow from the string lights. Another lingers on your collarbone like a stolen kiss.

But no one says anything.

You move through the crowd, and nobody seems to notice. Not really. Everyone's eyes are on Bruce, with his sharp jacket, undeniable confidence, and that effortless, rehearsed smile. He gives a quiet hello to someone by the champagne fountain, hardly breaking his pace.

But you feel the weight of it. Like you’re glowing under your skin.

And then, you see him.

Roland Daggett.

Standing by the terrace edge, sipping on a glass of whiskey. With one hand in his pocket and a brow slightly furrowed, he appeared to be lost in a casual thought. He looks up, more out of habit than purpose, and his gaze connects with yours.

It’s just a moment, but it lands. He notices you.

His gaze sweeps up, passing over your slightly parted lips and unkempt hair. His eyes land on the noticeable bruise at your neck, the hint of a mark just visible beneath your dress strap.

His expression stays the same at first.

But you see it. That hint of something off beneath his well-rehearsed grin.

Acknowledgment. And then bitterness.

Like he knows exactly what happened. Like he can picture it. And he can’t look at you anymore.

He turns away sharply, taking a sip from his glass, the set of his jaw tight. Bruce, who hasn’t spoken a word, keeps walking. But the weight of his hand on your back shifts, pressing a little firmer. He saw it. He saw everything.

You glance up at him, nerves skittering behind your ribs, and he leans down just enough to speak close to your ear. His voice is smooth, too smooth, low, and intimate, and for you alone.

“Looks like someone finally learned the meaning of ‘hands off.’”

Your breath catches.

Bruce’s fingers slide slightly along your waist, fingertips brushing the curve of your side through the thin dress.

“And that dress…” he continues, voice slow, rich. “Still looks stunning. Even after what I did to it.”

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne smut #My god this feels like im reading a whole goddamn novel ITS SO GOOD #NEEDS MORE RECOGNITION FR

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dearlawdimasimp · 1 month ago

Note

If the request are open, I want a batfam x tony stark reader.

Reader is female tony stark. After she snaps instead of dying she wakes up in the body of 17 yr old y/n wayne. Y/n wayne is a neglected daughter with no problem for money. Gothamites call her different names like untalented wayne, wallflower wayne, useless wayne, etc., y/n wayne met with an accident where no one from batfam came to her rescue when she called. Now too sad the original y/n Wayne gone and in her place now there is only y/n stark.

We know stark she is the life of the party. Gothamites are the first to see her change in galas. They find her similar to Bruce. Funny considering his original daughter died

Since no one in the family is going to take care stark reader makes the executive decision of bringing back Jarvis (we love Jarvis u sassy ai) her room is now managed by her ai Jarvis. Damian who loves to torment her atleast 6 months once comes only for him to not enter. He asks the old butler of the Waynes Alfred for the key . They try only for the door to lock again. (Jarvis was playing with them) Damian lost all his temper and called his siblings one by one. One by one turned into all of them standing in front of the reader room. (By the way Jarvis informed us we told only important things need to be told because we were busy with our date. Our date being food). After 30 minutes we walk near our room to find concerned dick knocking our door, a angry Damian, a amused jason who is filming the entire ordeal, a calculative looked tim, a tired looking butler. The rest u can imagine. I want batfam and jl to look at all her technology and interact with our sassy Jarvis.

Pls pls I hope u would accept this prompt

The last thing she remembered was dust. Her fingers were scorched metal, her body crumbling from within, and in front of her — peace.

And then she woke up.

Not in heaven. Not in hell. Not even in a shiny new upgraded arc-reactor lab.

No, she woke up in a teenage body, in a hospital bed, with a gaping leg wound, and absolutely zero signs of her so-called family coming to check in.

Gotham General Hospital — 3 days post-accident.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Y/N Stark groaned and stared at the ceiling like it had offended her.

“…Well, this is a downgrade.”

Memories flooded her mind like bad code in a Stark prototype. Not her memories. Not at first. But enough to piece it together.

Y/N Wayne. 17. Daughter of Gotham’s own brooding bat. Neglected. Ignored. Bruised in more ways than one. And right before Tony’s consciousness slammed into this fragile teen’s body, Y/N had cried out for her family on the comms. Bloody, broken, and alone.

And no one came.

"Great. Trauma and daddy issues. Just what I needed after dying for the universe."

2 Weeks Later — Wayne Gala

She wore red. Stark red.

The kind of red that shimmered like sin, caught the eye, and screamed “I’m alive” in a city obsessed with being dead inside.

The Gothamites noticed instantly.

"Is that... Y/N Wayne?"

"She’s smiling."

"God, she’s drinking champagne and flirting with the mayor’s son."

“She made a joke… about LexCorp. In front of Luthor.”

“She just called Penguin ‘an off-brand Danny DeVito.’”

Bruce Wayne stared at her from across the room like he’d seen a ghost.

Maybe he had.

Because Y/N Wayne was gone.

And in her place stood Y/N Stark.

Wayne Manor – One Month Later

The Batfamily had grown used to their personal shadow girl — the one who rarely spoke unless spoken to, who ghosted rooms like a forgotten photograph.

So when Damian sauntered up to her room for his biannual bullying session and the door refused to open, alarms went off in his head.

He tried again.

“Y/N. Open the door. I do not have the patience for your games.”

The door flashed red.

❝Access Denied. Apologies, Demon Spawn. Miss Stark is unavailable for your nonsense. Try therapy.❞

“…What the hell was that?”

Damian scowled and stormed down to Alfred.

“Give me the key.”

Alfred raised a single brow. “Master Damian, I have attempted. The key is... no longer compatible.”

“Compatible?! It’s a key!”

Butler and boy returned to the room. Tim joined out of curiosity. The door denied him, too.

❝Access Denied. Try again when you’re interesting.❞

Jason popped up next. “You locked out Demon Brat? I gotta see this.” He whipped out his phone and started recording.

❝Smile for the camera, Red Hood. I’ve seen better aim from stormtroopers.❞

“…I like her now.”

Dick was last to arrive, wearing a soft concerned look, like the kind big brothers wear when they realize they haven’t checked in since the last apocalypse.

"Y/N?" He knocked gently. "Are you okay?"

No answer.

Meanwhile — Outside the Manor

Y/N Stark balanced a giant milkshake in one hand and a burger bag in the other, heels clicking against the stone like she owned the damn manor (she kind of did now).

Jarvis chimed through her watch:

❝Miss Stark, you have visitors. The entire Batbrood is currently having a meltdown outside your quarters. I did inform them of only 'important updates’ being relayed. You said you were on a date — with food.❞

“Thanks, J.”

She sipped her shake. “They are not interrupting burger time.”

❝Of course not. Shall I continue taunting them?❞

“Please do.”

30 Minutes Later

She turned the corner, humming “Highway to Hell,” only to find:

Dick knocking with that eternal big-brother guilt.

Damian punching the door like it would submit.

Jason laughing while filming.

Tim analyzing the lock like he could beat Stark tech with Google.

Alfred standing like he aged a decade in one afternoon.

“Did… something happen?” she blinked, innocently.

All five turned.

Jason was the first to react. “Holy hell, she looks like a Bond villain.”

“Or a Stark,” Tim muttered under his breath.

She winked.

❝Welcome back, Miss Stark. I kept the rabid pigeons entertained in your absence.❞

“Good job, J. Let them in.”

The door opened with a hiss, revealing a room so sleek it looked like Iron Man had married Batman and thrown a rave in the honeymoon suite.

Lights flickered, a 3D interface danced mid-air, and in the center of it all stood a rebuilt JARVIS, sassier than ever.

❝Please remove your shoes. Except you, Red Hood. I know you have none.❞

Jason snorted.

Dick blinked. “...What is all this?”

“My tech.” Y/N smiled, red lips sharp. “Turns out, being ignored lets you build some pretty cool toys in peace.”

Damian snarled. “You’re different.”

“I’m better.”

#i cacxkled at the off brand danny devito 😭😭😭😭#yandere batfam x reader #neglected reader

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dearlawdimasimp · 2 months ago

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Clark Kent x f!reader x Bruce Wayne

Tags: threesome , poly relationship, breeding kink, kryptonian heat, overstimulation, p in v sex, creampie, jealousy, slight voyeurism, praise + filth, they love you fr, needy clark. possessive bruce, ruined reader, reader is babygirl and we love her

a/n — okay but listen… this started as a what if and turned into a holy shit. clark in a breeding season is something so feral and intense and just? delicious. add possessive, calculating bruce into the mix and now we have a very overwhelmed reader being absolutely ruined by two men who can’t decide if they want to protect her or fuck her senseless.

Clark Kent, mild-mannered, sweet-hearted alien… hits Kryptonian Breeding Season.

It’s instinctual. Biological. A deep, primal shift in his body chemistry that he can’t control. His pupils dilate when he sees you. He can smell your hormones, your arousal, your fertility. And it drives him wild. All he can think about is breeding you. Not just sex—breeding. Stuffing you full. Watching you swell with his child. Claiming you so thoroughly there’s no doubt you’re his.

And poor Bruce?

At first, he’s pissed. Annoyed that Clark can’t keep his hands off you. Jealous, territorial, growling at him across the Watchtower when he sees the way Clark stares at you. But then—he sees what Clark is becoming. The way he trembles with restraint. The way his voice drops when he talks to you. The way he almost loses control when you so much as touch his arm.

And Bruce, being the dark, possessive bastard he is, starts to get off on it.

Because maybe he realizes that no one—not even an alien desperate to breed—can take better care of you than they can, together.

So… what does Bruce do?

He helps.

He pins you down while Clark fucks you full, whispering filth in your ear like,

“You feel how desperate he is? He needs to breed you, baby. Needs to put a baby in you. And I’m gonna make sure he does it right.”

He watches Clark pump into you over and over again, coaxing every drop of Kryptonian seed from him. Bruce kisses your tears away when it’s too much. He strokes your hair while Clark fills you again. And when Clark can’t stop shaking from how badly he needs you again, Bruce wraps an arm around your waist and murmurs,

“Let him. Let him do what he’s built for. You can take it, can’t you, pretty girl?”

And Clark—sweet, gentle Clark—whimpers through it all. Apologizing even as he holds you tighter, begging, “Let me put a baby in you, please—just need to—can’t stop—need you so bad.”

#I NEED MORE POLY BRUCE AND CLARK PLEASE WHEREELZE CAN I READ MOAR #Bruce Wayne x reader x Clark Kent #Superman x Batman x reader

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dearlawdimasimp · 4 months ago

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Batman!reader antics

Synopsis: Me having fun and doing little headcanons. I've been doing a lot of asks and really wanted to do something else. This is based mostly on the Justice League cartoon.

Batman!reader: Who isn't the best at making conversation when they first meet the Justice League, but the second you make a small, niche reference that Wally knows, he starts yapping your ear off, and you can't help but match his freakish energy with your own little references as the two of you giggle endlessly, speaking in a language you both only understand. Who knew the big, brooding bat was into Rush Hour and White Chicks?

Batman!reader: Who can't fly and will have others carry you places if the Batjet is out of fuel. Diana will be holding you bridal style as you try not to blush. Hal puts you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and you're literally yelling at him to put you down while blushing madly. Wally carries you on his back as he goes at high speeds, and Shayera will hold you with one arm like she's holding groceries. Clark will try to pick you up, but you get too flustered around him and refuse.

Batman!reader: Whose little Robin begs you to take her to the watchtower so she can see her favorite heroes? She's bouncing all over the place with excitement and squealing when she meets Superman or Captain Atom. She's taking pictures with everyone she meets, getting real shy trying to talk to the Question or Martian Manhunter, so she makes you get the picture or autograph for her. You'll have the members tell you it's not "Bring Your Kid to Work Day," but Oliver gets to bring his little Arrow, plus she's your equal.

Batman!reader: who asks some of the heroes to take care of their Robin, like going to Clark's apartment with your Robin at your hip, playing on her DS. "Can you take care of her for me? I have an important meeting to go to. I'm sorry to bother you on your day off. I'll make sure to take your shift." Clark, completely whipped by you, agrees on the spot and is great with kids; she'll come back sleeping on his shoulder, and you're surprised how he got her to sleep. Booster offers to take care of your Robin, and she's quite the handful, almost blowing up his penthouse, but seeing you smile at him with a look of appreciation makes the $10,000 damage worth it.

Batman!reader: Who stays up all night finishing a case and now is all sleepy, using their cape as a blanket or using Hal's shoulder as a place to rest their head. He'll stay still for you and pretend like it never happened. You'll wake up dazed and confused and see him on the other side of the watchtower, acting all nonchalant. If Kyle is around, he'll sketch your face and give you the drawing you teased him about posing for. He got super excited—really excited.

Batman!reader: Who has different suits for different seasons and events? In winter, you have a suit with a fuzzy scarf and fur-lined cape to keep you warm. You nuzzle your face into the scarf, and the League thinks it's adorable how easily you get cold. Or you have a portable fan in your suit when it gets hot. During fall, you have a hoodie instead of a cowl—you've got to stay fashionable. Even when you're an undercover vigilante.

Batman!reader: Who has snacks in their utility belt for your little Robin and Wally? She'll come to you thirsty, and you'll pull out juice boxes for your little bird. And Wally doesn't have something to snack on? You have protein bars for him to eat and energy drinks ready. He literally owes you everything, and it's honestly insane because you keep your smoke bombs near your lollipops, which are next to your batarangs. You might accidentally give your Robin a smoke bomb or batarang when they ask for a snack.

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dearlawdimasimp · 4 months ago

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DC vs. Vampires

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dearlawdimasimp · 5 months ago

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Batdad brainrot

a bruce wayne and daughter! reader oneshot | m.list

Summary: your estranged father tries to connect with you in ways you didn’t expect him to

The argument had started as something small.

Bruce didn’t even remember what it was about. A minor disagreement, an offhand comment, something inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. It shouldn’t have escalated.

But it had.

And now, you weren’t speaking to him.

Well—not exactly. You weren’t avoiding him outright. You still responded when necessary, still showed up when he called, still acknowledged his presence. But it was different.

It was distant.

Mechanical.

Gone were the casual conversations, the random observations you used to share just to fill the silence. Gone were the moments when you’d tell him about something you found interesting, even when you knew he probably wouldn’t have much to say in response. Gone were the little efforts you made to connect—because no matter how much he had failed to meet you halfway, you had always tried.

And now you weren’t.

At first, Bruce Wayne had told himself it didn’t matter. That it was fine. He wasn’t someone who needed constant conversation, who thrived on interaction. He was used to silence. Preferred it, even.

But this wasn’t silence.

This was absence.

And it made something in him itch with discomfort.

Because suddenly, the manor felt empty in a way it never had before.

Bruce had never been good at fixing things that weren’t tangible.

A broken bone could be set. A wound could be stitched. A case could be solved, an enemy could be defeated, a mission could be completed. But this? This was different. There was no direct solution, no simple fix.

And he hated that.

Because every time Bruce saw you, he saw the way your shoulders stiffened. The way your expression remained carefully neutral, the way you answered only when necessary. The way you no longer sought him out, no longer attempted to start conversations, no longer tried—and the worst part was knowing that it was his fault.

He had spent so much time thinking he was protecting you by keeping his distance, by not indulging in sentimentality, by maintaining the walls he had built so carefully over the years. But all he had done was push you away.

And now, he was left with nothing but silence.

He thought about it more than he wanted to admit.

During patrol, during Justice League meetings, even when reviewing case files in the Batcave, his mind kept drifting back to the argument. Kept replaying it over and over, picking apart every word, every moment, trying to pinpoint the exact second he had gone wrong.

Bruce had always believed himself to be a man who thrived in silence. It was in silence that he observed, that he planned, that he found control.

But now, this silence—your silence—was unbearable.

He hadn’t realized just how much you filled the manor with your presence until it was gone. The absent chatter, the missing quips at the dinner table, the lack of commentary whenever you sat next to him in the Batcave, pretending to work while obviously keeping him company. You were avoiding him. Not just in passing, but with intent. And Bruce wasn’t used to that.

Bruce Wayne was many things, but when it came to being a father, he was painfully aware that he wasn’t the best. And now, that awareness was staring him in the face every time you walked past him without a word.

He didn’t realize how lost in thought he was until he felt someone watching him.

Bruce glanced up from the Batcomputer, already knowing who it was before he saw him.

Dick was leaning against the cave’s stone wall, arms crossed, brow raised. He had that look on his face—the one that meant he had been standing there for a while, the one that meant he was waiting for Bruce to acknowledge him first.

Bruce exhaled slowly. “Something you need?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Dick said, pushing off the wall and walking toward him. “You’ve been staring at the same screen for the past twenty minutes. Either you’re trying to solve the world’s hardest crime, or you’re brooding.”

Bruce frowned. “I don’t brood.”

Dick snorted. “Right. And Gotham is a peaceful city with low crime rates.”

Bruce ignored that.

There was a beat of silence before Dick leaned against the Batcomputer, tilting his head slightly. “So? What’s up?”

Bruce hesitated.

For a moment, he considered brushing it off. Telling him it was nothing. That he was just tired, or distracted, or caught up in work. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew Dick wouldn’t buy it.

And… maybe a part of him didn’t want to brush it off.

So, with some reluctance, he told him.

And by the time he was done, Dick was looking at him like he was the biggest idiot in the world.

“So, let me get this straight,” Dick said, arms crossed as he leaned against the Batcomputer. “You and (Name) got into an argument. She’s now giving you the silent treatment. And you’re freaking out.”

Bruce gave him a look. “I’m not—”

“Bruce,” he said slowly, “do you hear yourself right now?”

Bruce frowned. “…Yes?”

Dick exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re overthinking this.”

“I’m aware that’s what I do.”

“Yeah, with cases. Not with your daughter.”

Bruce didn’t respond, but the way his jaw tightened must have said enough, because Dick sighed and shook his head.

“There you go again,” he muttered. “Overanalyzing, scrutinizing, looking for some grand strategy when there isn’t one. She’s not you, Bruce. She doesn’t think like you, doesn’t work like you. So stop putting on the whole ‘Bruce Wayne’ act and trying to figure this out like it’s just another mission. Instead of thinking about how you would approach this, think about how she would.”

Bruce went still.

And just like that, his mind started turning again.

But this time, it wasn’t in the way he usually did.

This time, he wasn’t analyzing things from his own perspective—he was trying to see it from yours.

And that… changed things.

Over the next few days, Bruce found himself researching in a way he never had before.

He had read entire psychological profiles on some of the most complex minds in history. He had deciphered alien languages. He had cracked codes that entire intelligence agencies had failed to solve.

And yet nothing—nothing—prepared him for this.

It started with subtle observations. He paid closer attention to the things you watched, the things you laughed at, the things you scrolled through on your phone. He noted the words and phrases you used, the memes you sent in group chats (not that he snooped—he just happened to see them in passing), the trends you occasionally mentioned in conversation with your brothers and sister.

Then came the actual research.

Bruce Wayne was a detective. A strategist. A man who could crack the most encrypted codes, uncover the deepest secrets, solve the most impossible mysteries.

So surely, surely, understanding Gen Z slang couldn’t be that difficult.

He was wrong.

At first, it was just simple terminology. He started with the basics—words like “rizz,” “mid,” “slay,” and “delulu.” But then he found himself spiraling into deeper territory, encountering phrases that made absolutely no logical sense. “Ate and left no crumbs”? “Touching grass”? “Gyatt”?

What the hell was a “skibidi toilet”? Why was “no cap” a thing? Why did “mid” sound like an insult? What was the difference between “based” and “cringe”? Why did some of these phrases feel like they were meant to be grammatically incorrect?

He had never felt older in his entire life.

But Bruce wasn’t deterred. If anything, the confusion only made him more determined.

So, he studied. He took notes. He tried to analyze sentence structures, context, and usage patterns. He even ventured onto TikTok, only to be immediately bombarded with an overwhelming amount of fast-paced videos, most of which he did not understand.

But he persisted.

His first attempt at incorporating this newfound knowledge into conversation came during dinner.

The table was mostly silent—just the occasional clink of silverware, the occasional page turn from Tim’s book, the occasional soft exhale from Cassandra.

You were sitting across from Bruce, scrolling through your phone, expression unreadable.

And Bruce, in a desperate attempt to bridge the gap that had grown between you, cleared his throat and said, “So… I hear that a lot of things are… bussin’ nowadays.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Tim looked up from his book, squinting in suspicion. Damian paused mid-bite, staring as if Bruce had grown a second head.

And you?

You just slowly lifted your eyes from your phone, staring at your father with the most deadpan, unreadable expression he had ever seen.

“…What?” you asked flatly.

Bruce maintained his composure. “I was simply acknowledging that many things these days are… as you would say, based….?”

Your stare somehow became more bewildered.

“Father,” Damian said, voice wary. “Are you feeling unwell?”

Tim looked vaguely concerned. “Did you hit your head during patrol?”

Bruce frowned. “No. I—”

But before he could even attempt to recover, you sighed, shook your head, and went right back to your phone.

Bruce realized, then and there, that his first attempt had been a complete failure

So, he regrouped.

His second attempt happened in the Batcave.

You had come downstairs to grab something, and that’s when you saw it—Bruce sitting at the Batcomputer, scrolling.

At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Until you got closer.

And realized that your father was—oh god—scrolling through TikTok.

“…Dad.” you said slowly.

Bruce stiffened.

When he turned, there was a brief moment where he looked like he was debating whether or not to close the tab. But then, after a second of hesitation, he exhaled and faced you fully.

“There’s something I wanted to ask you,” he said seriously.

You raised a brow. “Okay?”

Bruce turned back to the screen.

“Why,” he starts, “do so many of these… influencers believe that Batman is an alpha male?”

You blinked.

He gestured toward the screen, where a video was paused on some random guy in sunglasses talking about “how Batman embodies the peak sigma mindset.”

“They claim that I—he—operates on some kind of grindset mentality,” Bruce continued, sounding vaguely irritated. “That the reason Batman fights crime is due to some misguided sense of superiority rather than a moral obligation. Some of them even say he ‘gives off major red pill energy.’”

You cringed.

Bruce’s frown deepened. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose. “B, please stop scrolling on that side of TikTok.”

“I didn’t intend to,” Bruce said. “It just happened to appear on my feed while I was doing research.”

“…Research?”

“For… communication purposes.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What kind of communication purposes?”

Bruce hesitated.

And then, in what was possibly the most botched attempt at Gen Z slang to ever exist, he slowly said, “I’m just trying to… get that W… and not be an L father. No cap.”

Silence.

Pure, unfiltered, incomprehensible silence.

You stared at him, utterly speechless.

Bruce held your gaze, waiting.

Tim, who had just entered the cave, immediately turned around and left.

It took a full ten seconds for you to finally find your voice.

“…What the actual fuck did you just say?”

“Language.”

You were baffled. Was your father hearing what he was saying??

Before you could respond, an alert suddenly blared through the Batcomputer, signaling an Arkham breakout.

And just like that, he was saved by the bell.

Bruce quickly turned back to the screen, scanning the situation, already shifting into mission mode. But before he left, he spared you one last glance.

And, in what was perhaps his most disastrous attempt yet, he said,

“Stay woke.”

Then, without another word, he swept out of the cave.

Leaving you standing there, completely and utterly at a loss for words.

You had no idea what the hell just happened.

And honestly? You weren’t sure you wanted to know.

But the next day, Bruce made one last attempt.

Bruce Wayne had faced some of the most dangerous criminals in the world. He had been thrown through walls, stabbed, shot at, and even died once (technically). He had outmaneuvered gods, masterminds, and creatures of the night.

And yet, standing outside your bedroom door, debating whether or not to knock, he found himself hesitating.

This was ridiculous.

He shouldn’t feel hesitant about this. He was your father. He had faced literal apocalypses without flinching—why was it so difficult to face you?

Was it because of his failed attempts at getting through to you these past few days?

Probably.

But he had committed to this. He wasn’t going to back down now.

So he took a deep breath, steeled himself, and knocked on your door.

A pause.

Then—“Come in.”

He opened the door, stepping inside with careful, measured movements. His eyes swept over the room instinctively, cataloging every detail—your posture, your expression, the way your fingers curled slightly where they rested on your crossed arms.

You were stiff, but not defensive. Guarded, but not hostile.

Not angry. Not anymore.

But you were distant. And that was worse.

Bruce had always relied on presence—on being there, on the sheer weight of existence as a means of maintaining connection. But now he understood that presence wasn’t the same as attention.

He hadn’t given you that. Not the way you had given it to him. Not the way you deserved.

Bruce cleared his throat, trying to find the words. “I…. would like to formally apologize for being the… goat of bad parenting. That was not very…. rizz of me.”

You blinked.

What?

A slow, deliberate blink, your expression frozen in something between shock and utter disbelief.

Bruce noted the way your brows twitched slightly, the way your lips parted just enough to indicate that you had words but were currently incapable of forming them.

Good. That meant you were listening.

He continued, tone steady. “I have, in fact, been caught in 4K being a cringe father. And that’s on me. Major L.”

The silence that followed was excruciating.

You tilted your head ever so slightly, like you were trying to determine if this was some elaborate joke.

Maybe it did seem like that to you.

Bruce pressed forward. “No cap, I have been acting incredibly mid. Probably even giga-mid.”

Still silence.

The twitch in your eye was microscopic but noticeable. The corner of your mouth jerked—barely, almost imperceptibly, but Bruce caught it.

He nodded, as if steeling himself, mentally adjusting his approach. “This whole situation has been, dare I say… a ratio.”

That was what did it.

You snorted.

A small sound, abrupt, barely audible—but it was real.

Encouraging. He could work with this.

“I have realized,” he said solemnly, “that I have been lacking fatherly rizz. A skill issue, if you will.”

Your entire body curled inward as you let out a strangled, disbelieving laugh, hands flying to cover your face as if that would somehow make this entire situation less insane.

Bruce analyzed every detail—the way your shoulders shook, the way your hands trembled slightly as you pressed them against your face, the way you leaned just a fraction forward, no longer so closed off.

Progress.

Finally, gasping for breath, you looked at him with pure horror. “Dad. Please tell me you’re not serious.”

“I am always serious,” Bruce said gravely. “This is an earnest attempt at slayful parenting.”

You made a sound that could only be described as a dying gremlin noise.

Bruce noted the way you hunched further over, like your body was physically rejecting what was happening, and yet—you were still laughing.

You peeked up again, eyes shining with barely restrained mirth. “Dad, what the hell are you saying?”

He furrowed his brows. “Am I not eating right now?”

You lost it again.

Bruce waited patiently as you continued to laugh into your hands.

Finally, wiping at your eyes, you shook your head. “Oh my god, Dad. What is this. Did Alfred put you up to this?”

“No,” Bruce said. “This was all Dick’s idea, somewhat.”

“Of course it was,” you groaned, still grinning. “I knew he was behind this somehow.”

Bruce hesitated, then walked over, sitting at the edge of your bed.

He saw it in the way you met his eyes, in the way your posture was looser, in the way you were actually looking at him now, rather than through him.

“I’m sorry.”

Your smile dimmed, just slightly. “…For what?”

“For the argument, for not listening. And for not being as emotionally available as I should be.”

You searched his face.

Bruce let you.

You studied him, guarded again. But then—softer, you asked, “Why are you trying now?”

“Because you tried first,” Bruce admitted. “And I never met you halfway.”

That got you.

He saw it in the flicker of your expression, in the way your fingers twitched slightly, in the way your gaze softened just enough for him to catch it.

Then, after a long moment, you huffed. “…Is that why you were acting so weird these past few days?”

Bruce nodded. “I will admit… it was incredibly painful.”

You laughed again, but it was softer now. Easier.

Bruce felt something in his chest loosen.

You sighed, stretching your arms behind your head. “…Fine. I forgive you. But please—never say fatherly rizz again.”

Bruce placed a hand on his chest. “I make no promises.”

You groaned dramatically, flopping onto your bed.

But you were smiling.

And for Bruce, that was more than enough.

literally based off my parents trying to act like they understand gen z slang infront of me and my sister LOL 😭 hope you guys enjoyed this 🫶

taglist (open): @k1arar3 @kingshitonly @rainnyydaysworld @ceridwyn3 @darkfaethedestroyer @blueiones @strwberryglass @lithiumval @thephantomdanny @eli-mayhaveatencats @rockyeatrock @dreaming-of-the-reality @shirp-collector-of-fixations @gneepgnorpsneepsnorp @skerbablo | ask to be added <3

#THE WHEEZE AND CACKLE LEAVING ME #I CANT IMAGINE BRUCE SAYING THESE AT THE SAME TIME I CAN AND AHAHWUWVEJSGWUHDDIWJDIS #CANT BREATHE #batfam x batsis #batfamily #batfam x reader #bruce wayne x daughter reader

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