#Alfred when Thomas violently threatens someone with forced cannibalism: that’s hot actually

[bruciemilf]

Protective daddy Thomas Wayne.

No thoughts, only baby Bruce riding on his papa’s shoulders, mind ice cream in his tiny hand, much to Alfred’s utter dismay. “You’re getting so big, bunny! Oh don’t look so salty. He likes it.”

“If he wakes up and likes tigers, shall we commence to that, too?”

“Siberian tigers, sure.”

“T’ger,” Bruce just started speaking and it’s the most adorable and beautiful thing he’s ever heard. Thomas can’t deny himself peppering kisses all over him, and Alfred, too.

His hair shivers.

Carmine Falcone approaches them with a sharp eye. “Thomas Wayne outside and walking. Didn’t think I’d see you. And who’s this?” He’s bad at appearing harmless. Bruce hides behind Thomas’ head, peeking at him through his eyelashes.

Thomas’ radiant smile vanishes in something cold. “My baby.”

“My future competition,” he hums, “Pretty little thing. Like his daddy.”

A flat silence snows over them, and Thomas gently passes his baby boy to a still, smiling that switchblade smile of him.

“Let’s talk, Carmy.”

—

“Listen here, ya rat bastard,” He sneers, smile manic and eyes wide, like a scorned serpent baring its fangs, forearm pressed tight against Carmine’s throat. He watches that little vermin thrash and wheeze.

Thomas’ accent is honeyfire, drawling like a whiskey river and booming like lighting. “You even look at my son again, I swear on my mama’s body, boy, I’ll dig up your piece of shit daddy and make you eat the skin. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t fucking play with me, Falcone. “

“I swear,” he groans, clawing at Thomas’ arm, but he doesn’t even feel it, that’s how enraged he is. “On my father’s name, I swear.”

“Good. “ A knee to the stomach is unnecessary, yet greatly desired. “Get the fuck off my streets.” And if Alfred watches Thomas hide his bloody knuckles from Bruce while they’re at the park, who’s he to say anything?