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peterthepark · 2 years

Text

shouldn’t cry, but i love it

pairing: bruce wayne x f!reader

tags: 18+ smut/minors DNI!!! angst, mentions of clubs and alcohol, religious imagery and symbolism, some dark themes, rough sex, brief bondage, not following any particular plotline

summary: bruce wayne runs into a past lover in the darkest parts of gotham. when old emotions are brought up, bruce finds himself torn by lust and the need to protect you. but what he doesn’t know, shouldn’t kill him, right?

note: first battinson fic so pls be kind :,) notes & reblogs are always welcome, send me thoughts! based off of lana del rey and the weeknd’s song “stargirl interlude” <333

missing out? ➤ [my masterlist]

Nocturnality reigns over Gotham.

The inhabitants of the nefarious city are seemingly governed by restlessness and disturbia. Perhaps, the concept of sleep is their bête noire. Or perhaps, they have grown accustomed to consciousness, worried for what happens when they close their eyes and unwillingly succumb to vulnerability. They lurk in the befouled shadows, sordid and petrified, crawling amongst feculent brick walls and hiding in the haunted subway cars near tagged platforms. Insomniacs hide in stained bedsheets of valium, the homeless make homes of putrid alleyways, but the criminals, the murderers — they would rather avoid the darkness than anyone else.

The darkness belongs to vengeance.

Vengeance wanders the streets, keeping away from flickering lamp posts and busy roadways. Vengeance treks behind the fearful in silence, nothing but a rustling wind and the cries of Arkham in the distance. Vengeance takes to the rooftops, the high-rise buildings, the rickety construction sites, the places where someone may think that they are alone, but they aren’t.

Vengeance is in the sky. And when Gotham looks up to the foreboding clouds in search of a nonexistent place of deliverance called heaven, they see him. Batman.

Not the unlovable Bruce Wayne, the prince of this city and the heir to millionaires — for whoever loved Batman, failed to love Bruce.

Except for one person.

Bruce Wayne doesn’t partake in club culture. He despised the flashing lights and the drunken stench that’d follow him in the midst of wandering hands like it was the river Styx. These poor souls would gander at him like he was Hades himself.

He’s dressed like he’d come from a funeral, the circles around his eyes are similar to feathers of a raven, the black leather that pooled around his body as if it were wings. Appearance wasn’t of importance if you had a high social class, rather if you could even take one fickle step into the world of dirty money and politics, that meant you had to have something going for you. He happened to know a thing or two about all of those, but his knowledge came with a sanguinary price like everything else in the slums and riches of Gotham City.

Love, lust, greed — even vices themselves came with a cost.

He’s a sinner sitting comfortably on an armchair in the exclusive section of the Hayloft Lounge, surrounded by drops and lines of coke that he doesn’t bother taking part in. Everything in sight is a shade of a seductive red, an attempt to be sexy and induce devilish temptations to customers. The dim lighting and cigarette smoke intensifies the neon strobes by the stretched dance floor, and it feels like Bruce is practically bathing in blood as the colors blend into his pale skin.

The lounge, although filled with dealers and neglected daughters, is a place of worship for the lost. Bruce doesn’t want to be here, he isn’t troubled in the same fashion that they are. If he wanted a good time, his first choice wouldn’t be at the Hayloft. Yet business is business, and Alfred would kill him if he decided to skip out on an important deal between Wayne Enterprises and another money-hungry company prone to failure.

Bruce is certainly aware of his cynicism.

He isn’t one to boast, except he wants nothing but to drive back to the confines of his mansion and tell Alfred, ‘I told you this wouldn’t work,’ when his supposed business deal goes sideways — if sideways meant completely and utterly fucked in every position with how many drinks this alleged board member has downed in the twenty minutes Bruce has wasted here.

Having shown up late doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care much for punctuality anymore, neither does he care for the public eye and their assumptions about him.

He wipes the exhaustion from his face with a heavy hand and abandons the comfort of the armchair. The arrival of pole dancers and washed-out moans from the illuminated stage on the second platform are enough to send him barrelling towards the exit, not paying mind to how his broad shoulders merely knock down the animated crowds. The people around him are jumping up and down, dancing bodies swaying to the rhythm and singing along to incomprehensible lyrics that made Bruce question his entire existence.

He keeps his head low. It’s a mistake.

His chest collides with a shorter frame of a body, earning a shocked grunt from both parties. His hand shoots out to grab their wrist, noting how the floors are slippery from a suddenly spilt drink.

“Watch it, will you?”

Bruce looks back towards the snippy voice.

His darkened eyes meet your sour face as you hurriedly slip a fur coat over the expanse of your shoulders, eyelids decorated with messy glitter and strategically placed jewels like some sort of sacred herald. He watches your legs strut out of the vicinity with lengthy strides, obviously intent on getting the fuck out of here.

You glance back at him as well, this time with furrowed eyebrows — simply a look of recognition in passing, then you’re out the door and into the back alleyway before Bruce can say hello to what he believes is an apparition of you.

It had been years since you showed face in Gotham.

He can’t even remember where he last saw you.

Let alone, he can’t even remember you appearing so put-together.

In a club, by all means.

Somehow, your perfume wafts through the booze-filled air. Now, he can’t forget your scent. He can’t get you and that elegant coat, nor those bare thighs beneath the most skin-tight dress he’d ever seen out of his head.

Bruce is never like this with anyone else.

It doesn’t come as a surprise to him when his heart decides to act quicker than his brain, to which he follows after you through the shifting flock of partygoers.

You saw him and frankly, that’s all Bruce cared about.

You saw him, but acted as if you hadn’t known him.

He starts to think he’s at fault.

The alleyway is freezing. Trash bags are practically falling out of the dumpster, pooling with cracked glass and old shiny packets of god-knows-what onto the asphalt. Bruce can feel the heartbeat of the city beneath his combat boots, aching and pounding, nothing but a groggy demonic moan as he watches you standing beneath the monorail track with a lighter in hand.

He compares your resemblance to an angel, a holy miracle that fell right into his lap like an answered prayer. The click of your thumb against the button rings into the emptiness of the street, bouncing off of the walls and to the road.

“Usually when you bump into someone, you’re supposed to say excuse me.”

Shoving cold hands into the pockets of his coat, Bruce takes careful steps until he’s towering beside you. “Since when were you back in Gotham?”

Your hair is longer.

He likes it.

But the lack of sleep is apparent on your features, even with all that makeup and that pretty dress, he isn’t fooled.

He can tell you're exhausted.

You continue to fiddle with the lighter. “Two months ago.”

Bruce hummed at that, nodding his head while he anxiously drags his thumb across his lips. “You didn’t tell me.” He wants nothing but to reach out and touch you, to bring you close to his chest and tuck you underneath his chin like how it used to be. “Why?”

“Why didn’t I tell you or why am I here?” You turn to him.

And fuck, Bruce feels like he’s twenty-six all over again and thinks back to that summer villa in Tuscany: kissing you up and down those gorgeous legs, tasting your fragrance intermixed with sweat, smelling of sex and dripping with youthful desire as he found an altar in your hips.

Bruce isn’t religious — he’s far from it now — but everytime he sees you, he understands why people believe in God.

But there’s an unmistakable fire in your stare, and Bruce isn’t sure if you want him to commit penance or if you were looking to be worshiped. Either way, he’d do anything for you. Even if you loathed him. Even if you hated every part of him, it wouldn’t hurt as much. He hated himself too. What would change?

“You look… beautiful, by the way.” Bruce utters quietly. He sounds almost as if he’s afraid to talk, voice nearly quivering as he notices the ghost of a smirk forming on your lips when he stumbles around your question. He doesn’t seem as dark and brooding at the moment. “Missed seeing you. It’s been years.”

“Yeah, you look like shit, Bruce.”

He cracks a soft laugh at that.

“Feel like it, too if I’m honest.”

He’s always been the quiet type, too scared to accept emotion and voice the thoughts in his head. You recognized that of all people, which is what he liked about you — that you never pushed him.

Your eyes appear kinder, more understanding, and Bruce doesn’t know what he’s expecting but it certainly isn’t the weight of your fingers reaching up to brush through his hair. He feels self-conscious now, especially with the nostalgic gaze you hold as he pathetically leans into the longing touch. He hasn’t been held in ages.

All he wants is your skin against his. He knows just how desperate his thoughts are. But with you, he can’t particularly resist it.

“What’s been troubling you, pretty boy?” Your nails trail down the side of his cheek, reminiscing over the sharpness of his jaw while he sighs at the satisfying feeling. “Missed me that much, huh?”

“More than you know.” He takes your hand and brings it to his lips amorously, kissing along the cracks as if time had never passed in the first place. “No call. Not even a text from you. Thought something happened.”

You chuckled teasingly, “And you didn’t bother to go looking for me? Not even with this vengeance situation you’ve got going on?”

“Trust me, I wanted to.”

“If you wanted to, you would’ve.” You clicked your tongue. “Such a kind boyfriend, Mr. Wayne.”

His yearning gaze flickers down to you, lips leaving traces of wetness along your hand until a faint grin is bestowed upon his despondent features.

“I’m not your boyfriend, Y/N.”

It’s old banter, but nevertheless, it makes Bruce feel warm inside when you send him an unconvinced and slow nod.

“You wish you were though.” You shift on either foot, pulling the coat closer to your chest as your breaths puff into the night. He lets go of your hand, and you watch each other intently as you mirror one another’s movements like clockwork.

He can still taste your skin in his mouth.

“We both know neither of us are capable of commitment.” Bruce whispers matter-of-factly, glancing towards the street with newfound meekness. “We’ve established that. You never stick around long enough. And I… I just can’t.”

“Yet we always end up in each other’s beds.”

He’ll never get used to that wittiness.

You’re too smart for your own good.

“Personally, I think yours is a bit more comfortable.” He admits humorously, heart growing fonder as another sweet hymn of a laugh escapes you. “There’s something special about mattresses with a broken headboard.”

For once, his smile reaches the corner of his eyes.

There’s a rustling by the alleyway of the lounge that interrupts the endearing silence between you and Bruce. The backdoor swings open roughly, and the abrupt pulsing of rap music replaces the intimate whistle of the empty sidewalk. Bruce follows your pointed gaze, the corners of his mouth falling back into his signature scowl.

The Hayloft bouncer approaches with heavy and purposeful strides despite being obviously intimidated by the presence of the notable Wayne.

“Y/N, they want you back inside. Regulars have been looking for you.” He takes another glance beside you and bows his head timidly. “Sir.”

Did he hear that correctly?

Bruce can’t find the words, but he takes note of the discomfort in your stance as you follow behind the bouncer. He doesn’t hesitate to grab you by the arm again, pulling you back towards him with a decent amount of force.

“What is he talking about?” He ignores the bouncer’s call of your name and your exasperated protests about his grasp on your shoulder. He can’t read the look on your face, especially when you don’t make eye contact with him.

“Hey, relax.”

He snarls, not in disgust but in frustration. “You work here?”

“Listen…” You dropped your head, glancing down at the toes of your knee-high boots until you’re met with the icy coldness of his pupils. “You have responsibilities and I have mine. It was nice seeing you, but we should leave it at that for now, ‘kay?”

You reach up to kiss his cheek. It’s bittersweet.

For now, he repeats.

“Are you hearing yourself? Is this for money? Is that it?” The possessive anguish on his face is apparent. He doesn’t let go of you. “Y/N, this is…”

“Sweetheart, I’m a dancer. Nothing but a favorite talent here. My services are limited, for your information.” You giggle, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear in an effort to defuse his ramblings. He watches you purse your painted lips together, tongue darting out to wet them. “I don’t give myself to just anyone, Mr. Wayne.” He doesn’t miss the underlying meaning behind the declaration. Your voice lowers to a melancholic hush, doe-eyed and irises all glassy. “Now, I gotta go. Be a good boy for me and don’t wait up.”

The pet name causes him to shudder.

And as you reluctantly walk back into the lounge, Bruce is left with nothing but a broken heart and an insatiable, irreplaceable ache between his thighs. His chest heaves with a combination of outrage and dubiety, fingers tracing the burning skin that simply longed for you again.

It’s forty-two degrees in Gotham and yet he’s sweating like a perverted whore in church.

He curses under his breath, then rushes back into the club with the intention to find you. Somehow, he looks even more disheveled, hair sticking to his forehead and drops of sweat beading down his chin as he squints through the reddened fog inside.

The bass vibrates through his entire body and drums into his ears when he nears the dance floor. The panels below his shoes shift into a luminescent white, underlining his jawline and clothing as he pushes past everyone in an unpredictable frenzy.

“Y/N!” Bruce shouts, but even he can’t hear himself over the deafening volume. Odd stares are sent his way when he starts prying random girls off of old men, acting like a madman crazed by an undying affliction for you. It’s as if a fire inside him has reawakened, sparks flying off his fingertips as he tries to reach for you — somewhere.

Is this what addiction does to a person?

The coat. He sees it then as he makes his way into the center of the floor. The white ensemble is halfway down your shoulders, the skin of your collarbones glistening with lustrous warmth as you grind against some stranger. Bruce lewdly studies the parting of your lips, how your jaw falls ajar as the man pulls you closer against his thigh, the enticing visual of your hips rolling as your hands trail up your breasts and your satin dress rides up beneath the touch.

You open your eyes slowly, and somehow, almost as if you knew he was looking, you stare directly at the bitter bachelor. His nostrils flare angrily when you crack the tiniest smile and throw your arms up into the air as if you were having the time of your life.

Like you were getting off on his desperation.

Like this was supposed to be fun for the both of you.

And it is, given the amused pout that you send him as you run the stranger’s hands all over your torso in a teasing fashion. He’s visibly fuming, his anger presenting itself as a scowl and balled fists until he marches over with passionate courage.

Roughly pushing the stranger off of you, Bruce doesn’t break your stare at all. Not even when people around him start to recognize that he’s a powerful Wayne causing a ruckus at a downtown club full of snakes and walking debts. He knows then that you lured him in. That you were expecting this.

He isn’t embarrassed. He knows what you want.

Silently, he grabs you by the waist and tugs you flush against the expanse of his chest. A breathy laugh leaves your throat at his tight grip, fingers digging into your lower back as his hands swallow you whole.

“Hey, handsome.” You purr, biting your lip in eagerness as Bruce’s eyes shamelessly wander over you. Any and all forms of subtlety have left him, gaze following your exposed flesh and legs. “Something got you all riled up?”

“You think this is funny, Y/N?” He sounds strained, like a betrayed animal. His eyebrows knit together, wrinkles appearing on his forehead as he spews his aggravation towards you. “Thought you didn’t ‘give yourself’ to just anyone? Was that not true?” He uses your previous words against you, swaying you to the beat of the music with a dangerous glint in his gaze.

“I don’t quite know what you mean.”

You stifle a yelp when he turns you around in his arms with newfound dominance. Normally, he was the one submitting — but this, you loved this side of him. The side where he showed no restraint, where he let himself use you in any way he pleased, where he handled you like you were nothing but a body for him to use for his own desires and his own wants. His crotch rubs against you as you press yourself further into him. Bruce’s hands rest on the tops of your thighs, then he drags them higher and higher. They skim across your stomach and brush over your ribs until he reaches your ass, where he squeezes at the soft flesh harshly.

It’s needy. It’s crude. But he’s used to filth.

“Mm. Perhaps you need a reminder?” He whispers, looking out into the crowd as his breath fans over you.

“Do tell.”

“That night when you had yourself nice and ready for me, spread out on my bed like some kind of…” Bruce trails off, hissing when you touch the bulge in his pants.

You grin, knowing he’d never call you that word on any other day. “Say it.”

“Some kind of slut.” His ears perk up at your moan. “That was you giving yourself. All of yourself to me. And me only.” His long fingers travel across your spine, then hook over your shoulder to play with the strap of your dress. He wraps a hand around your throat. It’s a sign of possessiveness, even though Bruce was never really a man who claimed ownership over things. He’ll allow himself this. “That time when you had me handcuffed to the chair, fucking yourself on me, begging to cum as if I could even touch you. Even when I couldn’t contribute to your pleasure, you acted as if I was in control. That’s giving yourself.”

His lips linger over the side of your face, intense eyes taking in the details of your skin as he dips down to leave coveted kisses along your neck. He’s drunk off of the taste. He nibbles at the crook of your shoulder, teeth pulling at you feverishly while his free hand drifts underneath the hem of your dress.

“Who’s in control tonight?”

Your head rolls back against him when his fingers find the slick between your thighs. “I think your body speaks for the both of us.” He runs a digit across your panties, feeling the build-up of your wetness as your clothes ride up around his arm. “God, the things I do for you, Y/N.”

“People might be watching.” You accidentally rut against him, pulling at his hair in an effort to mask your growing desperation. “Bruce… this won’t look good for tabloids. I don’t wanna get you in trouble.”

“Since when did you care about the tabloids, Ms. Y/L/N?” He murmurs, following your distracted gaze out across the dance floor. “I don’t care about them, but I do care about you. Look at me, angel.” Bruce turns you in his arms, gentleness seeping in his tone. “Don’t do this to yourself. You say the word and tonight I’m yours. As long as you stay, I’m entirely yours.”

Even with heels, he’s so much taller than you — his chin practically hovers above your head, his jaw clean-shaven and tense as he awaits for your consent.

“Okay.” You whisper, stepping closer towards him as you pull his mouth down into a slow kiss. He sighs against you, makeup transferring onto his skin as you crane your body towards him with fluttering eyelids. His wandering hands take shelter below the frame of your face, holding your stare when he pulls away.

His throat bobs when you press another kiss to the corner of his lips, fighting off a moan when you stain his neck with red lipstick. “I feel indescribable things with you. Something primal. Uncontrollable, like a hunger that never goes away. And everytime you give yourself wholly to me… it’s never enough, like I need more.”

“If you’re in love with me, just say that.” You blink up at him. You purposefully search his face, cupping his cheek as you nudge your nose against his longingly. “Frankly, I love it when you get all poetic on me, but I think…” You bite his earlobe. “… your poetry sounds so much better in bed, yeah? You tellin’ me all the unholy things you wanna do to me, while I lay there — helpless for you. I bet you’d like that, Mr. Wayne, wouldn’t you?”

Bruce’s irises glisten under the flickering strobe lights, the deep ocean blue glimmering with lust.

“If I could take you right here, right now…” He pulls you by the hair, tugging your head back. His fist forms a ponytail while his other hand grabs you by the chin, “… I would.“

You question him seethingly, inches away from his face. “What’s stopping you?”

From the stuttering of your breaths, to the way you squeeze your thighs and bite your lip, Bruce can tell that you’re enjoying the dominant front he’s putting on. It wasn’t that he didn’t like taking the reins or being in control — but something about entrusting his pleasure in someone else other than himself made him extremely satisfied. He’s used to being in control; that’s what vengeance was for. But, here, even with his thumb dipping between your swollen lips and into the wetness of your mouth, Bruce knows he can let go and allow you to take care of him.

Yet tonight, he wants to take care of you — his angel, his hellfire, his sin and his miracle. Water in the middle of a desert. A reward after the fast. Divine absolution.

God has nothing to do with Bruce’s intentions.

“Let’s get out of here, yeah?” He peers down at you, running his tongue across his canines with half-lidded eyes as he pulls the digit away. He speaks before you can. “Your place. Not mine.”

“Afraid old man Alfred is gonna call me a bad influence again?” You smile at him, wiping the smudge of lipstick from his cheek.

He places a hand over the small of your back, leading you out of the dancing crowd and away from the pounding of the speakers. “More like I’m afraid he’s gonna call me a bad influence.”

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Oh? Give him my best regards, then. He’s not wrong.”

He hands the bouncer a folded Benjamin on his way out.

A mindless smirk falls upon him when you nuzzle yourself against his arm, and suddenly, he finally feels like himself. He feels comfortable, complete, and for the first night in ages, he thinks highly of himself — in fairness, what kind of man wouldn’t become even slightly egotistical when he has a beautiful girl snuggling up to him?

He shoots you a doting grin when he leads you to his car, holding the door open for you as you dip down into the low leather passenger seat.

You take a deep breath to yourself when Bruce trails around the front of the car, taking his place at the steering wheel. The entire interior mimics the shade of the night sky — a foreboding, voided black that perfectly encapsulates his aesthetic. It’s a stark contrast to the absolute adoration in his gaze as he reaches over the console to kiss you.

You missed sitting shotgun.

And you missed him more than anything, but sometimes, things are better off dead.

Bruce can’t know.

His hands are cold when they slide underneath your dress once more, bunching the material around your hips as he exposes your panties. Carefully, he maneuvers you to lean you against the door as his head bends down to litter your skin in open-mouthed kisses, sighing as he gets closer and closer to where you most need him. He’s eager to taste you, to toy with you in the same manner you do to him — to have you writhing and moaning underneath him, above him, beside him. He doesn’t care. He’ll take you in any way you want. As long as you’d let him, he’d do anything to and for you.

“Bruce…” You pull his face back up to yours, ignoring the throbbing of your core when his touch leaves your body.

“Are you okay?” Now, he’s able to understand the look in your eyes. The uncertainty, innocent insecurities and worry. You blink frantically, clearing your throat. Bruce knows the question before you can say it. He’s aware that pride can sometimes swallow you. “There’s no one else.” He brushes your hair back. “And I don’t want anyone other than you, Y/N. Even if what we have is nothing close of a relationship, you of all people know that I don’t have anyone else.”

The corners of your lips twitch into a wistful smile.

“I wish the world knew that you’re more than a Wayne.”

Bruce doesn’t hesitate. “And I wish you knew that there’s a home for you here.”

“I can’t make a home out of Gotham.” You scoff, twisting the rings on your fingers to distract yourself from his stare. “You… you have everything here and I don’t.”

He cups a hand over your knee. “You can make a home out of me.” He presses the tenderest kiss to the bulb of your nose, then to your blushing cheeks, on the arch of your cupid’s bow, and onto your sweet mouth once more.

You pull away abruptly. “Show me.” Bruce shakes his head at you, unsure as to what you mean. You caress his jaw, staring into the darkness of his lust-blown pupils as you rub circles by his temple. “Show me what will happen if I stay.”

He’s fucking obsessed.

Even as Bruce speeds across Gotham City at seventy miles per hour, he can’t keep his hands off of you. Not even when you give him that youthful grin and watch the lights pass outside the tinted window.

Even as Bruce makes out with you against the front door to your shitty apartment, nearly breaking the knob off as he pushes you inside with pent-up desire and an attraction that he just couldn’t bring himself to call love, he can’t keep his hands off of you.

If you thought that your living room was messy before he came over, it’s even messier now as he hoists you up onto a chest of drawers. He flings all objects to the side with a long swing of his arm, eyes widening when something collides loudly onto the hardwood floor.

“Bruce.”

He laughs apologetically against your mouth as he stands between your parted legs. “I’m sorry. I know. Sorry.” He looks up at you, then starts pulling your dress down your chest and tugging it past your legs. “I’ll make it up to you.” You reach for the hem of Bruce’s shirt, but he quickly grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, pressing your arched back against the peeling wallpaper as his mouth nears your ear. “But let me be in control.”

You swallow with a nod when he lets you go.

“Okay. I have an idea.” You slowly lean forward, reaching for the drawer just below your knee. There’s a familiar cloth sitting on the bottom — a dark necktie with an embroidered ‘W’ by the tip lining. Without any sort of hesitation, you press the heels of your hands together and extend your arms out in front of you, studying Bruce with innocent curiosity. “Tie me up.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” He watches you closely as he takes the necktie and wraps it around your wrists, pulling and tugging with careful force. “From what I remember, you really enjoyed yourself last time.” He binds you tightly, but not too tight for discomfort. You sigh when he plants a kiss to either of your open palms, relaxing back against the wall as he moves to unzip your boots.

“God, Y/N. You look so pretty like this.” Bruce tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, letting his fingers follow the shape of your jaw until he taps the digits against your chin. “Suck.” You open your mouth slowly, watching him intently as he slips his pointer and middle finger between your parted lips. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Feels good.” You utter, voice garbled and choked by the length of his fingers. He lets out a soft hum of approval at that. “Would feel better inside me.” His dominance falters momentarily at the brash statement, and he takes in a shaky breath. “Mm? Do you like how that sounds? You love it when I’m needy, don’t you?” A moan falls from your lips when he lodges his fingers deeper.

“Don’t be a brat.”

His digits are coated in your spit when he pulls them away from you. “You spoil me too much, Bruce. No wonder I’m a brat.” He admires the wet glistening of your saliva on his own hand, then your vision is blurred as he slaps you harshly on the cheek with it. Before you can even recover, his lips are on yours — a mixture of teeth and warm tongues and desperate gasps for air.

“Was that too rough?” He sighs into your neck as he unclasps your bra, throwing it on the floor so that it joins your discarded dress.

The stinging of your cheek is only slightly painful, but it’s a pleasurable kind of sensation for you.

“I like it when you’re rough.”

“Fuck, Y/N, of course you do.” He chuckles, taking one of your nipples into his mouth.

You card your nails through his hair, buzzing with satisfaction as he lightly kneads at your breasts. He suckles a hickey onto the fleshy skin then starts kissing down your belly, admiring the way your body arches into him as his nose brushes over the ribbon on your panties.

“Do you see how wet you make me, Mr. Wayne?” You lift your bounded wrists away from the wet patch between your thighs, fully exposing yourself to Bruce as you spread your legs even wider.

“Fucking hell.”

Bruce has never thought of sex as a sacred act.

But here with you, in the dimness of your apartment, he thinks nothing could get holier than this — than the way you look down at him like an angel from above, how your hands fold together like you’re in prayer, moans falling from your lips as if God could hear you, how he greedily pulls your panties down so that he can finally taste you.

God has nothing to do with this.

Somehow, the drawer chest beneath you is replaced with your checkered kitchen counter, cabinets rattling against your knees as Bruce bends you over against the cold surface. His large hands slowly spread you apart, to which he has to stifle a groan at how your folds are already dripping with slick for him.

You crane your neck to watch him lap at your cunt, lurching forwards with a mewling moan until he holds you in place. “Mm… fuck!”

His tongue circles over your clit, the bridge of his nose poking at your entrance as he eats you out in the middle of the kitchen.

For once, you’re thankful that the pouring rain of Gotham City is raucous enough to mask the pleas that burn through your vocal cords.

If anyone were to hear this, you’d be as good as dead.

No, it isn’t an exaggeration.

Bruce licks his lips as he examines the bruising of his fingerprints on your waist. “Tastes so sweet, Y/N. Always loved eating you out.”

You move to reach for him, only then remembering that he still has you bound with the embroidered tie.

“Bruce…” The whine of his name doesn’t capture his attention, not even when he tugs his shirt off in one smooth motion whilst staring at you the entire time. Your gaze wanders over the faded scars on his muscles, biting your lip at how wonderfully they ripple with each tiny movement. Then, he’s too caught up in the pleasure of burying his face against your cunt once more. “Untie me… wanna touch you all over.”

“No. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“F-Fuck, please!” You gasp out when his mouth becomes replaced by his fingers. The heel of his hand presses into the swell of your core, curled digits fucking themselves in and out of you as Bruce fixates on the sounds of your body. “Please, I’ll be so fucking good. Just let me touch you.” The brimming tears in your eyes spurs him on even further, fingers hitting that one spongy spot inside of you that edged you towards an orgasm every time. “Oh, fuck! Bruce, baby… please, right there!” You tug at the knotted necktie, legs trembling as a small rush of liquid drips between your thighs.

“Jesus, Y/N, you got me soaked.” Bruce grabs you by the neck, pulling you to stand straight as he leads you into the living room. He knows your apartment like the back of his hand. He’s done this with you too many times for him not to remember. “By the couch. On your knees.” He slaps your ass, scoffing when a faint smile tugs at your face.

Bruce is certain that this is your favorite part of all. Pleasing him. You love seeing him moan — seeing such a powerful man that people feared become nothing but a whimpering shell of a mess as he gives himself to you.

“When was the last time you got blowed?” You smirk, knees hitting the carpet as Bruce unbuttoned his pants. “Or better yet, when was the last time you fucked a girl?”

“Does it count if I didn’t cum?” He gives you a smug look.

You huff, repeating his question aloud. “Does it count? So, you did fuck someone else. Because usually when we fuck…” You bat your lashes up at him as he steps out of his boxers. The tip of his cock is a bright red, leaking with pre-cum as he throbs at the eager sight of you and pumps himself in his fist. He lifts your arms, untying the necktie between your wrists. “… you cum maybe more than once or twice.”

You’re not wrong.

But he really needs relief.

“Y/N. Open up and stop talking.” He watches how your hand immediately wraps around the base of his cock, making up for the remaining length that won’t fit in your mouth as you suction your lips around him. “Yeah, take it. There you go.” His jaw hangs ajar as you bob your head around him, spit already collecting itself in the spaces between your fingers. “Such a fucking angel, Y/N.” A ragged moan slips out from his throat. The desperate sound goes straight to your cunt, and Bruce doesn’t miss the way you rub your thighs together for friction. “Touch yourself. It’s okay.”

He holds you by your hair as you continue to suck him off and play with your clit. Even with your soft gags around his dick, he can hear how wet you still are down there.

You pull off of him to breathe, chest heaving quickly as you twist a hand up and down his length.

“Your cock is so pretty.”

Bruce nearly topples over at the statement, along with how you so suddenly take him back into your mouth with such devotion to make him cum.

“Y/N… your mouth, fuck.”

He shudders when you try to fit all of him, nose brushing against his happy trail until a gag forces itself out of you and he takes the advantage to properly fuck your throat.

You nod eagerly at him to keep going when his pace becomes a little too rough. Watery mascara rolls down your cheeks and saliva drips from your bottom lip. Your face is flush with pink, neck reddening with strain as Bruce nears his orgasm and you try to hold out.

“I’m gonna… oh, angel.” He gapes at you. His eyebrows are knitted together with self-absorbed pleasure as he continues to fuck your mouth. “Gonna cum, is that okay?” You nod furiously, making the effort to hold his stare as your gags grow louder. His hand rests on the top of your head, the other cupping your chin to hold you in place as his hips snap into you. “Mm, fuck! Oh, my god. I’m cumming, Y/N.”

You feel his release coat your tongue and the back of your throat.

Bruce pulls out, cock still hard as you swallow and show him the inside of your mouth.

Practically savored every drop.

You press open-mouthed kisses to his thighs.

“There’s my good boy.”

It’s an unspoken conversation between you two, but Bruce helps you to your feet, pecking you softly on the lips as a form of gratitude. He’s tender in comparison to how he handled you earlier. He shifts your hair to one side of your shoulder, pressing his forehead against yours as his thumb strokes your jaw.

This is his form of an ‘I love you.’

He still isn’t sure if he could call this love.

But it feels right.

It feels right when you push him onto the couch, smirking down at him as he leans back and watches you straddle his lap with intense eyes.

It feels right when you grab onto his shoulders and lower yourself onto his cock, taking him to the hilt as you share a gasp of pleasure. Bruce’s hands find your waist, fingers digging into your skin as he guides you on his length.

“God, Y/N. Your cunt is so tight.” He mumbles into your chest. His cock is filling you up, the tip brushing against your g-spot as he lets you needily roll your hips against him. “Shit, baby.”

His mouth finds yours as you bounce on top of him. He can feel your tits press against his chest, hard nipples finding friction against the softness of his skin.

“Bruce, you’re so fucking big — oh, my god.” You shake your head at him through watery eyes.

“Say you love it, angel.”

You nip at his bottom lip, a grin making its way onto your face as you gaze at him longingly. “I love your cock.” Your juices are dripping onto his thighs, squelching around him as you ride him feverishly. “I love it when you fuck me hard. Love it when I get to ride you and please you.”

Bruce doesn’t shy away, letting his moans and whimpers echo through the room as he slips in and out of your folds. His finger rubs at your clit, the extra sensation tugging you closer towards a potential orgasm as his dick stretches you out. Your back arches into him, whiny mewls rasping from your throat as he pulls your chin down to kiss you.

His grip on your waist is unwavering.

His cock makes you feel full.

Bruce takes you into his arms and lays you out onto the couch, creating a pile of pillows below your tailbone with his cock still inside you.

“Don’t cry.” He whispers against your mouth as he brings your knees up to your breasts. “If you love it so much, you shouldn’t be crying.”

“S’good is all. Feels so fucking good.” You gasp, finding a rhythm with your hips to meet his strokes. Your cunt is fluttering around him, gripping his cock as Bruce fucks you. The couch moves beneath you with each hard thrust, screeching against the floorboards. “Oh, god! Yeah, there. Please, oh my god, Bruce.”

He tilts his head back to properly look at you.

“Are you gonna cum for me, sweetheart?”

“Y-Yes, I’m gonna cum all over you.” You leave kisses along his jawline, eyelashes brushing against his cheek as you moan into his skin.

“Cum for me, angel. You can do it. I know you can.”

You quiver as you near your orgasm, knees buckling beneath you as Bruce pulls you all the way down onto his length. His embrace is crushing, the muscles on his back flexing beneath your touch while he holds you up.

A cry escapes your mouth when you clench around him.

Bruce is easily reaching his second one when you milk his cock with your own orgasm.

You fall into him with a loud exhale, a mixture of sweat and tears rolling down your neck as your heartbeat slows.

“Fuck, that was everything.” You chuckle, peppering Bruce’s face with quiet kisses as he relaxes back onto the sofa.

He shakes his head at you. “You’re everything.”

“Shut up, sap.”

Both of you share the silence, staring at each other amorously as you move to lay beside him. He uses his thumb to wipe at the spill of cum between your thighs, humming in amusement when you jolt out of sensitivity.

“So pretty, Y/N.” His eyes follow the curve of your waist, memorizing the swell of your breasts as you lean over to gaze at him and grab his hand.

“Stay for the night.” You intertwine your fingers with his.

“Oh, wow.” Bruce suddenly chuckles. “That’s a first.”

“Well, we have a lot to catch up on.”

There’s something special about Gotham in the mornings. The solitude, the bustling tourists that only found beauty in the day, the rare laughter of children playing on the sidewalks. The skies look nicer, less foreboding and less cloudy. The sun feels warmer.

People don’t need to hide away from the darkness when light is present.

There’s no need for vengeance there.

There’s no need for vengeance as Bruce kisses the top of your head, pulling you closer to his naked chest as he admires how beautiful you look even when you’re asleep. He likes this — the intimacy, basking in the presence of you. Sunlight peeks through the uneven blinds on your bedroom window, drawing shadows on your skin that Bruce finds himself tracing with his fingers.

His eyes narrow in worry when he sees a burn mark on your forearm. He brings it closer to view, unsure if what he’s seeing is real.

Not a burn mark.

A branding — a singular ‘J’.

It’s tiny, which is no wonder as to why he didn’t see it.

“Y/N…” He pipes up, breaking the silence in the air.

“Mhm?”

“Your arm.” He can feel you stiffen beneath him, muscles growing tense as you lift your head up to meet his questioning gaze. “What is this?”

“It’s…” You pull the sleeve of your jacket over it, biting your lip as you continue. “It’s something for the Hayloft. All the girls have it. No biggie.”

“J stands for?”

“Nothing.” You shrug.

It’s a lie. Bruce can see right through you. He sits up, bedsheets pooling onto his lap as he studies your lack of eye contact.

He crosses his arms over his front. “Try again.”

“Are you seriously—“

There’s a loud knock at your door. It doesn’t go away. It’s persistent and bothersome, meant to be answered. You and Bruce exchange a look. “You’re staying here,” He gets out of bed, slipping on a shirt as he makes his way towards your living room.

The evidence of last night’s events are still apparent.

He doesn’t care for that right now.

“Bruce, don’t.”

The hallway is empty.

Except for the bouquet of daisies on the faded welcome mat outside. There’s an unmistakable purple envelope wedged between the stems of the flowers, and Bruce picks it up carefully with wary hands.

“Who’s Mister J?”

He turns to you, perplexed.

You stand unsure by the doorway to your bedroom, rubbing at the branded skin on your arm with sudden resignation.

“Just a regular who stops by the lounge.”

Maybe Bruce is wrong.

Maybe you aren’t such an angel after all.

How could love and vengeance go hand and hand?

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