#dark knight x reader

[devilishcupid]

BROUGHT TO JUSTICE | Bruce Wayne

☆ premise: you knew you had to do something after the joker killed jason, even if bruce wouldn't be able to save you.

☆ pairing: bruce wayne x fem!wife!reader

☆ warnings: gore descriptions, hurt no comfort, angst, death depiction and mention

☆ a/n: been a while since i uploaded a fic on this account. so many drafts and i couldn't focus on finishing bc i kept going back and forth lol. anyways, forced myself to finish this bruce fic i've had since last year. didn't have a specific bruce in mind writing this, hope you enjoy!

'He was never going to stop. You did the right thing,' you told yourself. You spared Gotham of further terror at the hands of the psychopathic clown. He didn't deserve to live—not after he murdered the one you held most dear.

"What did you do?"

You snapped out of your trance-like state, looking up to find Bruce standing in front of you in his costume. Only now, you became aware of the cold metal of the crowbar in your hands. Only now, you became aware of the crimson blood that covered you from head to toe. Only now, you became aware of the lifeless body of the Joker lying at your feet.

"I only did what you couldn't do." You said as you dropped the crowbar, the sound of metal hitting concrete echoing in the abandoned warehouse you had lured the Joker into.

"Why... why did you do this?!" Bruce yelled, grabbing you by your shoulders, trying to process how you were able to commit something even he couldn't bring himself to do.

"Because you didn't save my Jason!" You spat at him, your salty tears mixing with the blood splattered on your face before dripping down your chin and onto the ground. "You didn't save our boy—"

"Do you really believe that's an excuse to take a life?!"

Your jaw clenched at his words—you couldn't believe Bruce was using his stupid code of honor to defend letting that good-for-nothing maniac live after what he did.

"He tortured your son to death, and you let him get away with it." You hissed, venom dripping from every word you said. "And it's not just Jason. He terrorized the citizens of Gotham for too long, and the only thing you ever did about it was put him in a damn asylum he'd eventually escape from."

Bruce's lips formed a thin line across his face, unable to give you a response. From the looks of it, you could tell he knew you were right—at least about the never-ending cycle of Joker escaping Arkham and the Batman putting him back in.

"You know why I couldn't kill him." He finally settled on.

You let out a throaty chuckle laced with disdain for the man in front of you, shaking your head at your husband's simplistic reply. "Well, it's a good thing you don't have to—not anymore, at least. I did all of this for you."

Before either of you could say anything else, blue and red lights pierced through the broken glass windows of the warehouse, and the sound of sirens got louder. You could hear the screeching of car breaks, followed by Commissioner Gordon's voice booming, "This is the GCPD, and we have you surrounded! Come out now!"

"You should go," you said, having already accepted your eventual arrest by the Gotham City Police Department the moment you had put your plan into action.

"I won't leave—"

"It will look bad if they see you here," you interrupted him. "Right now, you're not my husband. You're the Batman. Unless you want to be the one to turn me in, I suggest you go now."

Bruce stayed quiet, knowing he couldn't save you from your predicament. Everything that led up to the Joker's death all pointed to you. It was almost as if you wanted to get caught with how the clown's death mirrored Jason's; you didn't bother to cover up your tracks, either. They may not be as useful as they should be in this crime-ridden city, but the GCPD isn't incompetent enough to not connect the dots.

"Just go, Bruce. Please. I don't want you to see what happens next." You planted a lingering kiss on your husband's cheek—careful not to get any hint of evidence on his suit—before heading towards the warehouse entrance to face Commissioner Gordon and his men.

The squelching of entrails and blood beneath the soles of your shoes followed your every step as you inched towards the door. You gripped the rusty handle with a bloody hand, taking a deep breath. You heard the sound of rustling behind you and look back to find the Batman already gone.

If it wasn't for the wailing of the police sirens, you swore you would've been able to hear a pin drop from the shock Gordon and his people had when you stepped foot outside the warehouse.

You raised your hands in the air, showing the entire unit of police officers undeniable proof of what you'd done. Confusion contorted on some of the officers' faces while others lowered their weapons, all of them unable to wrap their head around how one of Gotham's most esteemed socialites ended up covered in blood from head to toe.

"Sir, what do we do?" You could hear Officer Montoya ask hesitantly to the GCPD's renowned commissioner.

"Arrest her."

Next thing you know, your face is pressed against the pebbly ground and cold, thin metal is wrapped around your wrists behind your back. From the corner of your eye, you could see the feet of officers walking past you and into the warehouse.

You're brought back on your feet and walked to the nearest police car. Before you're put inside, you hear one of the officers shout—

"Fucking hell, she killed the Joker!"

Once you're seated in the backseat, the car starts moving. The sounds of the engine and the sirens filling your ears, almost deafening. You look out of the window, and you spot the silhouette of the Batman atop of a building against the moon's bright light.

You couldn't help but smile a little to yourself. As much as you did it for yourself, you did it for him. Now, the Batman didn't have to worry about a psychotic clown terrorizing Gotham City.

[sl-newsie]

Um… yeah

[liorabb]

“ruin me properly”

cw: 18+

You’re already trembling before he even touches you.

Rafe strips you bare, tossing the layers of silk and lace across the floor like they’re worthless rags, until you’re nothing but flushed skin and wide, pleading eyes under him.

His armor clatters to the floor, heavy and final — like he’s discarding the last thing keeping him from truly claiming you.

“Look at you,” he growls, kneeling over you on the bed, his thick cock in his hand, slowly stroking himself as he drinks you in.

“So fuckin’ pretty and all mine. No one’s ever touched this sweet little body, huh?”

You shake your head, lips parted, breathing hard.

He leans down, heavy hand gripping your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

“Say it,” he orders, voice rough, deep. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper, desperate.

“Only yours, Rafe.”

The groan that rips from his throat is feral.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for, angel,” he mutters, dragging the swollen tip of his cock through your soaked folds.

“I’m not gonna be gentle. I’m not gonna be sweet.”

“Don’t want you to be,” you whimper, grinding up against him, aching to be filled. “Want you to ruin me.”

He laughs, low and dark.

“Oh, princess,” he murmurs, voice dripping with filthy promise. “I’m gonna fucking destroy you.”

Then he presses in.

It’s stretching, burning — he’s so big, so thick, you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

Tears spring to your eyes at the sheer pressure of it.

You clutch at his shoulders, digging your nails into his skin.

“Shh,” he croons mockingly, pushing deeper, inch by agonizing inch. “You can take it. You were made for me, remember? This pretty little cunt was built to be stuffed full of me.”

You whine helplessly, body straining, overwhelmed — but you don’t tell him to stop.

You want it.

You need it.

And Rafe knows it.

He finally bottoms out with a deep, guttural moan, grinding his hips against yours.

“Fuck,” he snarls against your ear. “So fuckin’ tight. Gripping me so good, baby.”

He starts moving — slow at first, then faster, harder, brutal — each thrust punching a helpless, broken noise out of you.

You’re crying already, pleasure too sharp, too much, your nails raking down his back.

And Rafe loves it.

“Lemme hear it, pretty girl,” he pants, pounding into you. “Lemme hear you cry for me. Let the whole damn castle know who’s fucking you.”

“Rafe—” you sob, clinging to him like you’ll die if he stops. “Too much—”

He just growls, thrusting even harder.

“Too much for anyone else,” he grits out. “But you can take it for me. You will take it for me.”

His hand slips between your bodies, rubbing tight, fast circles on your clit, making your back arch clean off the bed.

“Come for me,” he snarls. “Milk my cock. Wanna feel you fall apart around me.”

You shatter with a scream, body convulsing, squeezing him so tight it almost hurts.

The orgasm rips through you like wildfire, leaving you sobbing, shaking.

But Rafe’s not done.

He flips you onto your stomach without warning, yanking your hips up, thrusting back into you so hard you scream again.

“Not done with you, princess,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Gotta fuck you full. Gotta make sure you never forget who you belong to.”

You’re gasping, drooling into the sheets, utterly wrecked — and he just keeps going, using your limp body like his personal plaything.

He fucks you through one orgasm, then another, until you’re begging, incoherent.

“Rafe— Rafe, I can’t—”

“You can,” he grunts, hand fisting in your hair, pulling your head back. “You will.”

He pistons into you faster, brutal, chasing his own release.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groans, hips stuttering. “Gonna pump you so full of my cum, you’ll be dripping with it for days. Everyone’ll know you’re mine.”

You whimper, desperate for it, clenching down on him.

And then he roars your name, slamming deep one last time, spilling inside you in thick, hot waves.

You can feel it — so much cum, it leaks out around him, dripping down your thighs.

Rafe collapses over you, still buried deep, still panting, still whispering filthy, desperate things against your skin.

“Mine,” he mutters, over and over, voice wrecked. “My princess. My perfect girl.”

And when you finally drift into unconsciousness, too exhausted to move, Rafe stays wrapped around you —

guarding you, loving you, like you’re the only thing worth living for.

[eternalslover]

WHY IS THERE NO WRITING FOR HIM

GUYS, IT'S LITERALLY SUPERMAN HAS NO ONE EVER SEEN SMALLVILLE?! IM GOING CRAZY BECAUSE THERE IS LITERALLY NOTHING, NOT EVEN CRUMBS

PLS SOMEONE WRITE FOR HIM I WILL TAKE ANYTHING, FLUFF, ANGST, SMUT, HEADCANONS, DRABBLES, FULL ON FICS ANYTHING PLS, HES SO POOKIE

[unlikelykidpost]

This is my first time posting here, but I really want to hear from my fellow POC. Is anyone else tired of reading stories where it’s all about the main character x reader? You dive in, expecting a really inclusive narrative, but then it hits you: “Their cheeks glowed pink!” Seriously? Where am I getting that rosy hue? Or when the character casually puts their hair into an easy ponytail—come on, it takes me forever just to get my hair in a ponytail! You know what I mean, right..??

It's frustrating when the story drops hints that suggest the 'reader' is white. It really grinds my gears, and I wish writers would stop doing that, or at least include a warning that the reader character is going to be white. I want stories to be genuinely inclusive and for writers to be more flexible in how they describe characters. It’s disappointing when you can tell that a writer based their characters on white experiences and WHITE PEOPLE. but thats all, thanks for listening to my ted talk!!

[cinnamongrl2006]

Bruce renting out a whole restaurant because he knows you hate the wandering eyes and the paparazzi when you go out. He takes you to the nicest place in all of gotham as an apology for being such a workaholic in the day and batman at night😔😔

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ •Husband!Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader•⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

Summary/contents: pure fluff; Bruce takes you out on a date to make up for lost time.

a/n: I loveee when you guys send me asks and requests, omggg!! Also love writing Bale!Bruce so much, he's the love of my life. Also, it took me like three days to write this I feel like all the fluff I write sounds impersonal, but you girls eat it up so...here you go!!

When you got a phone call from Bruce at four p.m. on a friday you fully expected him to call bearing bad news— delayed flights, injuries, unprecedented ammounts of work— and muttering apologies. You were pleasantly surprised when his voice did not come out strained, instead it dripped sweet like honey in a way that made your cheeks flush.

"Hello, pretty girl," His voice was slightly muffled by the electronic static of the telephone.

"Hi, Brucie. Is everything okay?" You tried to sound calm but worry etched itself in between your words like like veins.

He exhaled into the microphone and the speaker of your device crackled slightly. Your heart clenched in your chest for a second before he spoke again.

"Yeah, just tired. I'm on the plane home, though." You could feel the smile on his face from the way he spoke. He sounded calm, but there was something in his tone that unnerved you, you could feel there was something he was withholding from you.

"What are you not telling me?" You asked, your tone wasn't accusatory, it was supportive, curious.

"Huh— I'm not—" He chuckled and sighed. "I'm sorry, darling."

"About?" You knew exactly what about, he hated prioritizing anything but you, but he had to do it. You'd tried to make him see how hypocritical he sounded but relented when he wouldn't budge.

"I've been busy for so long, I practically ignored you for weeks...I just...am sorry."

"Bruce, I know you're busy, it's kind of your thing." You chuckled.

The speaker crackled again. "What I was getting at...are you free tonight?"

"Are you?" you retorted.

"I'm your man until eleven p.m. baby." He exclaimed.

"Got anything planned?"

────୨ৎ────

You were getting ready when you heard the familiar beeping and screeching sounds of the gates opening, and you rushed down the stairs— heels clicking furiously against the hardwood stairs— to meet him. As soon as Bruce stepped foot in the manor his bags were on the ground and you in his arms. He held onto the nearby furniture to steady himself.

"Careful, you could get hurt." His words were serious but his tone soft.

"No, how would I get hurt?" You perked up.

"What if I hadn't caught you?" He brushed your bangs out of your face.

"Don't be stupid."

The idea that Bruce would let you slip, let alone fall on the ground when he was around was nothing short of ridiculous, since when you walked on the street with him he'd take the side closest to the road, when you wore heels he'd keep a steadying hand on the small of your back. It was obvious he'd always be there to catch you when you fell.

He pulled away from the embrace and looked you over, his finger came up to brush your bangs away from your face again, lingering against your cheek.

"Are you ready to go?" He asked. His eyes holding your gaze hostage.

You hummed in confirmation and he steered you over to the garage.

On the phone he'd mentioned a reservation for dinner, and you'd groaned, said you didn't want cameras and prying eyes around for your date, not when you hadn't done this in so long.

You'd gotten used to the attention— you'd had to learn to deal with it if you wanted to be with Bruce— but that didn't mean the hungry stares and flashes everywhere didn't annoy you. But he had assured you everything would be fine and nobody would be watching you.

You eyed him as you got in the car and he looked at you before backing out of the driveway and onto the road. His hand rested on your thigh tracing little shapes absentmindedly as you sped through the city in his car. He noticed your unwavering stare and chuckled.

"Stop staring." He warned, a smile pulling at his lips.

"I just want to know what you did this time." You narrowed your eyes at him.

His arm flexed when he squeezed the flesh of your thigh and let out a chuckle.

"You'll see in—" he lifted up his watch to his face and looked back at you. "five minutes, hopefully. Forgot it was a friday."

City traffic was always bad in the weekends, especially at night. The Gotham city streets were flooded with cabs and ubers (filled with young people eager to get into whatever club they could) and couples going out to dinner— much like Bruce and you.

You got off the car in front of an upscale restaurant you'd talked to Bruce about before, and you were shocked to see there wasn't a line outside, in fact, it was empty inside.

You were about to protest, tell Bruce maybe you should go somewhere else if this was closed, but he got out of the car quickly and jogged over to your side, opening the door and helping you out. That's when you saw the Maitre'd was outside, welcoming the both of you in with a smile.

"Did you book the entire place?" You asked, leaning closer to him as the Maitre'd, a short, thin blond man, ushered you to your table.

You sat in a table near the bar, away from all doors and windows. It felt oddly calm, like all that existed in that momen was your husband and the food before you.

You listened as he talked about business deals, nodding along as if you understood— you didn't, but it was really hot when he went into detail about the things he cared about.

After dinner you drove back home, tipsy on the wine you'd had during your meal and fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow.

────୨ৎ────

Next morning you awoke to a sight you hadn't witnessed in a long time, Bruce was laying in bed beside you, the covers were wrapped around his waist lazily. The saturday morning sun filtered through the curtains and cast a soft glow on his features. His eyes were closed, long lashes brushing his cheeks. You could see some yellow and purple-ish marks on his arms and chest, and a stitched up cut on his side that, judging by the look of it, he'd sewn himself.

You rested your head on Bruce's chest and brushed the hair away from his face. He looked so peaceful in this light, so calm, you could almost forget the life you were leading. Because as much as you were aware that Bruce was an heir to a fortune and a vigilante, he was just your husband to you.

────୨ৎ────

requests are open!!

[scarlet2007]

⊹ ₊˚꒷꒦︶⊹ Late night talks ₊︶꒷꒦︶

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

Pairing: Batman x reader / Bruce Wayne x reader.

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

Summary: After accidentally mistaking Batman as a criminal and spraying him with pepper spray, you both have seemed to form a friendship.

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

Warnings: Pepper spray, mention of Gotham being dangerous.

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

Word count: 1.5k

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

[ Masterlist ]

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

Bruce has no idea how he got himself into this situation. Or rather... This habit.

It all started on that faithful night.

Walking alone at night in Gotham was like an one way ticket to heaven. A death wish, as some may say.

You sighed, looking around anxiously as you tried to walk as fast as you could. Every flicker of the night light, every random sound was making you jump in terror. You were half convinced that this was going to be your last day on earth.

You were just about to walk past an alley when you saw a shadowy figure stand menacingly at the entrance. The lights were flickering as the lamp above seemed to be surviving off of the happiness of the citizens of Gotham. Obviously, there wasn't much life left in it.

Red alarms started to go off in your head as the figure slowly started to move towards you. The heavy sound of its boot hitting the ground, the sound of your quickened heartbeat, the sound of the pained hissed that left the shadowy figure- Wait... Pained hiss?

It was only then you realised that you had sprayed the shadowy figure, Batman, with the pepper spray you were clutching while walking.

You gasped, staring at Batman in shock. He was hissing at the sudden attack, one of his eye half opened as he stared directly at you.

'I am so dead.'

Your eyes were wide before you shakingly reached into your purse, pulling out a small water bottle as you handed it to him, "I am so sorry! I thought you were some... Some criminal! Oh my- Splash this in your eyes! I am so sorry!" Half of the words sounded like nonsense due to how fast you were speaking.

He reluctaningly grabbed the water, splashing some water into his eyes as the affect of the spray started to subdue.

For a minute or two, nobody said anything as you both just stared at each other.

"What are you doing outside at this hour?"

"I am so sorry!"

Both of you decided to speak at the same time, which made none of you understand what the other person said.

"Come again?"

"I didn't hear-"

And it happened again.

"Speak."

"I am sorry-"

And again.

Finally, Batman seemed to have enough of it as he just stared at you broodingly, making you shut your mouth from fear.

"Why are you out at such an hour?"

You paused at his question, looking at him sheepishly, "Uh... Nightshift..."

Your answer made him raise an eyebrow which you didn't see because of his mask, "You shouldn't walk alone in the streets of Gotham with only a pepper spray as a weapon."

You nodded, looking at the ground as you suddenly felt like a child getting scolded by your parent.

Batman sighed as he stared at your figure, he can't just let you walk around at such an hour. Especially when it looked like you had the survival skills of a limbless cockroach.

"I will walk you home. Lead the way."

And that's how everything started.

"You haven't been paying attention to what I have been yapping about, have you?" You deadpanned, staring at him as he spaced out.

This made Batman blink, coming out of his chain of thoughts as he stared at the bowl of cereal you passed to him.

"Eat."

He blinked again, glancing at you in slight confusion before he started to eat.

He doesn't remember how this became a... Thing. It started out as occasionally walking you home from your nightshifts, then it shifted to him being injured after a rather brutal fight with a criminal near your apartment complex which made you usher him to your house for some patching up and now it has become a habit of Batman to swing by your window every once in a while, whenever he knew you would be awake or knew you had a day off.

You have come out of your shell fully, and now he knows you as the sassy and playful girl he once saved instead of the scared and timided girl.

"Eat up! You look like you have been starving since the dark ages, Mr. Dark knight." He let out an amused grunt at your words, rolling his eyes as he ate the cereal.

It was a comical scene, having him sit in your kitchen in his Batsuit while you lectured him about his poor eating habits in your pastel night gown.

You were an amusing person, a dramatic display of playfulness and sarcasm was always expected from you. Batman has seemed to grow fond of you and your shared time spent together over the past few months as he found himself looking forward to these meet-ups.

He has heard it all, from how much you dislike your job to how much you loved visiting animal sanctuaries to how you once crashed your friend's bicycle into different objects all under 15 minutes.

All these little stories would make him smile slightly while he worked in his Batcave. Alfred has heard all about you as well, the butler seemed to have grown fond of you as well despite never meeting you.

He glanced at you, watching you move around the kitchen as you washed the dishes. A thought passed through his mind.

He could help you.

Imagining him, Batman, helping you wash the dishes in his Batsuit. That would certainly be something you would die laughing at.

He shook his head slightly at the thought, focusing on eating the cereal you had given him.

"So, when are you going to leave your shitty job?" That made you look at him, slightly taken aback by his sudden question.

"Oh... Um... When I find a job that pays the same or more...?"

There it was again. The same answer you always give him. At first, he used to get irritated by your answer but now he understands your point. He knows the financial struggle you have gone through as a child, which has made you very anxious about having no job. All his attempts to help you fell on deaf ears as you firmly stated that you do not want money from your struggling vigilante friend.

He still has no idea why you think he is a struggling vigilante.

Does he look broke to you?

He sighed, glancing at the clock as he saw what time it was. The sun was about to rise.

"Do you have a day-off tomorrow or another night shift?"

You looked up from the dishes, glancing at him, "I have a day-off."

He nodded, walking up the sink to wash his bowl as you stepped aside to make space for him.

This is starting to feel oddly domestic.

"You should head to bed then." This earned a giggle from you as you looked at him with an amused expression.

"Aww, are you worried about my health?" You cooed jokingly as you leaned against the counter.

"You work at odd hours. From 8 pm till 3:45 am, it has to be one of the most ridiculous work hours I have ever heard of." He mumbled, scrubbing the bowl as he pretended to be annoyed at your playful behaviour.

You hummed, nodding your head in agreement before a small yawn escaped you, making Batman give you a 'I told you so' look behind his mask.

"See? You should head to bed." He grumbled, drying the bowl before putting it in its place.

"Alright, alright, I'll head to bed. Just make sure that whenever you leave, you close the window." He nodded as he watched you walked towards your bedroom, stretching as you glanced back at him.

He still has no idea how this has become something so normal to both of you that you just let him stay in your house while you sleep and he knows exactly where the bowl goes in the cupboard.

Bruce sighed as he flipped through the documents and files of the new Wayne enterprise project, his eyes narrowed as the sunlight from outside was starting to bother him. He could almost feel a headache coming in.

It has been weeks since he last saw you, he has been busy with his duties as a vigilante and the owner of the Wayne enterprise to the point he could barely find the time to visit you. Thankfully, you have left your old job for good so he knows that you are at least not walking around the dangerous streets of Gotham at night.

But he still can't help but feel worried about your financial state, to the point that he has voiced it out to Alfred a few times.

He sighed again, glancing at the door as he heard a knock.

"Come in!"

His eyes widened as he stared as you walked in, his new secretary.

Suddenly, everything makes sense. Alfred suddenly pestering him to appoint a new secretary, Alfred going out of his way to personal find him a new secretary. Everything is starting to make sense.

'That cunning old man...'

[fear-is-truth]

THINGS I WANNA SAY TO YOU (BUT I’LL JUST LET YOU LIVE) — bruce wayne x reader

the dark knight has been shouldering gotham’s weight for too long. tonight, he might just need someone else ease the burden. // wc : 773

raindrops traced uneven paths down the floor-to-ceiling windows of the wayne mansion, the soft patter filling the otherwise tranquil room. fire crackled low in the hearth, its amber flickers like demonic fingers, clawing and reaching, scraping at the shadows that clung to the vaulted ceilings. BRUCE WAYNE sat on the edge of the leather couch, shirt sleeves rolled up, his tie discarded carelessly on the coffee table. there was a dull ache in his shoulders—a reminder of the endless strain he subjected himself to. but tonight, there was nothing demanding his attention. no calls to answer, no suits to don, no crises waiting in the alleyways of gotham. for once, quietness held.

bruce intended to keep it that way.

his gaze followed you as you entered the room, his thoughts unspooling before he could stop them. the life he’d constructed, brick by brick, with walls of steel and grief meant to keep others out. yet somehow, you’d slipped through. the way you fit into his life, seamlessly yet entirely your own, never ceased to disarm him. you were so different from everything he was—light where he was shadow, warmth where he was cold.

somehow, you belonged here. with him.

you set the tray down on the coffee table, the clink of ceramic pulling him from his thoughts. you started to sit on the armrest, but he caught your hand, long fingers curling around your wrist. “come here,” he said, tugging you toward him. your brows lifted slightly, but you didn’t resist as he guided you until you were settled in his lap, facing him, your knees bracketing his hips. one of his hands resting on your waist, the other trailing up your arm idly.

“what was that for?” you tilted your head with a curious smile, your hands instinctively settling on his shoulders. bruce didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on your face as his mind scrambled for the right word to capture the sight before him. eloquent, articulate bruce wayne, who always seemed to find the perfect phrase, drew a perfect blank. ethereal was the closest candidate, but even that felt inadequate. the firelight danced across your features, softening the curve of your lips and the elegant slope of your nose. for a fleeting moment, he felt utterly unmoored.

“you’re so tense,” you murmured, breaking the quiet as your fingers pressed into the tight muscles along his shoulders, working with a steady rhythm. bruce allowed his head to tilt back slightly, eyelids fluttering shut as he surrendered to your touch. your fingertips dug into the knots, slowly unraveling the tension that had built up over days, coaxing a deep exhale from his chest. the pressure was firm but gentle, easing away the stiffness in his muscles. as you continued, bruce’s thoughts drifted, and this time, he made no effort to reign them in.

the sound came first—a sharp, ominous crack. bruce stood on an endless pane of dark glass, its surface trembling under pressure. fractures raced outward like veins, jagged and merciless, the splintering sound echoing like gunfire. beneath his feet was nothing but darkness, a bottomless void that yawned wide, waiting to swallow him whole.

shit, he’s going to fall.

and then, your touch—fingers gentle but firm against his skin—and the cracks stilled as though startled into submission, the jagged edges softening under the warmth of your palms. the glass rippled, smooth and fluid like water, its sharpness dissolving as if it had never been.

he swallowed back a groan, adam’s apple bobbing as his fingers tightened briefly on your hip. the reaction didn’t go unnoticed. “relax,” you teased, your voice a lilting chirp of amusement. his lips twitched in response, though his grip on you remained firm. “you make that sound easy,” bruce countered gruffly, the strain in his voice a contraction to his words. your hands slowed, one drifting to rest over his chest, where you could feel the steady thrum beneath your palm. leaning forward, warm breath skimmed his jaw, impossibly close yet maddeningly restrained.

“better?” you asked softly, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, eyes searching.

“better,” he replied, though the word couldn’t begin to articulate even a fraction of what he felt.

[anitalenia]

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒃𝒐𝒏𝒚 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒓 .𖥔 ݁ ˖

𝒃𝒂𝒍𝒆!𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒙 𝒘𝒊𝒇𝒆!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 ₊˚⊹ ᰔ 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱, 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮. ₊ ⊹ ౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 ✧˚ ༘

— 𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖘 ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ 𝘥𝘤 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 | 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

˚☽˚���⋆ 𝑩𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑. The silence was too loud and his room was too cold — his arms and torso were left bare to freeze thanks to you (he was too much of a gentleman to snatch the blanket off you anyway). The heavy rain smacked into his windows pointedly and purposefully; with every loud drop it made his lip twitch in annoyance.

The air was sharp and frosted, it burned his nose when he breathed in too deeply and it made him wonder if Alfred forgot to turn the heat on — better yet if you turned it off, knowing you hated to fall asleep too warm and Alfred was too meticulous and thorough to forget to turn it off at all.

It was dingy and dismal, dark and dreary just as Bruce preferred it to be, so little going on for him to be so awake and agitated but yet… maybe that was just it. The silence, the boredom, the macabre sense of monotony on an unfamiliarly quiet Saturday night — so little going on it was driving him mad.

Bruce stared up at the ceiling with his arms laid out on his shirtless stomach, restless but tired. His limbs were sore and heavy, his body bruised and battered, yet his dark eyes couldn’t help but flicker over to his window ever so often when he thought about what was on the other side of it — the source of his calamity.

He’d stare through the droplets of water at the blurred kaleidoscope of lights as they shone onto his floor, not eagerly per say just habitually; Bruce seldom ever saw a peaceful night in, so unaccustomed with the sweet domesticity of crawling under the covers at 10:30 pm and kissing your lover goodnight — he was usually so busy, for Gotham never slept and crime never seemed to stop.

No, Bruce couldn’t sleep; his thoughts a morbid mess of batman-esque obligation that made it impossible to close his eyes.

You were a different matter entirely as Bruce turned his head to look at you; snuggled up on your side of the large bed with his thick, black comforter surrounding you, breathing gently on the muscle of his shoulder and sleeping soundly, beautifully.

His pretty little wife.

His eyes looked over the sharp shadows of your sleeping beauty. From your wispy eyelashes, to your cute little nose, to your softly parted lips, a soft smile adorning the corner of his mouth as he did — he couldn’t help it.

Your hair was frizzy and tangled messily around your head, your soft breaths ever so often stuttered with an adorable snore but Bruce couldn’t help but think how beautiful you looked anyway as he raked his eyes over your face fondly.

As he did he realized how grateful he was that you didn’t need to worry yourself with the things that he did; you were too innocent for the cruelty of Gotham City, too pure and divine; an angel wrapped in wicked tapestry.

Even now, in your pale white pajamas on black silken sheets you looked too fragile for them, like they could wrap their shadowy arms around you and swallow you whole — just as the city could so easily do if he wasn’t there to protect you.

If Batman wasn’t there to save you.

I don’t care, Bruce. I love you anyway.

That’s what you’d always say when Bruce would settle down in bed beside you with a heavy sigh and whisper why do you stay?, on those long nights when he’d come home brutally battered and fatigued. After a night of being heavily reminded to the real dangers waiting just outside his door like a pack of feral dogs and how easily they could ensnare you in their jaws.

I don’t care. I love you.

He loved you too, he really very did.

With that final thought, Bruce was still caught staring at you with a soft look of love on his face when you gently fluttered your eyes open, your body sensing his awareness before your mind could.

He watched patiently as you groggily looked around before eventually meeting his gaze, his eyes getting even softer at the adorable look of confusion on your face.

Your eyes tiredly looked back up at him despite the darkness surrounding you two, able to see his frowned lips and dark eyes clearly, “Bruce? Why are you still awake?”

Your voice was raspy and tired, a small yawn following your statement that made pity tear at his heart for waking you up.

Bruce ran his hazel eyes over your face some more before he responded, unable to stop cherishing you.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He simply responded, voice low and intimate, words spoken in the bare space between his lips and yours.

You settled into your silken pillow with a small huff, eyes focused more on Bruce’s face now as the grogginess gradually melted away and your vision became clearer — the silence and rain thrumming calmly around you. It wasn’t a normal night in Gotham City without the rain.

“Well, did you try?” You teased just as quietly as he, smiling a little at the chuckle he gave you in response.

“Yes, of course I tried. It clearly didn’t go as planned.” Bruce mumbled back with a faint snicker, speaking just loud enough so you can hear him over the rain pattering on the windows, a small smile now quirked on his sharp lips.

You hummed in acknowledgment, eyes looking between his, knowing Bruce well enough to know when he was lying.

“I don’t really believe you. What’s keeping you awake?” You sighed with furrowed brows, resting your head right next to his bare shoulder to look up at him better — maybe if you pouted in that cute way he liked he’d tell you honestly.

Bruce faltered at that, looking down at you with a heavy heart; he couldn’t possibly tell you that he felt guilty laying in bed with you when he should’ve been out there, out there protecting those who needed him. But the fact of the matter, one he couldn’t argue with, was that you needed him as well.

He couldn’t possibly tell you how conflicted he really was but probably shouldn’t have been; two parts of him sharing the same mind and body but each with entirely different obligations — the irreconcilable duality that was he.

One part of him was Bruce Wayne; millionaire, orphan, husband, you needed that side of him, you deserved to have him for at least one night. But he was also Batman, and Gotham always needed him.

He was haunted with a classic case of Jekyll and Hyde but instead of one side lusting for murderous intent his alter ego longed for rightful justice in the grandest city of injustice. Batman was the only one who could live harmoniously in the dark, the only one capable of doing the things he did. It was an enervative dichotomous life of matrimonial duties and moral obligation.

There were two men sharing the same halves of the same soul and Bruce couldn’t decide which heart to listen to without making the other one feel guilty.

“Just work stuff, honey. It’s nothing you need to worry about, trust me.” Bruce dismissed after a short moment, shaking his head gently with a reassuring smile on his thin lips — like that could convince you of anything.

You narrowed your eyes at him slightly, registering the slight blue bags under his eyes and the crippled fault in his smile, all small clues of his devious, well-intentioned deception.

“Which work stuff?” You prodded carefully, raising a brow at him as suspicions already began to brew in the back of your mind as to what he was really referring.

Bruce chuckled again at that, loving your caring and inquisitive nature any day but wishing you’d just drop it already. He really couldn’t bear weighing any of the pressure he carried on your delicate shoulders, fearing you’d crumble under the weight of it.

“Really, it’s…” Bruce looked back up at the ceiling in indecision, searching for the right words, “it’s nothing I can’t handle, okay?” He looked back down at you with confidence, his voice firmer than before but still softly spoken to get his point across.

You narrowed your eyes at him with that, knowing it was a response you fully expected but were still annoyed to hear.

You were aware that he was lying to you but also aware that he wouldn’t tell you no matter how much you begged him; he never liked to tell you anything about his Batman related problems and it greatly frustrated you for some reason.

As his wife didn’t you deserve to know at least something? You were fully aware of what you were getting yourself into when you agreed to his long awaited proposal. After all, you didn’t just marry Bruce Wayne but you married Batman as well… you could handle the truth even if he didn’t seem to think so.

You sighed anyway, unable to mask your irritation towards him for keeping you in the dark. Your lack of sleep didn’t help the influx of annoyance either.

You took your head off his warm shoulder and went to turn around away from him, your fatigue easily irritating you more than usual.

Bruce licked his lips and sighed, having already disappointed you in an attempt to protect you; a small price to pay if it meant your pretty little head wasn’t clogged with constant, pained disquietude like his was.

“Fine, don’t tell me.” You muttered more to yourself than anything, fussing with the blanket you had wrapped yourself in during your slumber and now seemed to be stuck in.

Before you could fully turn around though Bruce laid a warm, consoling hand on your forearm that made you pause, “Hey, hey, wait.”

You lingered a moment at the feel of it before turning back around to face him, expression a little more sour than before — tired and impatient.

Bruce felt guilt swirl in his stomach at the look on your face, knowing he was disappointing you but also knowing it was for the best.

He kept the hand on your arm, leaning up and wrapping it around your back to bring you into his chest, his other arm going behind your neck and tucking you into his side like you were his most precious doll — you were of course.

You didn’t fight him even if you wanted to, enjoying the warmth he provided and the safety you subconsciously sought out snuck tight in between his arms.

“Bruce.” You grumbled anyway as you settled against him, his arm releasing you for a moment to pick the blanket up and over his waist so there was nothing separating you two from each other.

You felt hard plains of muscle underneath you when he did, a flustered pinkness appearing on your cheeks, then slowly crept in hot embarrassment at the fact that your husband’s carefully structured body that you’ve seen many many times still managed to make you shy.

You melted into his side, albeit a bit stiffly as you were still annoyed with him and wanted to blatantly show it, your arms stubbornly slotted against your chest to separate yourself from laying completely on his.

When Bruce was done adjusting the blanket, the bed moving as he did, he settled still and looked down at you with those kind eyes of his you loved so much, the ones that always flustered you when you stared back into them for too long.

The arm behind your neck pushed you closer to him while he took his right hand and wrapped it around your chin, his palm so warm and big against your jaw that you couldn’t help but sigh in submission.

Bruce gently forced you to look up at him, his eyes staring down at you softly but earnestly.

“Alright, hey, don’t be like that with me. If there was something I thought you really needed to know I’d tell you. Otherwise, it’s best I keep that side of myself as private from you as possible. I hate the thought of you being in danger because of me, because I exposed you to that side of myself you didn’t need to see.” Bruce whispered genuinely, minty breath fanning over your nose as you stared up at him, seemingly calm now and even just a little regretful for being so upset with him in the first place.

“Just give it a rest honey, alright? I promise you, it’s nothing you need to worry about. Do I ever go back on my promises, hmm?” He said sweetly, looking down at you with insistent but loving eyes in the expectation of you responding.

You paused for a moment as you registered his words, still curious to know what he was really thinking about because you just couldn’t help it. You worried for him, wished he’d be more open with you so you could help him in whatever way you could. However, you also didn’t want to stress him out any more than he already was either, your mind picturing all the purple bruises littering his beautiful body pitifully.

So, you just shook your head like a scolded child, “No… you don’t.” You’d have to bite your tongue for now, pouting up at him cutely — Bruce was just too sweet to argue with sometimes and he knew it.

Bruce gave you a charming smile, gray shadow washed over the angles of his straight nose and narrow cheeks. His brown hair was more unkempt than usual, wavy tendrils of it fallen around his face. He looked so handsome, more tranquil this way, as he leaned down and gave you a peck on the forehead, a sweet hum sounding in the back of his throat.

“That’s my girl.”

You sighed happily, giving in to him completely now and wrapping an arm around his chest so you could burrow against him; he wrapped his arm around you tighter instinctually, enjoying the feel of you against him as he looked up at the ceiling in content.

Nothing was better than being with you, so much so that Batman himself felt satiated from his lonely perch in the back of Bruce’s mind.

You stared out the large, arched window on his wall for a few quiet moments, watching as the rain quickly fell down the glass one by one as Bruce softly traced his textured fingertips along the spine of your back.

“It always rains, you ever notice that?” You murmured tiredly against his skin, in a daze from the tingling sensation on your skin as he caressed your back in gentle, loving touches.

Bruce looked away from you a moment when you spoke to spare the window a disinterested glance, “What? You don’t like the rain, Mrs. Wayne?” He teased you, his spirits higher than before as he looked back down at you even if you couldn’t see, his nose filled with the sweet smelling shampoo you used — coconut and vanilla.

You smiled a little — you loved when he called you that.

“Well of course you do. You’re Batman, you’re supposed to like depressing things.” You spoke with a smile, only teasing him as your eyes drifted shut from the comfort of his body against yours, muscles melting against the black sheets nestled between his own.

Bruce chucked at that, his hand ceasing its calming motion, “oh, is that right?”

You hummed with an amused smile on your lips, nodding your head, “mmhmm, yes sir.”

Bruce scoffed playfully at that, looking down at you with a fond playfulness in his eyes before gently taking his muscled arm out from underneath your head.

You lifted your head up curiously to look at him, wishing for the moment to not be disturbed, only to be gently rolled over so that Bruce was laid on top of you and you were now sunken into the inky black abyss of cushions beneath him. Your lips parted in a slight gasp, staring up at him with those beautiful eyes he loved so much in surprise.

“Now now, Mrs. Wayne, don’t go calling me that unless you plan on doing something about it, it’s in bad taste.”

You giggled at that, a joyous and twinkling sound that made Bruce tense up, his eyes darting towards your lips and his heart quickening in his chest. You always had such an effect on him even if you didn’t know it.

“How ‘bout you do something about it then?” You whispered up to him sensually, voice low and playful. You could feel the air surrounding the little bubble you two found yourselves in change heavily as you ran your hands softly over his midsection, his light skin cold and soft, muscles hard and firm as you traced your fingers delicately over each individual ab until Bruce was twitching at the feeling.

He glanced down at your hands hotly, already worked up from your minuscule touches alone, his skin tingling from the sensation as a familiar heat started to twirl in his lower tummy.

He looked back down at you, eyes more hooded now but just as eagerly as rain pounded on the windows somewhere in the background — you couldn’t focus on anything but the sound of his warm breaths and the gradual throbbing between your own legs.

“Yeah? Would you like if I did something about it, Mrs. Wayne?” Your husband mumbled huskily, a teasing smirk on his lips as he lowered down closer until his face was just above yours, his big arms pressed into the pillow on each side of your head so you were surrounded by him.

He could see the way you inhaled at the name, felt the way your nails dug into his skin for a subtle, fleeting moment. He always knew all the right ways to turn you on, knew all the right words to say to make you melt in his hands like warm syrup — you were certainly just as sweet.

You stared up at your husband with heavy breaths, mouth watering for a taste of him, eyes blown black with love and unabashed want as he sat in the reflection of your irises. Your skin felt hot and your thighs tightened around his waist, arms aimlessly tracing the ridges of muscle that coated Bruce’s front; it was in an innocently naive way now, so unaware of how badly it was affecting Bruce himself as your initial confidence dwindled down to need.

You impatiently waited for him to make a move, give into the desire you both so clearly felt as your eyes ran over his shirtless body and perfect face in the mean time. With every exhale of breath out of his mouth you found yourself inhaling it back in, breathing his air and smelling of Bruce’s aftershave, Bruce’s shampoo, it was all just Bruce, Bruce, Bruce.

He had completely overwhelmed your senses with his smell, his presence, his very existence and it was making it hard to think clearly — only he plagued your thoughts so much it made your fingertips buzz to feel more of him.

It was in moments like these where the sheer size of Bruce was brought to your attention; he was much more muscular than you, all sharp edges and ridges of pure muscle and destruction that could destroy anything he put his hands on.

It was ironic to you, how those same hands that broke bones were the same hands that caressed your skin in the softest of touches, in the softest of ways, irrevocably incapable of breaking you.

Bruce believed he was all carnal ruination — hands made to break and fists made to destroy. He believed he had a dark side in him he couldn’t control, that Batman was the outlet for all the frustration he felt towards the injustices of the city and how easily it corrupted the lightest of souls. He believed he was made to hurt, to cause ruin — a reason why he never took a single human soul no matter how rotten it was.

But you believed he didn’t give himself enough credit, which is exactly why moments like these were so important to remind him.

You swallowed nervously now as you looked back into his eyes, your fingers faltering in their movement as they stilled on the angles of his hips, right outside the tight band of his black sweatpants.

“Yes, Mr. Wayne, that’s exactly what I want.” You whispered back up to him in a velvety soft tone, eyes looking at his pink lips and then flickering back up between his hazel irises lustfully; the look in them was too intense for you to handle but you sufficed, your heart thrumming passionately under your skin at the attention.

Bruce almost melted at the name, just as affected by the title as you were, lowering his face down until his nose was touching yours, his lips hovering right above your own.

“That’s my girl…” Bruce breathed thickly against your lips, his eyes flickering to your mouth as yours did the same to his, your mouth salivating for a taste of him.

A silent beat passed as you both just stayed in that position, locked into each other’s loving gazes and gentle touches, his lips just a whisper away from yours screaming to have you, to taste you. It was intimate and warm, quiet, your body feeling fuzzy and alight with something similar to deep admiration and not so far from a deep, shared love for each other.

There was no playfulness about it now.

It was then, when the tension had sizzled into flame did Bruce finally lean down and kiss you, his lips soft and cold, so contrasting from the warmth he sought in yours as the rain pattered on the windows and your angelic essence drowned him further into the depths of you.

You moaned softly, feeling relief flood through you as your hands gripped his hips for some sort of anchor off the clouds you seemed to be floating on. Bruce kissed you lovingly, a characteristic act of tenderness as he found his own needy noises hum in the back of his throat.

It was sweet and slow, lips careful and gentle against each other between delicate sighs and hums. He tasted of peppermint and the faint drawl of bourbon, his tongue damping your lips and your shared saliva wet on your mouths.

He seperated from you just for a short moment, your lips feeling the loss but not for too long before he was on you once more with a fervor, tongue molding between your lips forcefully and sucking yours into the warmth of his mouth.

You whined at the sudden confidence within him, lips barely moving against his as he took control of your movements and gave you no other option but to take what he gave you — his lips and his tongue tangling with yours messily as sensual rumbles sounded deep from within in his chest.

He brought a hand down from the pillow and intertwined it in your hair, tangling his thick fingers into your roots and pulling hard enough to arouse you further. It made your back arch and lips part in a salacious gasp.

Bruce found himself unable to part from your delectable taste for long, taking that moment to reconnect his damp lips to the skin between your chin and shoulder. He forced your head back as he kissed your neck, the cold air hitting every damp spot in a pleasurable tingling sensation that had your nails digging into his abs.

“Bruce…” You sighed oh so sweetly in a distracted state of mind, just wanting to say his name and have him hear how good he was making you feel with his simple kisses alone — a feat he always accomplished anytime he did.

The praise didn’t fall on deaf ears but he was too preoccupied with the sound of your heavy breaths and whines to really pay attention, too love drunk on the smoothness of your skin falling over his tongue as he licked his way down to your collarbone. He released his grip on your hair and his hands made idle work in caressing their way down your body to the hem of your white pajama top.

His hands were eager, so familiar on the curves of your body as they slid back up to your chest, hands big and desperate as they tightly gripped your bosom for a fleeting moment that had you moaning at the sting — he was handsy, unable to get enough of you and the way your body perfectly slotted between the strength and ridges of his hands.

His cock was already hard in his slacks, poking against your thigh absentmindedly as his hands dug into the center of your top and adamantly ripped it right down the middle. The buttons flew over the bed and your tits spilled out of the ripped material in a gorgeous ripple of flesh that had Bruce groaning at the sight.

“So beautiful, so gorgeous, just fucking perfect…” He mumbled in a lustful daze, more to himself as a factual observation, his hands now gripping your waist, eager mouth leaning down and making quick work to lap at your chest in the way he knew you liked.

You giggled dreamily at that, feeling fluttery and lightheaded at the praise, body warm and melting like a cube of butter on top of his silk bed sheets. He was always capable of making you melt with just a few loving words and caresses, another one of his talents.

Your hands had found their way into his thick hair, massaging at the loose strands when you decided it was impossible to stay still from the buzzing running through your pores.

Your pussy throbbed in your pajama shorts, painfully so, stomach in tight knots at the sparks shooting down to your core from his ministrations.

He found himself enthralled by the feeling of your tit in his mouth, fervently sucking on the skin there as his hands gripped into your waist so tight in a subconsciously possessive hold so you could never leave. Maybe it was the semblance of Batman himself leaking out from under tight fingertips, a degree of fierce protection in the way he held you underneath him, unable to be taken or destroyed by the same evil he fought almost every night.

You were here with him, with him and all of his burdens for the rest of your lives.

“So gorgeous…”

Bruce was lost in the pleasure you helplessly moaned in his ears, feeling his own mutual desire swirling in his tummy and thrumming through his skin that made every touch feel like fire, every kiss an ember from the flame until you and him were intertwined ash lost in the black smoke.

He loved you, his pretty wife, always so supportive and forgiving in the moments he definitely didn’t deserve it.

He picked his head up, panting and lips wet, your chest littered in pink marks and damp with his spit as Bruce licked his lips, hungry for more already.

You looked at him in all his glory, admiringly, just as enamored with him as he was with you as your warm hands slid down to his cheeks. Your own were flushed pink and feverish, breath warm and heavy as you lovingly ran your palm over his sharp cheekbone. His skin was soft, smooth and tepid under your dainty fingertips.

You gently caressed the faint purple of a bruise with your thumb, right in the hollow of his eye.

Bruce leaned into the tender action for a spared moment of comfort, his eyes hooded and twinkling in the dark as he breathed heavily against your lips. He kept finding himself absent in the presence of your beauty, staring at your face and your lips and being so thankful he had you at all.

“So beautiful…” He breathed gingerly, eyes looking over your face like he was seeing you for the first time — no, he was selfish in his blatant admiration of your magnificence, his heart throbbing almost painfully in his love for you as he watched the soft corners of your mouth twist into a shy smile at your devotees idolatrous attention.

He leaned down after a fond moment of your thumb tracing his cheekbone, after he was satisfied with his generous intake of your prettiness. He pecked an affectionate kiss on your smiling lips before dipping his head down and laying several kisses to your neck once more.

You bit your lip at the sensitive feeling, closing your eyes, lost in the feel of him, as he pampered you with doting kisses all the way down to your ribcage, his hands now playing with the hem of your shorts but not too boldly as to take them off quite yet.

“You’re everything, you know that? I could never imagine my life without you… you’re perfect, so perfect.” He rubbed your stomach adoringly, “Your body is perfect, so beautiful, I can’t believe you ever married me…” He mumbled in that rough voice of his, vulnerable in the night, in the moment when you couldn’t see him all the way clearly but he could see all of you just fine.

You could feel another smile playing on your lips — not that it had even left — the heavy sensation of happy tears casting a light sheen over your eyes. He was the perfect one, he was the gorgeous and beautiful counterpart of you that didn’t seem to realize his own value. You only wished you had the poetic spark in yourself that he had, then you’d be able to voice it properly. Still, his praise made your heart swell as he took your left hand and kissed the diamond ring on your finger amorously.

“Oh, Bruce…” You spoke in a hushed manner, voice wobbling from the overwhelming infatuation you had for the man, so thankful and grateful for such a man as wonderful as he. In your eyes the sudden romance had come out of nowhere, but it was still greatly appreciated as it caused your voice to thicken with the downpour of love it had spiked.

He looked into your eyes as he warmly kissed your palm, lips quirked slightly, eliciting another tender hearted smile from you. He then let you settle your hands back on his shoulders as he slotted himself between your hips, the affectionate moment lingering in the air as you pet his wide shoulders.

You were laid on your back, smooth thighs spread to accommodate his size between them, pajama top ripped down the middle in fragmented material hanging off your shoulders, your tits pooled on your chest and wet with his kisses. Your hair was tangled, fanned around your head, lips pink and plushy from all his salacious kisses, your eyes glittering erotically bright.

Despite that, you were not uncomfortable to be so exposed to him, exposed in a way you’d only ever be with him. You knew he would never judge you nor your body, that he loved you and all your freckles and scars and all the blemishes you considered imperfections — he loved them all. The only part of you not seen were covered by the shorts Bruce was already eager to take off.

You were beautiful to him, ethereal even, just as he said you were an angel, something divine and pure, a holy deity completely out of this world that transcended the mortal plane he was bound to, letting his lowly lips and hands cherish your merciful soul and body. Just oh so perfect.

“I love you…” You whispered, pathetically cute, down to him, a whisper wafting into his ears soft and fragile as if you were scared he wouldn’t say it back — he’d say it everyday for a thousand years if he had the blessing of living that long with you. Your nails dug into his shoulders, pulsing with need, as you smiled down at him sweetly.

“I love you more, Mrs. Wayne… I love you more…” He breathed hotly against your stomach, already leaning down and peppering sugarcoated kisses along your pelvis, so much closer to where you really needed him that the throbbing had become unbearably intense, wetness soaking your inner thighs and cream colored shorts. You felt your body shiver at the title once more.

You swallowed shakily as Bruce moved down, his daft fingers hooking into the band of your shorts and gently shoving them down to your knees as his longing lips reached the band of your lavender laced panties.

Your thighs tightened around his head as cool air hit your wet center, your body sensitive and pulsing heavy notes of desire straight into your pussy that made it hard to keep your head up and eyes open.

You just needed him, needed him and his expert mouth to bring you some sort of relief. Your toes were curled already, pussy clenching around nothing and spewing out clear juices that only damped your underwear further. You tangled your fingers into his hair heatedly, resisting the urge to shove his head down where you really wanted him.

Bruce swallowed hungrily, staring at your panty-clad pussy with dark eyes. He could smell your sweetness on his nose, the rain pattering on the windows still and the room still dark as sin but he could see his heaven clear as day, hypnotized by the patch of wetness in your panties, molded to the shape of your pussy lips and begging to be ripped apart.

His eyes flickered up to you, feeling your grabby fingers tangled in his hair as your thighs tensed back and forth around his neck.

Your head was barely held up, eyes hooded and sparkling with a form of lustful desperation as you stared down at him. Your chest bobbing up and down heavily and your skin radiant and smooth, the city lights from his window blurredly reflected in the fat of your cheeks. You already looked destroyed, like he had just fucked your brains out yet he really hadn’t done a thing.

“Bruce, come on…” You whined in a delicate plea when he made no movement further, hands barely pulling his hair but it was hard enough for his skin to prickle in pleasure, a hiss leaving his lips, just hard enough to get your message across.

He snickered at that, lips shiny and jaw chiseled, his face so sharp yet soft at the same time. His beauty greatly perplexed you for how could a mere mortal be so fucking handsome? He was though, he was strong and big and riddled with scars and imperfections yet the accumulation of all those little faults are what made him flawless.

Bruce himself felt the throbs of impatience nestled in his stomach, burrowed in his heart, buzzing at his fingertips, as he looked down at your pussy once more just inches from his mouth, both wet and watering for the other.

“Be patient, honey. I just wanna look at ‘cha first. You’re so pretty, dripping wet for me…” He had the audacity to murmur in that cocky voice of his, yet simultaneously genuine and stunned at the observation as his hands rubbed your thighs, being sure to heartily press into the tissue in that way he knew you liked.

You couldn’t help but pull his hair some more, bursting at the seams for some sort of pleasure you feared it would boil over and you’d explode. You felt frustration settle through your veins once more like molten lava, your skin tensing and thighs aching from their tight grip around his neck.

“Bruce, no more teasing, please? Just please…” You moaned and whined like a stubborn girl, voice thick with need and painful yearning that made his cock twitch in his pants. You almost sounded broken, voice fragmented with a certain torment only his mouth and fingers could appease.

He licked his lips, feeling desire swell in his lower tummy at the state of you — already so incapable of any thought but the memory of his cock inside you, the feeling of his fingers drilling into your tight hole as he spat and licked on your sensitive clit. It was all you could think about, all you could picture in your mind as your head laid back on the pillows and you scooted down the bed until your pussy was right in his face.

The blanket had long since been forgotten, bunched around his hips and aiding as a nice cushion for his abdomen hunched over the end of the bed.

Bruce felt himself chuckle huskily at your shameless neediness, his big hands stopping on your plush inner thighs as he settled down between your legs on the soft mattress, getting himself comfortable for you.

You breathed heavily, eyes closed as you laid back on the silken pillow with your face crumbled so cutely. He was such a tease even when he was meant to be sweet, even when he was insistent on being a good husband who doted on his wife whenever he could — you guessed growing up rich gave him that arrogant edge.

Your stomach was knotted so tight, your skin hot and shivering for some sort of touch as your fingers dug themselves into the roots of his damp, brown hair. You needed him so bad, but your pussy needed him worse.

You felt your thighs tickle as Bruce lightly traced the pads of his fingers down, down, down until he was at the crook of your inner thigh, his right hand digging into the flesh of your leg like he himself couldn’t hold back from you anymore.

Bruce didn’t bother voicing any teasing quips or dirty statements, knowing you were so out of it you wouldn’t listen to him anyway. Every fiber of your being was hooked on his touches, hyper aware of the spots his fingers trickled across, eager for some degree of pleasure that would make this painful waiting period worth it.

He swallowed down the salvia pooling in his throat, so hungry for a taste of you, starved almost. His index finger hooked into your panties and delicately pushed them out of the way until they were bunched in the crook of your thigh. His eyes were met with your soaking wet slit in all its glory.

White, creamy arousal stuck to your panties and dripped down your pulsing hole into the crack of your ass, sheer white beads of cum dribbled down your needy hole that would escape his tongue before he even got a proper taste of you yet.

The cool air made you whine behind closed lips, your voice high pitched and desperate now, your fingers tighter in his hair as your hips subtly bucked forward. The beautiful noises you were making made Bruce’s jaw clench.

You were glistening, shiny with arousal and the strings of impenitent want, evidence of your desire and love for him as he found himself inhaling the scent of you once more.

You smelt so good. He found himself groaning at the musky sweetness, his finger still hooked around the crotch of your panties as his other hand tightly gripped your thigh — you moaned softly at the pressure, sure that there would be the faint yellow bruises of his adoring fingerprints pressed into your skin tomorrow. A charming reminder of the evening when they blossomed.

You felt your core clench once more, thighs tensing up as wetness shone in his greedy irises.

Bruce was unable to wait any longer, his mouth salivating and his eyes blown black as he pressed his tongue into your wet hole and licked a bold stripe all the way up to your buzzing clit, the taste of your arousal pooled on his tongue and already dripping down the sharp corners of his mouth.

You couldn’t stop the loud moan from echoing in the room, euphoric sounding as sweet sparks went off all over your skin at the long awaited contact. Your fingers tightly anchored themselves in Bruce’s hair as his tongue went up and down your folds, gathering as much of your wetness in his mouth as he could.

His hands swiftly dug themselves into your hips to hold you down once you started writhing in his hold. His tongue forcefully circled your clit in sharp wet strokes, deep rumbled moans escaping his chest that vibrated the sensitivity of it and only made more wetness gush out of you and soak his chin.

You tasted so good, so fucking good; he wanted nothing more than to be drowned in your essence, choking on everything you gave him until his belly was full and even then he wouldn’t be satisfied, he’d never be satisfied. He was like a monster, chasing every little drop of cum that pebbled out of your clenching hole with a forked tongue, greedy and carnivorous like you were the only nectar he ever wanted to taste again.

His tongue lapped your pussy once more as you gasped, back arched and toes clenched as he thrusted his tongue into you over and over, wet and messily as your juices shimmered on his cheeks and lips.

No, he decided, the beast within him would never be tamed.

You bucked away from his mouth in a pathetic attempt to free yourself from the overwhelming pleasure, but Bruce held you down with his strong arms, staring up at you with furrowed brows of concentration as his lips molded over your puffy clit once more, swollen from need and his relentless licking.

He was nothing if not devoted, devoted to your elegance, to your holy figure and endless love as he lapped at you desperately, his tongue swirling your clit as the fabric of your panties tickled his nose. He couldn’t get enough, pushing deeper and harder until your wetness was messily smeared on his mouth and face, eating more and tasting more until his entire being was smothered with your cum inside and out.

“Bruce, o-oh my god!” You squealed wantonly, one hand now gripping the black sheets between tight fingers as your other hand remained in his hair, following the movements of his head as he went up and down, side to side until not an inch of you wasn’t covered in his salvia.

He breathed hotly against you, his eyes closed as he savored the feel of you in his mouth and trickling down his throat. He couldn’t think of anything else, couldn’t listen to reason as all he could focus on was you and your cum, tasting you, licking you, having you in every sense of the word. No one could tear him away from you, not now, not when he was so close to having you cum in his mouth and reaching his final purpose.

You were so close, you could feel it in your tummy. Your hole clenching around his tongue as he went back and forth from your clit and your soaked hole, wanting to pleasure you but simultaneously wanting to taste you for his own pleasure.

Your toes curled, stomach tightened, hands gripping the sheets as your mouth flew open in sporadic moans and gasps, tears prickling the corners of your eyes as your thighs squeezed around Bruce so tight you’d fear he’d never surface from between your legs again.

He wouldn’t have a problem with that.

Bruce picked his head up only high enough to talk, lips dripping and almost incoherent as he mumbled deeply into the wet folds of your pussy like he couldn’t bear to part, “You gonna cum for me, baby? Come on, Mrs. Wayne, make me proud, cum in my mouth.” As he voiced this his one hand crept down and slyly inserted themselves into the tight confine of your warmth, his index and middle fingers pushing inside you, so long and so big it made you cry out.

It was wet and warm, your juices slapping against his knuckles as he circled his fingers inside you, pushing on the spot he knew he was supposed to as his mouth eagerly returned to your clit. He looked up at you, eyes dark and heavy as he stared at your tits jiggling with every thrash of your hips, every arch of your back and every gasp out of your pretty, dampened lips.

He groaned into you at the sight, feeling his cock achingly hard in his pants as he sucked your clit into the warmth of his mouth and refused to let go, tongue prodding the area skillfully and harshly. He wasn’t going to stop this time, not until you were creaming around his fingers and leaking down his neck.

The air was so thick and stuffy that you couldn’t help but pant fervently, your body prickled with pleasure and overwhelming sensations that made it hard to focus on anything but his fingers inside you, long and lithe, slipping in and out as the sounds of your wetness clouded your ears and muffled your moans.

Bruce himself was lost in you, tongue and lips a glistening mess as they lapped and circled and sucked every part of your pussy exposed to him, it felt so good it stung — he was groaning into you softly, pleasure building in his tummy and rumbling through his mouth to your already so sensitive clit.

It was then, just a few short moments after his fingers wormed their way inside your tight walls, just a few short moments after he sucked your clit into his mouth did you feel your stomach relax, thighs squeeze around his head so hard he felt himself go dizzy.

“Ahh, O-oh my god, Bruce!” You moaned so blissfully, so sweetly, as your juices squirted onto his chin and his fingers squelched inside you.

Bruce moaned at the feeling, fingers gently sliding out of your clenching hole so his tongue could catch all the cum pouring out. You whimpered at the feeling of his mouth still on you, lapping at your hole like a dehydrated villager kneeling at a prosperous fountain, your skin pasty and so so hot.

He lapped at your pussy a few more times, up and down, ensuring he got his fill for the evening as faint tremors wracked your body in the aftershocks of his giving nature. You were flat on the bed now, belly sore from the tightness it held for so long, legs limp and body spent as you panted gently, heart throbbing in your ears.

You managed to lazily caress his sweaty hair though as Bruce surfaced from between your legs, face glistening and lips sore and pink. He looked manic, hair pulled and tangled and messily scattered on his face yet he seemed to be glowing at the same time, like he had never felt so alive and it made you want to giggle.

He sniffled, looking up at you with an impish grin, the taste of you lingering in his mouth and staining his nose. His hands fondly massaged your shaking thighs, noting your wrecked appearance and tired eyes, your sweaty skin flushed and warm.

He couldn’t help it as he glanced down at the mess he made, your slippery wet folds and the large patch of wetness staining his sheets.

“Mrs. Wayne, pardon my brashness of course,” He said almost sarcastically, breathless and rugged, an amused smile quirked on his lips as he leaned forward and embraced your hand with his, “but you taste utterly divine.”

⋆˚࿔ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ @little-miss-chaoss — I hope it’s okay I tagged you, you said you wanted to be tagged in everything 😭🙌🏻

[michaellangdonswhore]

warnings: again, smut. put me in a fucking hospital.

word count: 5.5k

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You were, by far, Jonathan Crane's least favorite student.

You knew it, and it was complete bullshit. You were always on time, always in every class, and always completed the work. You had always had such good grades in every class, but not with him.

While not giving you the worst grade imaginable, you were never able to get over an A-, which pissed you the fuck off. Obviously, to any other normal student studying psychology, they'd take the A-, but not you.

And again, nothing over an A-. There was the frequent B+, sometimes B, and when you really pissed him off he would go as low as a B-.

You've done everything you could to get him to like you. You would ask questions, clearly put extra effort into the homework, and even applied to laboratory studies that he ran. You hated not being liked.

However, at this point in the year, you had given up on trying. You still did everything you were supposed to do, because you wanted a good grade, but you hadn't bothered participating or showing any interest anymore. You had decided to focus more on your other classes. Due to this, you had been working late into the night, causing you to be exhausted for your 8 AM lectures with Crane.

You were exhausted, trying to pay attention. Your head hurt so much for looking at a screen for so long last night.

Crane is flipping through a slideshow, and you find yourself dozing. It's not that this stuff bored you, you had just already learned it back when you took AP Psych your sophomore year of high school.

You snap back into reality when you hear your name being called.

Crane is singling you out with an annoyed expression on his face. You turn red because everyone, all 400 other people in the class, are staring at you.

"I'm sorry. Is this boring you?" He puts his hands on his hips.

"No-" You begin.

You're stammering. You normally don't have such a rough time with public speaking, but being downright exhausted and being singled out for nearly falling asleep in class is extremely embarrassing.

He pauses for a moment and stares you down.

You feel as if you were naked, as if you were completely exposed to him. You didn't like him looking at you like that, like he was taking into account every imperfection.

"As I was saying..."

Thank god.

He resumes to what he was talking about before and you're more alert, heart pumping full of humiliation. You're taking notes now, typing quickly and probably annoyingly loud (you can tell because he keeps shooting you small glares every time you hit the spacebar).

Finally, the hour is up and he reminds everyone about the homework due that Friday. You collect your stuff and head out the door. You don't realize, but he watches you leave.

Everything you do irks him.

Maybe it was because your first paper challenged his psychological beliefs, or because your intelligence challenged him in general. But literally everything about you pisses him off.

Your loud typing, your questions that challenges his lectures, how you turn everything in on time, how you flawlessly converse with the other students. He is so desperately waiting for you to slip up.

As previously stated, you were putting less effort than before into his class. He picked up on this. You were turning your papers and chapter readings in the last minute, you weren't asking questions, and you were even falling asleep.

You had three days to complete a portion of the assignments given. You completely forgot about it.

Due to your tiredness and your weakening desire to try for the class, you had forgotten to write down the homework in a planner that you always checked daily.

Crane is a quick grader, and usually he always grades your homework first; more specifically, as soon as you turn it in.

You realized you didn't do the work as soon as you woke up that morning for your 8 AM class. You had never ever missed an assignment. Ever. And you had no time to do it and make it to his class on time. You were freaking the fuck out.

It's okay. Maybe he hasn't graded it yet.

But no. He was such a strict grader. He was harsh.

Whatever. You may as well hope for the best.

To distract yourself from your predicament, you talk to the boy who sits next to you in the class. It's just smalltalk about the workload and about an upcoming test.

You stop talking when Crane clears his throat. You shift back in your seat and open your laptop.

"It's a Friday. It's 8 AM," Crane begins. You think this is going to be the introduction of a psychological speech. "For all 399 of you that did your homework last night, go enjoy your Friday morning."

People being looking around and whispering, not sure if this is a trick, but you know it's not.

You're freaking out. Your heart is racing and you cannot believe that he would actually do this to you. Usually teachers will just give you a bad grade and call it that, but to single you out and have the entire class leave except for you is an all time low.

"I'm not messing with you," Crane continues. "Go. You know who you are."

He's looking at you dead in the eye and you stay put as people slowly get up to leave, looking around to make sure others are doing the same. You avoid his gaze, looking at your computer screen.

Soon enough, everyone is out of the large lecture room, some looking back to see the one person who didn't do their work.

Once the door is shut, and everyone is completely out of sight, Crane locks both of the doors and looks up at you.

"Are you deliberately trying to fail my class?" He questions. "I thought you wanted to be outstanding."

You can't find words to say. He scoffs and moves to his desk, shuffling through papers and bringing out a decently large stack to over to you. It feels like hours pass by as he walks up the steps to you and drops them onto your desk.

You look at them, confused.

"This is the homework that was due at midnight." He explains.

"It's never so much..." You stammer. You can feel his hatred burning into your skin.

"It's what's due next Wednesday, Friday, and the following week too. Let's see if you can get this done by.... hm," He checks his watch. "By the end of the period?"

"All of this?" Your eyes widen.

"When's your next class?" He asks.

"You're my only one today." You continue to avoid his eye contact.

"Then you can stay." He says. "Until you finish all the work."

"But-"

"I can't trust that you'll do it." Crane says, taking a step back from you. "You need to complete it. In front of me."

"Please, Professor," You try to defend yourself. "I've been-"

"I can assume what you've been doing, you've almost fallen asleep in my class." He scoffs.

You feel your cheeks heat up with embarrassment over him getting the wrong impression. Does he really think that low of you?

You take a deep breath. You'll just have to deal with this.

"Do you have a pencil?"

He grabs a black pen from his desk and looks up to you, motioning to sit in the front row. Close enough. You swallow your pride and grab your things and the stack of paper, walking down to the seats in the front.

The class itself is an hour, but it took you almost five to complete the amount of homework he gave you. The readings were long, and the quality of work was demanding. You were eager to do well, to prove yourself.

You hate that he hated you.

His eyes were on you the entire time you did your work. The silence was loud, but you pushed through it. You got three weeks of homework done, and proudly put the stack back onto his desk.

"I'll see you Monday, Professor," you smile, then walk away.

After that, you tried harder; harder than you tried compared to every other class you took. You did this, not to get him to like you- but to get back at him with the fact that you knew your shit; you were a good student. You sat in the front, did side research, and spent nights studying for his endless quizzes. And he wanted to fail you to make you stop what you were doing, but you were getting all the answers right and you both knew that. He wouldn't want you taking anything to the next level.

With you in the front, it made it harder for him to not be distracted by you. Mid speech he would find himself locking eyes with you, disrupting his words and leaving him stammering for a brief moment. Ever since you've upped the eye contact, you've gained more control of the situation.

You arrived in class that Wednesday; the situation in which Crane forced you to stay and do two weeks worth of work in front of him occurred around three weeks ago. You're sitting in the front in between two empty seats; no one likes to sit in the front in Crane's class. It's usually only filled with around three to four people. Crane isn't in class yet, which is weird considering he's always there early, before anyone else even gets there. The class is almost about to begin and he's never been late.

Soon enough, it's one minute after the class is supposed to start and he's still not there. You start feeling antsy, wondering where he is.

Finally, he walks in; two minutes after class is supposed to start. So unlike him.

He places his briefcase on the desk and begins setting up his computer while everyone takes out something to take notes with.

"Now, you all know what I specialize in, I hope," He states, not breaking eye contact with his computer.

He specialized in phobias. Apart from dedicating his time to teaching you, he was a therapist mainly for fears.

"I'm sure we all know what exposure therapy is, correct?" He asks. Pretty much the whole class nods in unison. "Good. For those of you not on the same page, it's the type of therapy which someone is exposed to their fear or trauma."

He begins flipping through his slideshow, giving more and more information and lecturing about it, but you can't help but notice it's an almost bias review.

You're left with homework to write a review on some boring documentary on the history of exposure therapy and a pretty long excerpt of the textbook you all were reading.

So, you did your work and followed all of the instructions. You wrote a review on exposure therapy.

The next Monday, you get to class and you sit in the front row. There's a big stack of paper on Crane's desk, and you assuming that you're getting a pop-quiz, but no, that's not the case.

Crane's waiting for everyone with his shoulder rested on the large stack of papers. Once the time hits 8, he begins.

"I printed out all of your outlines," He begins. "I've made some comments and given some feedback. We'll spend the class working on them."

He starts calling out names and one by one, people receive their papers. You're sort of anxious- you left a pretty negative review on exposure therapy, something that he seemed so passionate about.

"Y/N Y/L/N." He says, saying your voice with more of an annoyed tone than the other students. You get up and grab your paper from his hands, tugging harder due to his firm grip. Clearing his throat, he continues calling out the following names. You go back to your seat, nervous to look at the paper. When you sit and look at it, your stomach dropped.

There's nothing on the front page. Then you look at the second.

See me after class.

There is literally nothing but a see me after class.

Oh my god.

What did I do?

Was he offended at all by what was written? Surely, that wasn't your intention... yes, you wanted to piss him off, but you had some respect for him. You didn't want to actually maybe- make him insecure about his work?

Class seemed to take hours to go by; you didn't even know what to do about your paper. He gave no other feedback other than to see him after class. How were you supposed to work with that?

You looked around at your classmates typing away. You're annoyed that he actually helped them.

See me after class.

At least give me feedback on my fucking paper.

Everyone then realized the time and began to pack up. Crane stood up from his desk and took his glasses off.

"Remember, papers are due Friday!" He manages to get out before people start heading out the door.

You put your things in your bag, trying to act out to your classmates as if you were leaving. You felt so embarrassed. You hated how he kept embarrassing you and how he had the power to do that. It was infuriating. You felt him staring at you as you packed your stuff up, moving slower, nervous that he would call you out.

You took your time, though, waiting till everyone was out of the room.

With everyone else there, you felt so confident. You were one of the smart ones and you at least had witnesses, but alone with him? You were completely inferior. He could quite literally ruin your life with a bad grade and could easily tarnish your image, being the head of Arkham and all that.

"I found your paper quite interesting," He says, emphasizing quite.

"I'm sorry-" you begin. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"Offend me?" He scoffs. "You think you offended me?"

"I just- I know this is what you do, right?" You stammer.

"I'm interested in your point of view." He says. "About the pain, how it's long term. I'm interested as to why you seem so against it."

You shrug.

"What's your biggest fear, Y/N?" He asks you. "What is it? Failure?"

"I'm not trying to fail."

"Oh, yes, you've proven that." He clicks his tongue. "Sitting in the front, turning things in quickly, wearing shorter skirts. Don't think I don't notice what you're doing."

"What?"

"You write intensely about the struggle that people with PTSD-"

"Wait," you interrupt him. "What did you say?"

"I'm trying to discuss with you what you've written."

"Professor, my clothing choices have nothing to do with me wanting to do well in this class," you say. Now you're offended.

Instead of apologizing, which is what you think any decent person would do, he looks you up and down and scoffs.

"You're wearing tights."

"What?"

"Surely, those must be uncomfortable. You're not wearing those to satisfy yourself," he says.

You grow red, and angry.

He keeps humiliating you.

"Who are you trying to impress?"

"Will you stop?" you groan in frustration. "Why don't you just let me get by like you let everyone else get by? I do everything you ask!"

"I want to know who you're trying to impress."

"I'm not trying to impress anyone," you hiss, finally looking up at his crystal eyes.

You know it's disrespectful, but you turn to walk away and to leave.

"No, no. We're not done."

You ignore him, walking towards the door, but he quickly beats you to it, shutting it and locking you in.

"I said we're not done." He said, completely composed. "Sit."

"I want to leave."

"Your biggest fear is failure, yes?" He questions. You don't nod or shake your head, but it is pretty much true; you hate failing. You need to succeed and be good at everything you do. "Sit. I can very much make that fear come true."

"I do everything," you repeat. "Everything. I do it on time, I'm here always, I'm prepared for everything."

"Can you just fucking-" He pushes you down onto the seat next to his desk. "Sit?"

You weren't expecting him to physically force you to sit down, but you could pick up on the pent up frustration he had with you.

"The off the cut sweater, no bra-" He points out.

You weren't wearing a bra. You were surprised he had picked up on the fact- you could've been wearing a strapless, but no. He was right.

"Are you even wearing underwear?" He whispers.

You're flushed.

What the fuck was going on?

You thought he hated you.

And yeah, you knew he was an attractive man, that's what made this whole thing pretty exciting, but you never thought you would be sat down with him leaning over you saying things like this.

"Let me see."

"Professor?"

He grabs you off the chair and pushes you onto his desk, spreading your legs for you. Everything was moving too quickly; this all felt like a fever dream.

He tugs at the middle of your tights, ripping them open to expose your- and he was right- bare pussy. He lets out a chuckle.

"You're not trying to impress anyone?" He questions, again, peering up at you.

You try moving your thigh to cover yourself, but he forcefully keeps them open.

"Who was that boy you used to sit next to... Tim, is it?"

To be honest, you really didn't know that kids name. He was just someone you sat next to out of habit since you had picked that seat the first day of classes. But you hadn't been sitting with him for weeks at that point.

"Is Tim who you're trying to impress?"

"No!" You argue, still trying to fight the grip of his hand off your thigh. "I told you... I'm not trying to impress anyone."

"Hm." He says, placing two fingers on exactly the right spot of your clit, slowly rubbing in circles. . "You're not even trying to impress me?"

You stay silent, for a brief moment.

"Not in this way..."

But it's past that point now. He's already touching you, rubbing faster, and your exposed pussy is laid out right in front of his face. You're embarrassed and self conscious. He's too close for comfort.

"Yeah?"

The fingers once on your clit are now entering you. You still can't comprehend the situation.

But for him, he was putting you in your place. It was enough of the looks in class, the semi sexual and revealing clothing, the obvious need for his approval and to show him she was as smart- maybe even smarter than him himself.

"Is that why you're letting me touch you like this?" He asks, using the two fingers to pump your pussy.

It's out of your control but you're getting wetter the longer and faster he fingers you. It's beginning to show, beginning to drip down his fingers and onto his wrists. He notices this, then stops and looks.

"Disgusting," He huffs before licking his fingers clean.

"That's disgusting," You repeat at him, glaring a little, but you can't help but want his finger- more of him back inside you. You feel empty, desperate for his hands back on you.

"I don't see you asking me to stop."

You're silent, again.

He smiles, kneeling back down and spreading your legs open again, this time with a more forceful grip. He doesn't use his fingers this time, devouring you with his hot mouth and basically digging in.

He was really good at this. To be fair, no one had ever actually eaten you out, but you had never felt anything like it. He moves his fingers towards you again and fucks you with them as he sucks and licks at your clit. He was freakishly good. You felt something drip down your thigh; you didn't know if you were sweating or if you were fucking leaking. By the sound of it, probably the second one.

He removes his fingers and dives deep into your pussy more, making obscure sounds as he does so. He stops and looks up at you.

"Take your shirt off. I want to see your tits," he demands.

You comply; he's already seen a lot.

"Fuck, they're perfect." He says, now standing over you, playing with them and poking and twisting at your hardened nipple. He's pushing his hardened clothed dick into your bare pussy, giving you some friction has he sucks on your neck and plays with your nipples.

He grabs your hips and flips you over, putting you on your stomach and leaning you over the desk.

He kneels back down, eating your pussy again; he can't get enough of it. He can't get enough of the small whines escaping your throat and the way you leak and how you shake when it feels good- or when the pleasure becomes too much.

He adds his fingers in again, this time three, and you let out a louder, but not too loud, moan than usual.

"Professor-"

"You can take it." He assures you. "You better take it. If you can't take this how can you take my cock?"

You just weren't used to it- you had been fucked, but not for so long. He keeps licking and devouring your clit while pumping in and out of you. You feel so full- on the brink. You feel hot, and god you feel good. You don't even realize it, but you're riding his mouth and his fingers.

"You know, I wasn't going to let you come," Crane begins between breaths, keeping his face close to your pussy so you could still feel him. "But now that I think about it... I want you cum drunk on my dick. I wanna make you cum over and over again until you're a fucking mess."

He goes back to sloppily and messily eating you out again. It was so dirty; the noise, what was leaking out of you. You then felt that familiar feeling and you couldn't stop it; no matter how wrong this felt or how humiliated and exposed you felt, you couldn't stop yourself from moaning like a mess and cumming all over his mouth.

You needed a second to recover, but he stood up and grinded his clothed dick against you. You weren't ready for the friction, wincing over the contact with you sensitive clit. He grabbed your neck and pulls your back to him, kissing you, continuing to grind.

He unbuttons his pants and undoes his boxers, his large thick cock springing out, begging to be touched. He pushes one of your legs up onto the desk to give him better access to you.

"You're fucking soaked," He says as he teases himself some more, collecting what's came out of you as some lubricant.

He keeps rubbing your clit and the outside with his dick, back and forth. It feels good, but it's not enough. He pushes harder with his dick on your clit, continuing to hump you.

"Professor, please," you look back at him, trying to guilt him into giving in and fucking you, but it's not that easy.

"Shut up, and let me take my time." He says. He continues this for a little, before getting a new idea. "I want you to cum on my cock without me fucking you."

"What?"

He pulls you towards him then on his lap on the chair next to his desk.

"Grind on it." He demands, holding you in place by your hips. "Get it soaked."

You hesitate, but he's impatient. He pushes you down and moves your hips for you until you begin to do it with him. You grind your pussy against his cock, stimulating your clit once more. It didn't feel as good as his mouth, and god it probably didn't feel as good as his dick would feel inside you, but it felt good. And you were so fucking horny, you were on the brink of cumming again.

"Yeah, yeah, you got it," he praised you, rocking your hips back and forth. He digs his nails into your hips, definitely leaving some cuts in your skin, but you didn't care. You were so close. He begins to bounce up, pretending to thrust into you, adding to your pleasure. "That's it, you- oh fuck, yes, cum on my fucking dick."

You're dripping onto him as you ride out your high, clenching around nothing. It seems to last for a while, wrapped up in all the pleasure combined with his dirty talk.

He angles his cock towards your entrance and pushes into you- he feels hot and he's sensitive due to teasing himself. But no- he doesn't want to cum yet. He wants to put you in your fucking place. And even if he does cum, he has no issue continuing and even fucking a baby into you. Then, you'd have to walk around with the shame.

He gently picks you up, but then harshly slams you up and down repeatedly onto his cock. You've had no time to readjust after cumming a second time, and you were extremely sensitive.

"Slower, professor, please," You cry, burying your face into his shoulder. "It hurts..."

"Shut the fuck up."

He grabs you by the neck and pounds up into you, rubbing your clit as well to add to the sensation.

Yes, it feels good, but it's so overwhelming you can't help but tear up. Crane notices this and it goes straight to his head.

"Are you fucking crying?" He scoffs. "Fucking crying for me?"

He picks you up, keeping you firmly attached to his dick, and throws you over the desk again. He's fucking you deeper and at an animalistic pace; like he fucking needs this.

"Keep crying for me. Keep fucking crying."

He harshly grips your tits, twisting your nipple in the process.

"Fucking perfect tits, perfect pussy, perfect everything. You fucking strive for perfection- but you're letting me fucking ruin you. Is this how far you'd go for a good grade?" He laughs, fingers deep in your clit.

You can only moan in response, but this doesn't satisfy him.

"Fucking answer me."

"Yes," you cry out.

"Yeah, you're just a fucking whore who'd sleep her way to the top if that's what it took." He says, tugging your hair back, your sweaty bodies pressed closer together.

His words are filthy, but you're fucking cumming again.

He's laughing, mocking you for doing so.

"You fucking like being treated like a bitch, don't you?" He says, fucking you through your third orgasm. You don't know how he's not tired. As you expect, he doesn't give you a fucking break. You're worn out at this point; almost numb.

"Professor, I don't know-"

"You don't know if you can keep going?" He questions. "Yeah, you can. I'll fucking make you keep going. What was that... your third orgasm? Let me see if I can double that."

"Professor..."

"I'll stop when you give me three more."

You feel like you're going to pass out; the pleasure had become too much, but you were so fucking sensitive that a fourth one had come quickly. Your pussy was so swollen and red, but he had not gotten off of you.

"You're fucking..." He brings you back to the chair and places you on top of him. "You're fucking leaking all over me, fucking hell. So wet... do you hear yourself?"

You could hear yourself. It was disgusting. It was filthy.

"Aren't you embarrassed?" He asks. He slows down his pace, and you know he's teasing you. "Embarrassed that you're whoring yourself out to me like this? To a professor that so clearly disliked you? This is what you do for my approval."

He slows his pace some more.

"Would you do this for any other professor, Y/N? Let them fuck your pussy till you have nothing left to give? Bounce on their cock the way you do for me?"

"No, professor," you shake your head, trying to bounce faster but he keeps your hips in place, restricting you. He had succeeded- made you cum drunk and fucked you stupid, but this wasn't enough. He needed more. "No, no, only you. I'd only do this for you."

You're squirming around on his dick. He's stopped moving at this point, just staying in you.

"Stop fucking moving around. Don't you want to impress me?"

"Have I not?" You begin to regain some of your strength with this somewhat of a break he was giving you. "Have I not impressed you, professor?"

You give him puppy eyes as you gain some control of the situation, his grip loosing and you bouncing on his cock at a pace you like.

"I want to impress you, professor," you say seductively. "I want to- fuck!"

You start chasing your high again, you didn't even realize that you'd ever be able to cum this many times.

"Fuck!" You repeat. Crane is letting you take control, enjoying the show of you riding his cock, using him for your pleasure. "Do you like this, professor? Do you like when I fucking bounce on your dick like this?"

You had never heard yourself like this, or ever expected to talk like this. You had never felt so confident.

"Have you imagined this professor?" You continue. He's obviously at a loss for words, not expecting this side of you. "Have you imagined fucking me? Have you imagined bending me over your desk and eating me out till I came all over your face? My tits? Putting me in my fucking place?"

His hands found your hips again and he's helping you ride his cock. He's loving the words coming from your mouth.

"God, I think you wanted this more than I did," you laugh. You're so close. You wanted him to talk, but his reactions to your words were enough for you. "Make me cum again, professor, please. I- fuck!"

He's pushing into you and bouncing you up and down quickly and you're riding out your fifth orgasm.

He pulls you off of him and lays you out on the desk again, licking up your sore pussy. He hums while doing this, telling you how you taste so good. You're so- so sensitive, though, and you can't help but cumming on his tongue again not even seconds later, letting out a string of incoherent words.

That's six.

You look at him, but he's positioning himself in you.

"You said six-"

"I say a lot of things. I want you to cum on my cock again." He says, kissing your neck. "Last time. I promise."

He pumps into you, at a softer, but still quick pace. You feel so incredibly numb, but he still manages to work you up quickly while fondling your breasts and pressing hot kisses into your neck.

"Ah- fuck." He pants, fucking himself into you. "Fuck... gonna cum in you. Want you to fucking carry me around for the rest of the fucking day."

You don't object- your hearing was probably a little impaired at this point.

"Yeah, you want that, don't you. It's like a fucking award to you."

He's holding you closer now. You both are so sweaty and sticky.

You're about to cum again, but he grabs your throat tightly.

"Fucking wait for me. Don't be impatient."

As hard as it is, you listen to him. He speeds up, becoming sloppy before he cries, "Fuck, cum! Cum all over my fucking- ahhh, yes, fuck."

He shoots hot loads into you as you clench around him, milking more out of him. He doesn't stop, continuing to fuck you until every last bit of his seed has marked you. Even after he's done, he gets a few more strokes in before he pulls out, showing the combination of you and him leaking out of your pussy. He pushes you onto the floor and presents his dick in front of him.

"Clean it."

You obey, wrapping your mouth on his cock and licking away the filth that the two of you made. He groans and pulls you off of him.

"You'll get me hard again." He says.

He puts all his clothes back on and hands you your sweater. Your nipples are hard, poking through them now.

"I look forward to your next draft of your review." Crane says calmly, as if what just happened didn't happen.

"You- um..." you stammer, brushing your fingers through your hair. "You didn't give me any notes."

"I didn't?" He questioned. You shook your head. "Well, stay again after class next session. I'll go over it, personally, with you."

"Oh." You blush. "This wasn't a one time thing?"

"Y/N..." Crane looks at the floor. "I'm your professor."

You felt awkward. Of course it was a one time thing; how could it not be?

But then he looks back up at you.

"You don't want to fail my class, do you?"

[fromdove]

teen training era bruce wayne u have my entire heart and soul. you own my cardiovascular system. if you ever need a rib i will hand-deliver it to you in a custom-embroidered velvet pouch

[ginnysgraffiti]

BRUCE WAYNE x yn.

bruce wayne on vacation with you (and alfred) head-canons:

settings:

- bruce doesn’t “vacation” in the traditional sense. he disappears. disconnection is the point. italy is just far enough from gotham, and just close enough to his parents’ old europe memories, to tempt him.

- you’re staying in a sleek, private villa on the amalfi coast. ocean-facing cliffs. private pool inside and outside. private tennis court. secluded. the kind of place that whispers in old money and smells like lemon and salt.

- alfred picked the villa. he pretended it was for “a bit of sunlight” and “proper olive oil,” but really he thought it might help bruce feel human for once.

domestic mornings + boat days:

- bruce wakes up early. not batman-early, but still earlier than he should. you wake to the sound of the sea and the faint clinking of dishes — he’s in the kitchen, trying to brew espresso like alfred taught him. it’s terrible. you never told him. but he tries. every morning.

- he reads the paper barefoot, shirtless, glasses perched low on his nose. you steal the section he’s reading just to annoy him. he lets you — with a smirk hidden behind his coffee.

- you both brush your teeth side by side in the enormous marble bathroom, elbowing each other like kids. he always steals your towel. alfred usually strolls in at some point with a disapproving look and a perfectly ironed linen shirt.

“i thought two billionaires could manage to make a functional coffee machine work.”

- bruce pilots the boat himself. of course. it’s about control, about escape — not luxury. he’s quiet at the helm, sunglasses on, jaw tight. every turn is clean, perfect, precise. everything Gotham isn’t.

- he lets you lie across the sun-warmed deck, legs tangled with his, fingers skimming the sea spray. there’s a softness there — a private peace that only you see. no reporters. no board meetings. no masks.

- he’ll sometimes dive off the boat in silence, emerging slick and breathless. when you join him, he watches you swim like you’re something impossible. like joy personified. sometimes he would untie your bikini while you two are swimming just to see your reaction.

- he doesn’t laugh often, but when he does — usually at something you say, or when Alalfred pretends to slip into the sea “by accident” — it’s real. low, gravelly, and makes your chest tighten with affection.

- bruce packs lunch in a cooler like it’s a mission briefcase. grapes, olives, little sandwiches alfred cut diagonally (“as it should be”). and wine, because of course.

- he lets you pilot the boat sometimes — and pretends not to hover, but absolutely hovers. hands near yours. giving “suggestions.” “you’re drifting to port.” “i’m literally not.”

- you both wear swimsuits under linen, sunglasses, and matching smugness. he never sunburns — you accuse him of being genetically modified. he claims it “discipline.” alfred says it’s “a leathery sort of vanity.”

- at anchor, he lounges on the deck with his head in your lap while you read aloud from whatever novel you found in the villa. he listens with his eyes closed, hand curled loosely around your thigh.

- alfred occasionally joins for the boat days — usually to bring “actual food” or sit in the shade with a book. he never swims. claims it’s “a matter of dignity.”

local errands + wandering:

- bruce actually enjoys going into town with you. walks the cobblestone streets in tailored shirts and sunglasses like some international art dealer. still somehow invisible. only some locals recognize him — and they don’t care too much.

- he picks out fresh figs with the precision of someone analyzing evidence. you joke he looks like he’s profiling fruit. he laughs, quietly.

- at the market, you stop to buy sunflowers. bruce carries them the whole way back like it’s the most important thing he’s ever held.

- alfred always finds a cafe to sit in while you wander. he pretends not to watch over you like a hawk. bruce doesn’t pretend. he watches your reflection in every shop window.

evenings:

- dinner is simple, warm, and always eaten slowly. bruce likes hearing you talk about small things. favorite pasta shapes. a weird dream you had. he listens like it’s important.

- dinner is always outside. al fresco on the terrace, candlelight flickering over aged wine and fresh seafood. alfred insists on cooking half the time, and critiques the other half with brutal elegance.

- bruce often eats in silence, swirling wine, watching the stars. he’ll touch your hand under the table — always gentle, always like he’s reminding himself you’re still here.

- you catch him staring sometimes. not in lust — in awe. like he can’t quite believe he’s allowed this moment. that someone like him can sit in peace and not pay for it with blood.

- after dinner, he’ll sometimes pull you into his lap on the chaise lounge. he won’t say much — just rest his chin on your shoulder, arms wrapped around you, warm breath against your skin. “stay a while longer.” you always do.

- sometimes, you both dance in the living room. no music — just the hush of waves and the occasional soft scoff from alfred in the corner with his wine. “shall i fetch rose petals and a string quartet as well?”

- other times, after dinner, bruce will sit behind you and rub your shoulders, whispering whatever alfred cooked next time, he’s replicating. he’s not good at compliments — but he adores when you laugh.

- you fall asleep on the couch half the nights. he always carries you to bed.

bruce being bruce:

- wears white linen shirts, rolled to the elbows. tailored, of course. somehow never wrinkles. wears them open when it’s just you — revealing sun-bronzed skin and a few fading bruises.

- still works out every morning. early. alfred rolls his eyes at the makeshift rooftop pull-up bar. “do try not to rebuild the batcave in every country we visit, master wayne.”

- he checks gotham news secretly when you’re asleep. watches CCTV of the manor. sometimes replays footage of past nights on patrol. you caught him once. he denied. you let him.

- brings a secure phone everywhere. he never answers it.

private moments:

- he touches you more, here in vacation. not always sexually — but constantly. a hand at your waist. a thumb brushing your knuckles. a kiss to your temple while you’re reading on the balcony.

- he makes love to you like he’s praying. slow. intentional. with reverence. he needs it here — not the roughness, not the release — but the closeness. the proof that he’s still human.

[bardotdoves]

“I'm probably not very frightening to a guy like you...”

[lightsabergirl]

"I could fix him"

"I could join him"

I could crochet him a cardigan (what muuuuderr?)

(yes I organized them with the most recognizable at the top, yes I also know the last two are extremely niche and people won't know what I'm talking about, what of it?)

[cinnamongrl2006]

* ⊹₊⟡⋆ Bruce Wayne and casual acts of dominance * ⊹₊⟡⋆

warnings: established relationship, age gap, fluff

────୨ৎ────

Bruce was orphaned as a child, taken in by his butler. He’d never learned how to love, never had a role model to follow, so all his relationships fell apart with disinterest. But then you came into his life, pretty young thing, always so obedient— and he found a way to express his feelings.

It’s not that he was controlling or obsessive; he just wanted to be a part of your life. So, little by little, in order not to scare you away—Bruce was incredibly self-conscious about this habit, a desire he had never experienced before, but with you, it consumed him—he made his presence known in your life through control.

It all started when you had been together for about five months. You didn’t—couldn’t—know he was Batman. It’s not that he didn’t trust you; it’s that he had to protect you. He let you lean on him, trusting him completely to take care of you.

Anytime you were out in public together, his hands were on you—protectively at the small of your back, holding your waist or the back of your neck. You’d stopped paying attention to stoplights when you walked with him, most of the time too entranced in conversation to make a move in time, because he’d press his fingers on the side of your neck, holding it from the back, and you’d halt—automatic.

When you went out on your own, he’d make suggestions about your outfit, the jewelry you picked, your hair—anything. They weren’t critiques; there was no bite to the comments, just adoration.

When you told him, frustrated, that you couldn’t decide which top to wear, he practically salivated. He enjoyed choosing things for you, offering that helping hand.

“Bruce, black or red top?” you asked, already annoyed at how late you’d be.

“Black; it brings out your eyes,” he replied quickly, shooting you a million-dollar smile.

You never argued, never complained. At first, he felt like such an asshole for wanting to have his hands on everything you did, but you liked it as much as he did.

When you went out to a restaurant and settled at your table, making light conversation after ordering drinks, you’d always ask him to order for you. He was older, wiser, and you just didn’t want the hassle of choosing what pasta dish to eat. But that wasn’t all of it; you liked being able to let go. He took the lead when you were together, and you could just relax.

Most of all, Bruce liked feeling useful. He liked having a reason to be around you. He didn’t feel deserving of your affection when you two started dating—although he never said that to you—and he believed that having a purpose in your life would grant him a ticket to stay there with you. His purpose was to protect you, even if sometimes that behavior came off as controlling.

────୨ৎ────

Requests are open 🫶🏻

masterlist

saw my queen @fear-is-truth posted smthn about Bruce and casual acts of dominance too, hadn’t seen it before I wrote this and I’m in no way plagiarizing it, but check out her post anyway!!

[aphoticarachne]

What is this feeling?

Tom Riddle x Reader

>> next chapter

Wherein you and Tom Riddle seem to loathe each other . . or do you?

a/n: I watched Wicked a few weeks ago and the song “What is this Feeling?” has been ringing in my mind so here we are.

Everyone who roamed the shadowed corridors of Hogwarts knew of the quiet war that lingered between you and Tom.

It was not something declared aloud, but rather something that settled in the air, cold and thin, like winter mist curling through the cracks of stone. You never quite understood why, but there it was — every word you spoke, every step you took, seemed to sharpen the edges of his gaze. It began subtly. A stray remark from the faculty during first year, their praise falling at your feet like scattered petals. You hadn’t thought much of it. But Tom had. Tom always noticed.

And then, of course, there was your magnetism. You drew attention without meaning to — a pureblood with a mind quick enough to match his, and a beauty that moved through rooms like a breath of wind. Naturally, people admired you. Naturally, he despised it.

There was no mild disdain in Tom Riddle. Only unadulterated loathing.

You learned not to flinch beneath the weight of it. His cold eyes followed you as if hexing you from afar was a temptation barely restrained. And perhaps, in some quiet part of you, you welcomed it. Rivalry, even unspoken, was still a kind of recognition. Over time, you had begun to play along, careful and deliberate, weaving your way into his path just to see the flicker of irritation cross his face.

In the end, you were as much to blame for it as he was.

So when Horace Slughorn, your Potions Professor, announced in seventh year that you’d be partnering with Tom, you nearly lost your composure.

It was absurd, really — the sudden heat in your chest, the tightening of your grip on the desk. Across the room, Tom’s gaze flicked toward you, impassive but sharp, as if Slughorn’s words had only confirmed something he already suspected.

The room felt smaller.

“Professor!” You called, carefully schooling your expression as Slughorn announced the partners for brewing Draught of the Living Death. He turned to you, his ever-present smile stretched wide, brimming with that thoughtless cheer he seemed to carry everywhere.

“Yes, dear girl?”

“Might I partner with someone else? Or perhaps work alone?” Your voice was light, polite, though the faint smile you forced felt stiff. Across the room, Tom’s gaze settled on you — disinterested, yet razor-sharp beneath the surface.

Mindless imbecile, you thought.

Slughorn’s brow furrowed, his jovial demeanor dimming by a flicker. “You’ve no issue with Mr. Riddle, I presume? No, I see no reason why two of my brightest students shouldn’t work together!” He clapped his hands, already drifting toward another group, humming contentedly.

A quiet, defeated sigh slipped past your lips. Was Slughorn truly so oblivious, so incurably naïve, to think this pairing was anything but disastrous?

You told yourself it was fine. You would endure it, as you always did. But there was a quiet undercurrent to it now, something that twisted beneath the surface like a serpent curling around bone.

As soon as class ended, you slipped through the door, your steps quick and deliberate. The weight of the room lifted the moment you crossed the threshold, and you exhaled quietly, eager to disappear into the steady flow of students crowding the corridor. The last thing you wanted was to linger, not with him still there, his gaze undoubtedly following you as it often did.

But just as you merged into the throng of robes and chatter—

Tom had called out your last name, like he always did whenever he felt the need to address you.

His voice rang clear, smooth and precise, cutting through the noise with unsettling ease. You didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. It wasn’t the first time he had tried to catch your attention, and by now you’d learned to brush past it, to pretend not to hear.

The students around you shifted, moving like water around stone, and you were ready to lose yourself among them—

Until his hand caught your wrist. Firm, but not careless.

A startled breath caught in your throat as Tom pulled you aside, his grip steady as he steered you into a narrow corridor. The sudden absence of noise made the air feel heavier, too still.

You tore your arm from his grasp, distaste flickering sharp in your eyes as you stepped back, creating distance between you.

“What do you want, Riddle?” Your tone was cold, sharpened by irritation you no longer cared to hide.

Tom straightened, folding his arms across his chest as he regarded you with that same calculating look he always wore, the one that felt more like an assessment than anything else.

“Do you make a habit of ignoring everyone, or just the ones you despise?” he asked, his head tilting slightly. His voice was infuriatingly calm.

“I didn’t hear you,” you replied curtly, though the lie felt thin even to your own ears.

He hummed softly, the sound light but edged. “Lying is beneath you.”

You held his gaze, the quiet tension settling between you like fog. “Was there a reason you stopped me, or do you simply enjoy cornering students in secluded places?”

Tom’s eyes narrowed faintly, though his expression remained unreadable. “Starting next week, we meet after class. Every day. We work on the potion until it’s flawless.”

There was no invitation in his tone—only fact, as if the decision had already been made long before this conversation.

“I’ve already arranged for the use of Slughorn’s classroom. Go there when classes end.”

His eyes lingered on yours for a moment longer, cold and unwavering.

“Do you understand?”

"And what if I'm busy next week? Have you no consideration?" you shot back, arms crossing as you met his gaze without flinching. The truth was, your schedule was perfectly clear — not a single obligation to be found. But that wasn’t the point. Who was he to dictate your time as if it belonged to him?

Tom’s expression didn’t shift, not even slightly. If anything, the corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but something colder.

"And who, exactly, would be foolish enough to keep your company?" His voice was soft, almost thoughtful, but the insult laced beneath it struck hard enough.

Your eyes narrowed.

"4 PM," he continued, brushing past your challenge with practiced ease. "I expect you there. On time. Or I’ll brew the potion myself — and I’ll make sure Slughorn knows you contributed nothing."

The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy and unmoving. His gaze lingered, deliberate as if daring you to test him further. But before you could summon a retort, he turned sharply on his heel and strode down the corridor, his robes trailing behind him like shadows curling at his feet.

You stayed rooted in place, watching as he disappeared around the corner.

Infuriating. Absolutely infuriating.

Deena speaks .ᐟ

English isn't my first language so I apologize if I'd made any mistakes, if so, please correct me.

I plan on making this a short fic, mayhaps 5+ chapters? Please give me opinions on how I should end this story! + I'm also sorry if it sucks, this is my first time writing!