my muse was my desire

Dusk fell over Gotham's sky in rust-colored waves, and the air smelled of stone and wet grass. Bruce walked down the gravel path between headstones with the precision of someone who had done it so many times his body moved on its own.

The Wayne Mausoleum stood out in pale marble among the old cemetery trees, isolated enough that the sounds of the city reached him only as a distant noise.

He kept his focus on the bouquet in his hands, letting his gaze wander through the colors and shapes mingling together. Yellow chrysanthemums, orange gladiolus, white lilies, a few blue forget-me-nots.

He hadn’t chosen them with much thought, guided more by the memory of his mother’s hands than by his own taste.

It was a small distraction, but a necessary one. Something to keep his mind busy, to dull the emptiness that always crept in whenever he came here.

It had been so long since his last visit. The habit had weakened over the years until mourning became something quieter and ritualistic; until his visits were reserved for holidays and symbolic dates. Something done more out of loyalty than anything else.

In light of your absence the last two weeks, he thought maybe it was time to come again.

He knelt before the two headstones, his knees sinking slightly into the soft earth. He didn’t pray. Not anymore. Old prayers were still tucked away somewhere in the back of his mind, but they’d sound hollow on his lips now.

Instead, he just stood there, staring at the names engraved in the marble like the memory of their faces might rise out of the silence.

In another decade, perhaps Bruce would have shared something about how he was doing now, or what had been on his mind. He didn’t have the courage to confide to his parents' graves what direction his life had taken anymore.

He laid the bouquet down, the soft petals brushing against names time had begun to erase. Though the sun was dying on the horizon, reduced to a dull glow that barely pierced the clouds, Bruce still winced beneath it. Lately, he’d grown more sensitive to daylight, and dusk was the only brightness he could stand.

It’s why he chose this hour. It was quieter too.

He’d hardly seen another visitor on his way in. The only sound was the whisper of wind through leaves, weaving that ethereal feeling between tombstones and nature. For a moment, the world seemed suspended. Soundless, timeless. Peaceful.

His hand hesitated over the bouquet. He picked a single red rose, careful not to bruise its petals. It spun slowly between his fingers, the deep crimson catching the last rays of sunlight.

It reminded him of your eyes.

The first time he saw them. The first time he saw you.

The memory struck him with the same strange clarity as always: a pale light cutting through fog, a still figure in the middle of that alley, carved into his memory like a fever dream.

Impossible and lucid at the same time.

The news had been talking about the Bat of Gotham for weeks back then. A man who appeared every night, dressed in black, hunting criminals with the fury of something that couldn't be human.

Reports swung between skepticism and pure mass hysteria: He had superhuman strength and monstrous claws, he had soulless white eyes and was twice as fast as a human. He had horns, for Christ’s sake–

You must have thought there was another like you.

He never asked what you were looking for that night. An equal, a rival, or just curiosity to know if the city had truly drawn in another night creature.

And still, in the silence that followed, something in him resonated.

A quiet recognition, deeper than fear or fascination. A presence that reached into the hollow spaces inside him, touching the part that still refused to heal.

He felt your loneliness like an echo of his own, familiar and sharp, vibrating in the air between you.

There were many questions he preferred not to hear too, and so the silence between you became its own kind of trust: he gave you room to reveal only what you wished, and in return, expected the same mercy. Whatever you gave him had to be enough.

Still, sometimes he wondered if you had ever had a family.

A clan, a home, someone who still thought of you. Who remembered you.

Whether after whatever had changed you, or even before. Especially before.

There was something so unmistakable in your gaze, something Bruce recognized instantly. He didn’t know what immortality felt like to you, the weight of centuries, the blurred lines of endless time… But he knew what it meant to outlive his loved ones.

He stayed there a while longer, the rose safe between his fingers.

The air had turned cold enough to bite, and a crow landed on a nearby branch, making the leaves tremble. It let out a harsh caw, uneasy about something, but Bruce didn’t move.

Only when another gust of wind slipped beneath his suit did he finally straighten up, brushing dirt from his knee.

The walk back felt shorter. His footsteps blended with the rustle of trees and the distant toll of a bell.

The car waited by the gate, engine running, sending small clouds of vapor into the chilly air.

Alfred glanced up in the rearview mirror as he entered.

"Straight home?"

Bruce just nodded. The car pulled away smoothly, leaving the iron gate behind.

The cemetery disappeared among the dense trees. Dusk was thickening now, and the first streetlights flickered on against the fading sky.

“It was less crowded than I expected,” Alfred said, watching out the window. The reflection of the city warped as the car moved. “Must be the weather. Looks like rain.”

“Yeah.” Bruce looked at the rose in his hand, holding it gently. He ran his thumb over the calyx, lightly brushing the tip of a thorn.

“Still, it’s good you’re outdoors,” Alfred's tone was almost casual, but his gaze was attentive. "You're looking paler than usual."

“Not much reason to go out during the day.”

A small, vibrant red drop welled on his thumb, and he studied it for a moment before bringing it to his lips. The metallic taste of blood mingled with the subtle scent of the flower.

Alfred caught his eyes in the rearview mirror for a fleeting second, then hummed softly, letting the subject drop.

The car cut through the city, slipping between the dark silhouettes of skyscrapers until the massive glass-and-concrete bulk of Wayne Tower loomed ahead.

Alfred steered the vehicle through the gates and up the ramp to the garage, steady and composed.

When the car stopped, Bruce stepped out first.

The smell of polished wood greeted him as he climbed the last steps. Soft footsteps echoed before Dory appeared from a side corridor, a cleaning cloth draped over her arm.

“Mr. Wayne,” she greeted, her tone a mix of formality and warmth.

“Hi, Dory.” Bruce's voice was soft as he shrugged off his coat and draped it over his forearm. “Could you close the curtains? The sun’s still up.”

“Oh, I thought about leaving them open for a while,” she murmured, eyes flicking up to the tall windows. “Sometimes it gets so dark here I swear I’m seeing shadows moving down the halls.”

“Matural light can be cruel, I dare say,” Alfred’s voice cut in from behind, the click of his shoes echoing against the wood. “It hurts his eyes.”

Bruce cast a sidelong glance over his shoulder, but didn't respond, slowly pulling his gloves off his hands.

In his peripheral vision, he saw when Alfred crossed the hall and handed Dory a small bundle of mail.

"Hello, Dory."

“Mr. Pennyworth,” she replied, a brief, polite smile touching her lips.

The rose was a lone red dot against the black of his suit, held between his fingers as he approached the sideboard.

Alfred and Dory’s conversation faded into background noise. He laid his gloves down with deliberate care, then paused, catching his reflection in the mirror.

The face staring back seemed both familiar and strange. The precise cut of his suit and the neat sweep of his hair did nothing to hide the dark circles beneath his blue eyes, and his jaw was perpetually tense, making him look older than he was… Alfred was right. He was paler than usual.

Ironically, he didn’t actually feel as tired as he seemed.

His gaze drifted to his collar, and then he saw it.

At the base of his neck, faint and healed, but still there: two small, perfectly rounded marks, pressed into him with deliberate intent.

He exhaled slowly, a faint smile ghosting the corner of his mouth before he stepped away from the mirror.

“Would you like me to set the dinner table, Mr. Wayne?” Dory's voice pulled him back. Bruce blinked and turned to her.

“That won’t be necessary,” his eyes slid toward the windows. The grandfather clock ticked somewhere behind them. A few more hours until the moon was fully out. “I’ll be dining out tonight.”

“As you wish.” She hesitated, fingers smoothing the hem of her apron. “Shall I leave a tray, in case you change your mind?”

He shook his head. “No need. You can turn in early.”

“Of course.” Dory nodded. She’d been around long enough to recognize the tone he used when the conversation was over. Still, there was something in the way her gaze lingered on him.

She hesitated, considering whether to say more, then seemed to think better of it, turning around and disappearing into the hallway.

The silence that followed was broken by the sound of a newspaper being folded.

“Shall I presume it’s another late engagement, then?” Alfred asked.

Bruce exhaled. “Something like that.”

“I do hope it’s not in poor company,” Alfred's tone was light enough to sound innocent, but Bruce was already turning toward the hallway.

“You don’t need to wait up for me.”

“Of course not,” Alfred replied, half dry humor, half resignation. “Although, as always, I hope the evening is pleasant.”

“Good night, Alfred."

Before the butler could say more, Bruce was already walking down the hallway, his footsteps echoing on the wooden floor until he disappeared into the silence of the Tower.

When he reached his room, he closed the door softly behind him.

The golden dusk light filtered through the curtain slits like a pale veil. In the corner by the window there was a small, clean space, the only spot on his desk that seemed free of papers and equipment.

He set the flower there, in a simple glass with a little water, a discreet offering. It looked oddly perfect in that area of antique furniture, vivid red against dark mahogany.

The wind blew just enough to lift the curtains. The edges of the petals trembled in the draft.

The city lights blinked below, a reflection of a distant, suspended world.

He imagined you somewhere out there, still watching. As always.

He had to go now, prepare for a night of patrol. But the rose would send the signal.

A reminder that once darkness swallowed the sky and you were free to walk the streets, if you wished… you would know where to find him. He would be here.

Bruce stepped back and turned, leaving the desk behind.

For now, the city waited for him.

The ride back to the cave was silent. The sound of the Batmobile’s engine blended with the steady patter of rain on the roof as he drove into the old Wayne Terminus tunnels.

When he stopped in the cave, the engine’s sound stirred a horde of bats into low flight as he climbed out of the cockpit toward the workbench.

Bruce shed the cape, pulled off his gloves, and tossed the cowl into a corner. Just enough to move more comfortably.

On the workbench, he spread the blueprint of an abandoned industrial warehouse in the port area.

A smuggling point he’d been tracking for a few days. The location near the docks made the warehouse perfect, and, if he was right, a clandestine drug lab was operating in the back.

He ran his calloused fingers over the papers, rereading the smudged graphite notes, and unlocked the grapple gun to inspect the internal mechanism.

Bruce was focused enough to almost miss the first sign. Almost.

First, the subtle shift in the air.

Then, the sound of the bats in the cave’s ceiling growing restless with the intrusion, the way most creatures reacted to your kind.

Finally, the nearly inaudible sound of soft footsteps approaching. You were here.

When you stopped behind him, the silence grew dense enough for Bruce to feel a shiver run down the back of his neck.

The touch came like a wordless confession: your chin resting on his shoulder, your body curving over his back, ignoring any concept of personal space… And he let you lean in.

Bruce didn’t turn right away.

He kept his eyes on the blueprints, unlocking the grapple gun to oil the mechanism. The metallic clicks filled the space between you.

“Hi.” The feeling of an inhale against his neck made Bruce falter for a heartbeat. You didn’t need to breathe, so you did it on purpose, just to take in his scent. “No music tonight?”

The sound brushed against his shoulder like a soft feather.

Bruce felt the involuntary shift in his pulse, the rhythm changing, betraying what he was trying to suppress. You surely noticed it too.

“I’ll go back there.”

“Huh?”

He could feel your gaze drifting over the papers spread across the table. The muscles of his back tensed when you step back, breaking the contact.

“You can’t go in there.”

Straightforward. He glanced at you over his shoulder.

“No?”

“If it's a major mafia hideout, it’s obviously going to be heavily guarded. You’ll be outnumbered.”

He stifled a sigh. “I can—”

“Heavily guarded.”

“I know.” He turned back to the grapple gun. “The armor can take it.”

“You don’t have the strength for that.”

Bruce turned fully to face you. Your expression was neutral, but the small crease between your brows gave away your tension. His mouth curved in a bitter smile.

“What do you mean by that?”

“You are one. They are many. It’s simple. The strength of the collective surpasses the average individual.”

“Who said I’m an average individual?”

You gave him a cold, inquisitive look. Bruce turned back to the papers, creating a distance that irritated you both equally.

“I’m going in,” he said flatly. “They can take their chances.”

You didn’t argue.

You just leaned against the nearby computer desk, watching him as he focused. The blue glow of the monitors lit his pale skin, making him look almost otherworldly. The black paint around his eyes had run down his cheeks from the sweat, making it look like black tears leaking from his blue eyes.

He looked more alive under that light. Beautiful, tumultuous, haunted.

A contrast that fascinated you. It was… endearing. He was endearing.

Bruce was a study in contradictions: the way he spoke, his restraint, his obsession, all built to accommodate the void he carried inside.

There was something both obstinate and tragic about him, as if each mission were a silent prayer, but he didn't seem to know exactly what he was praying for.

That death drive of his intrigued you. It wasn’t a wish to die, not exactly. It was more like he believed death was something that only happened to others. That, somehow, it would spare him no matter how hard he defied it.

So that was it? Living on the edge of the abyss on purpose, believing that being spared from death was his real punishment?

It was as frustrating as it was hypnotic. Maybe that’s why you kept coming back.

“I saw your lovely little gift,” you said, breaking the silence. “What was that for?”

“You disappeared.”

“Busy.”

“For days?”

He glanced over his shoulder, but you didn’t bother to answer. Bruce was used to talking to people as if everyone around him was serving him. Well, they were. But not you.

You watched his chest rise and fall slowly as he breathed in, trying again. His voice dropped an octave. “I want you to feed on me.”

“I don’t need to.”

 He let out a humorless laugh.

“You do. You’ve been gone for two weeks.”

“And I might’ve fed somewhere else. What makes you think I didn’t?”

Bruce stepped away from the table, walking toward you. The sound of his boots was soft against the floor. “You didn’t.”

“Who says I didn’t?” Your voice deepened, turning into a dark, ancient tone. You were trying to scare him. He didn’t flinch.

“It’s not your style.” His calmness lit a quiet fire in you, sharp at the tip of your fangs. “If you had, there’d be signs. Unexplained attacks, bodies found, reports. You’re not careless—”

His eyes followed the moment when the dull red of your eyes began to flare, burgundy turning to scarlet.

Your fangs slid out, sharp and threatening. He didn’t back away.

“If you were, you wouldn’t have chosen Gotham. Not your style.”

“Don’t tell me what is or isn’t my style.”

You turned your face away, annoyed. Bruce Wayne thought himself too clever for his own good.

“Come here,” he murmured.

His hand touched your arm, warm skin against cold. You shook your head, avoiding his gaze, but your fangs were already receding now.

Bruce pulled gently on your arm once, not forcing, and waited.

You resisted for a few seconds, then gave in, letting yourself move closer. Close enough to rest your head on his shoulder.

“Drink me.” His breath was slow and steady against your hair.

You were so close to his neck. His blood pulsed under his skin, calling to you, and all you could think was how this man seemed to be both live and die everytime you touched him. It made you sick. It made you ache.

For a moment, the entire cave seemed to shrink to that small space. Just him and you.

You ran your hand along the back of his neck, brushing his hair aside gently. The touch was so light he barely felt it. His skin was too warm, almost unbearably so against yours.

You could still see the faint marks from the last time you fed on him. You’d been careful to leave the scar subtle. His body already carried enough of them.

His heartbeat hammered loud, pulsing, hypnotic. Each thrum was a call. He didn’t move, just waited, tilting his head to give you access.

"Don't be afraid,” you whispered against his neck.

Bruce responded with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Fear isn’t what I feel about you.”

Distance vanished in a single motion. When your lips met his skin, you could smell the mix of sweat, leather, and recent rain mingling with his signature cologne. You were obsessed with his scent.

The first touch of your fangs was almost a kiss. Your bite was slow and controlled. You wanted it to be more of an intimate act than a violent one.

The blood came warm, metallic, alive. You closed your eyes, letting the taste spread across your mouth, while your dead veins seemed to remember what it was like to be alive. You gripped his bicep.

Each sip carried fragments of him: exhaustion, discipline, silence, and that oppressive, endless emptiness that spread deep within your gut… But also fire. A willpower so intense it burned slowly through every cell of your body. Determination blending with strength and stamina.

Bruce let out a low, involuntary moan, caught between pain and relief. His hands went to your waist, pulling you closer.

For a moment, time froze for you. The whole world shrank to that exchange: your cold against his heat, the offering and the consuming, the eternal and ephemeral trying to meet halfway.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. He was pale, but his eyes burned as if they held fire of their own.

Blood trickled in a thin line down your chin.

“Was it too much?” you whispered.

“No,” he replied, his voice low. “I like helping you.”

You tilted your head, studying him like you’re seeing him for the first time. Bruce seemed more alive in your arms than he ever would under the sun.

His taste still lingered on your tongue, a memory far too sweet.

You pressed your lips to his neck. It would clot soon.

It wasn’t enough for your thirst. It never was.

But you knew he would already lose too much blood on the nights out there. Whatever he gave you had to be enough.

His hands rose to your face, thumbs tracing the line of your soft jaw.

The touch was careful, and you closed your eyes as he gently explored like he was trying to confirm you’re real.

He whispered your name once.

Ocean blue met deep crimson as you opened your eyes to meet his, a soft smile on your lips.

Then he kissed you.

The kiss was slow and deep, as if you were both learning each other’s shape for the first time all over again. His fingers threaded through your hair, slowly tangling in the strands.

The taste of blood mingled with warm breath, and for a moment Bruce forgot he had to breathe. He liked this. He liked providing everything you needed, and he liked feeling your fangs sink into his skin. Liked how your venom shot through his veins like adrenaline, and how you looked like a goddess afterward, flushed and satisfied.

You felt his heart race, fueling the fire inside you even more. You nudged him gently until his back met the edge of the table, and you moaned softly when he pulled you closer, pressing his body against yours, letting you feel the hardness under his pants.

Fuck. You hadn’t realized he liked it so much.

You had to break the kiss for a moment.

“Bruce,” you whispered, careful.

He pressed his forehead to yours, catching his breath.

“Are you sure you want this?”

“I want you. I want you so much.” He buried his face in your hair, breathing deeply, disheveled and vibrating with pent-up energy.

You gently pushed him to meet your gaze. You needed him to pay attention.

“Bruce, are you sure? If you want to stop, will you know you want to? Will you tell me?”

You bit your tongue. He seemed to read you between the lines.

“I’m lucid. I want this.” He leaned in again, planting a small kiss on the corner of your lips.

He could still feel the tension lingering in you, so he kissed the tip of your nose, then the arch of your brow. “Do you?”

You smiled. “Silly.”

“Is that a no?” He asked, a brief smile touching his lips.

“It’s a yes,” you cupped his chin with your hand. “Of course it’s a yes.”

The kiss returned, deeper, more urgent.

This time your hands roamed his suit, impatiently stripping the layers of armor until you felt the heat of skin beneath the cold fabric.

“Wait,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

He broke the kiss, still so close you could feel the warmth of his words against your lips.

You tilted your head, watching him with curiosity.

Bruce let his hands slide to the fabric covering his shoulders.

“Let me…”

You nodded before he could finish.

He began to undo the ties of your dress with almost ritualistic patience.

The gesture was so methodical, so reverent, like he was dismantling something sacred, that you felt your heart aching.

The fabric slid, falling to the floor with a soft sound. Bruce stepped back, eyes sweeping over you as if every inch were a revelation, then slowly knelt before you.

You looked down at him.

He was still partially dressed, wearing pants and boots, his bare torso lit by the dim glow from nearby monitors, skin marked from the recent touch of your fangs. A wave of anticipation coursed through your body.

“You’re stunning,” Bruce whispered, looking up at you. You mouthed it back to him.

Bruce’s hands, firm and imbued with a human warmth that only he could offer you, traced a slow path up your legs, a reverent pilgrimage. He was a knight honoring something beyond understanding, merely fortunate that you granted him the grace of your touch.

His thumbs slid along the inner sides of your thighs, and the contrast between his warmth and your cold skin made you bite the inside of your cheek.

Bruce began placing soft, deliberate kisses, alternating sides, determined to memorize every detail. The air was thick with the muffled sound of his breathing and the tension suspended between you.

He slowly parted your thighs to create space, then planted a kiss on the fabric of your panties before sliding them down.

He was so, so close. It’s a trial for you to stay still. Your pussy was already wet. Still, he lingered, kissing around the edges of your heat.

“Ahh,” you gasped.

You felt his lips on your skin again, and a shiver raced through your body.

“Bruce…” you murmured, the name escaping as both warning and plea.

He lifted his face and smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth curving almost imperceptibly. “I’m here.”

He moved to your pussy with slow kisses, letting his tongue tease gently.

First your clit, then down to your warm, soft entrance.

He couldn’t resist plunging his tongue deep. You tugged his hair, grunting in frustrated pleasure.

“Gonna bite me?” he asked, a soft laugh escaping.

“Don't test me,” you complained.

He obliged, going straight to the point this time.

The tip of his tongue worked in precise, circular motions, low sounds of satisfaction rumbling from his throat.

Every moan of yours was an irresistible call to him. You were soaked, and the taste was intoxicating, divine, filling his mouth, filling his senses, filling his entire mind with the desire for more of you.

He didn’t even mind his aching knees on the hard floor. His brain was entirely occupied with you, here, letting him be near, touching, exploring, having you.

When Bruce lightly pinched your clit with his teeth, you pulled his hair again, unable to contain a curse. He chuckled softly, a rare and genuine laugh that only appeared when he was with you.

“You're so wet for me… so perfect...”

Your arousal mingled with saliva in his mouth, and he let you ride your climax with every ounce of urgency at the tip of his tongue, hips grinding as he groaned softly, sounds spilling out like sinful confessions.

He moaned against your pussy, and you felt vibrations against your clit. Every movement of your hips set his pace, and Bruce molded himself completely to your will. He wanted to be nothing more than the instrument for you to reach your pleasure.

“I’m… so close…” your voice sounded so adorable to him. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted as you continued tugging his hair.

“Let me feel all of it,” Bruce murmured back, sucking and licking your clit. “Please, give it to me.”

Your orgasm broke in spasms right after. Bruce felt every wave reverberate in his mouth, continuing to lick you as you sighed, sucking every drop until your tremors subsided and your body calmed.

When he finally rose from the floor, you captured his lips in another kiss, tasting yourself on him.

A breathy, surprised laugh escaped him as he felt you lift slightly above the ground, still dazed, shivering from the lingering pleasure.

Were you really this happy? You had never levitated in front of him before.

“Was it good?,” he murmured, pulling you back down by the waist, trying not to think about how much he’s blushing right now.

“So good...” you sighed, gripping at his hips. “I want more of you.”

“You can have me.” He pressed his lips to yours.

Bruce could tell your legs were still trembling, so he wrapped his arms firmly around your waist, keeping you close.

You rested your head on his neck, feeling the warm skin under your touch, his scent enveloping your senses.

You were a tumultuous whirl of emotions now: ecstasy, bliss, euphoria, desire. How could you begin to put into words the multiplicity of things you needed him to know?

He gave you so much, and you didn’t know where to start repaying it.

“I didn’t choose Gotham. I was born here. Wanted you to know.”

“Long time? That you were born…” he asked, hesitant.

“Longer than you. But less than you think.”

He said nothing more, but you sensed it wasn’t for lack of interest. You offered a little more.

“Things haven’t changed much, from then to now. But you have to know to be careful, if you want to stay where you are. You have to be invisible. Discreet.”

“And the one who turned you?”

You resisted the impulse to pull away, tensing. "Not so discreet. But that’s past.”

A brief silence followed before he whispered, “Where do you go when you disappear?”

“I sleep during the day.” Not exactly what he’d asked, but you appreciated that he didn’t press further.

“You could stay here, in the tower,” he said, gently touching the tip of your pointed ear. The gesture was sweet, almost shy. “With me.”

“Your servants won’t like it much,” you murmured, tilting your head.

“They’ll come around,” he replied. “You’d be safe.”

You shook your head, but didn't reply.

Deep down, you know there’s no use even entering that debate with him. Only Bruce would look at a creature like you and still see you as worthy of anything beyond a stake through the heart.

You didn’t want to ruin the moment, and your hunger for him was still pulsing in you.

Your fingers found the waistband of his pants, testing the waters.

“Come here,” you commanded, voice low.

He obeyed. Of course he obeyed.

You methodically undid his pants, then pushed the fabric down before carefully laying him on the cold concrete floor.

You straddled him, feeling his body shift beneath your touch, and shoved your tongue into his mouth with fervor.

His tongue moved in equal desperation, hot, wet, intense… the contact making him hard against you again, his whole body reacting to your initiative.

He moaned into your mouth as you guided his hand to your breasts, feeling your nipples harden under his touch. Bruce’s fingers moved with initial hesitation, then growing confidence, teasing the reactions that made you sigh against his lips.

“Fuck…” he gasped quietly as you freed his cock from his underwear, fully erect, pulsing against your hand.

You teased the tip with your thumb, before starting slow, deliberate strokes. He was already leaking pre-cum, each groan resonating against your skin.

The next kiss you placed on his lips was sweet and innocent. The opposite of what you were about to say.

“Can I drink you again?”

Bruce nodded. “Please.”

You adjusted over him, letting your pussy swallow him completely.

The heat of his body against yours, the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat, the low moans of pleasure, all of it filled your senses.

“Oh, fuck, you’re so–” Bruce moaned, head tilting back, eyes half-closed, lost in pleasure.

You began to ride him slowly, rolling your hips deliciously, feeling every inch of him inside you. The contrast of the hard concrete and the warmth of your bodies only intensified the experience, every thrust tracing a map of desire only the two of you knew.

“You… drive me crazy…”

“Fuck… Oh… Don’t stop…” he gasped, thrusting his hips upward against yours.

In… Out… You bit your lip. He was so, so good. Sweaty, disheveled, makeup smudged under his eyes. You could keep him here for hours, consuming him, dominating him, feeling him completely surrendered. Fucked by you over and over.

Bruce wrapped his arms around your back, pulling you closer, pressing your body to his chest. You leaned forward, lips tracing his jaw slowly, leaving thin trails of saliva down his neck.

Your fangs sank into his skin at the same time his cock hit that perfect spot inside you. The flow of his blood was ecstasy, spinning your head with every muscle-shaking surge of adrenaline.

You sped up, fucking him hard, feeling every moan escape his throat and every squeeze of his strong hands on your back. Bruce was flushed, breathing heavily, and you had to force yourself to release his neck before losing control completely. But your tongue found the wound sill bleeding, and you surrendered to the sensation. God, you were addicted to him.

“Fuck… you’re so… so good…” you gasped, whining.

With every thrust, you wanted more: to bite his collarbone, his abdomen, his thighs. To drink every drop of him, make him drink of you, take him into the endless forest of immortality where you could revel in darkness forever, sharing all the secrets only eternity could teach. To make the only thought in his mind be you, you, you.

You barely noticed your climax approaching again, only realizing it when you buried your face in his hair, hiding, as uncontrollable moans rose in volume.

Bruce softly called your name, fueling the fire inside you even further. A ball of heat swelled deep in your body, almost unbearable. You knew he was close too. You wanted him to join you. In every way possible.

“Bruce… Please—” you begged, voice trembling.

You begged? Was he hallucinating?

“Please, please, I need you… come with me, come inside me, please—”

You didn’t need to say anything more.

His lips found yours again, sweet like an eternal promise. His fingers sought your clit, guiding you through your climax as his final deep, firm strokes drove into you. His hand trembled as he came first, but your own orgasm followed soon after.

Your pussy clenched around him in spasms, as you gasped and whimpered over him, completely surrendered.

He held you tight, anchoring your still-trembling body. Stars danced before Bruce's eyes as his muscles relaxed fully.

When he pulled out, the hot fluids ran down your thighs, leaving the two of you and the floor a messy, intimate chaos.

You stayed like that for a few minutes, bodies pressed together, absorbing each other’s warmth and presence. Your gaze flicked to the scattered papers of his plans, fallen amid the mess. Bruce breathed deeply beneath you.

Finally, you slid off, lying beside his heated body. He turned his head toward you.

“Stay. Just for tonight.”

The words came out too easily. He expected you to refuse, but you curled against him, clinging to the warmth of his skin. Bruce knew you couldn’t feel cold, but he still laid his cape over you like a blanket. You closed your eyes, long estranged from sleep, and let the steady beat of his heart anchor you.

“You’re staying too?”

He entwined his hand with yours, pressing it to his chest.

In the absolute silence of the cave, he answered with a single word: