MINORS DNI 18+ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ִֶָ🦇་༘࿐
being longtime friends with someone like BRUCE WAYNE grants you special privileges. he doesn’t shy away from your physical contact, he doesn’t subtly squint his eyes at you when you come to touch his arm or drag him away from his conversation. when you holler loftily after him, “brucie-e-e!” he sighs into a polite smile, and loyally awaits your inevitable and eager embrace. alfred playfully ribs him about it, but bruce is quick to dismiss it with a common remark, “she’s just flirting, alfred. no harm done.”
for bruce, friendship with you has always meant blurred lines, but neither of you have really crossed them. sharing a bed after a night of partying just means he looks away when you peel yourself from his expensive sheets wearing a short and thin nightie. you take a shower in his master bathroom because you like it more than the guest - it’s bigger, with more products that “smell like him.” you reason. the two of you have skinny-dipped together, the night air filled with your thrilled squeals when you dared to press your bare body against him and he took it upon himself to dunk you under the water just so you clutch onto him tighter. the circles around bruce, the privileged elites his age, cock their brows and gossip - noting your closeness, even joke that you’d cluelessly share the same fork with the wayne heir if the opportunity presented itself. some speculate you’re obviously after him for his money. bruce is, again, quick to insist, “we’re just good friends - old friends.” because he’s never actually felt the inside of you. adults can have friendships that transcend the need for physicality, he justifies—that is, until you need him.
“brucie…” you croon, and he looks down at you with knitted brows, already delving into the pools of deep sympathy in his chest, the ones that don’t allow him to say no to you, or reassert boundaries with you. you always have a place in his home, and your ankles always have a place on his shoulders. getting you on your back is so easy he had no idea why it took you this long to ask him. all those longing looks, sharing a bed, touching him so casually, you’ve had a little thing for him. now your nails paint pink angel wings on his back while your head sinks into the soft down of his pillows. it’s no secret he’s hung, but now you get to actually enjoy it, the head of him seats firmly inside of you as it pushes out those little sounds, strained and nasally from up in your nose, spurting out of your pouted lips as you clutch onto him like he’s going to disappear.
“relax a little… can you?” that gravelly voice pets the inside of your ear, and while your eyes flutter closed you nod your head. a massive and warm palm spans your pelvis as it comes to press comfortingly against your stomach. “right here.” you nod again, and will the muscles in your legs to slack, resting all their weight on his shoulders. with less stiff in your hips, the unconscious grip in your guts lessens, and when he pulls out you can feel the tangible difference travel up your spine in a powerful shudder.
“oh, my god…” you exclaim in a deep exhale, when he sinks back in, the heel of his hand faithfully applies pressure, the tip of him meeting the roof of you that much quicker. you gasp, biting hard into your lower lip to quiet yourself.
“that’s it…there we go.” he commends in a low voice, and you can hear his smile, his pride. “feels better, doesn’t it?” you resist the urge to roll your eyes.
“oh, you’re always so smug, bruce.” you note, but the winded nature of your tone doesn’t aid your sense of superiority. the corners of your mouth mirror his, and when you’re able to peel your eyes open, you find yourself locking in his gaze. it’s intimate to fuck as friends and commit to eye contact, but somehow it feels… natural with him - easy.
he shrugs, flashing a downturn of his lips. “just trying to help.”
“want to help?” your readjust, raising your neck to bump your forehead to his, picking up his sweaty hair there, peering up into his eyes. “make me cum.”
for @fear-is-truth lowkey 👀.
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