mads 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖

i caught you looking back, so let's go.

'jason makes a mean pasta' he knows this, everyone does, however, its different to hear it coming from you while he's outside your apartment window — not in a weird way though! he lives here! you just happen to be having a girls night and bursting in with his red hood gear doesn't sound like a plan.

pairing. jason todd x fem!reader wc. 2.4k warnings. alcohol consumption (wine), maybe MAYBE ooc!jason todd pretty please forgive me if thats the case i swear i tried my best, english is not my first language a/n. first fic!! might delete later!! also my first time writing in present tense lol i always use past but i wanted to spice things up a bit. enjoy!!

dividers by @/pixopix

“Jason makes a mean pasta.” You groan at the memory. Everyone else in your living room enthusiastically agrees, voices mixing with some soft jazz playing in the background.

Patrol had been uneventful, as uneventful as a night in Gotham could be. Perhaps that’s what got him to clock out from his shift earlier than usual without taking into account the girls’ night you are hosting in your shared living room.

“tell ‘em no carnations at my funeral. fuckin’ hate those.”

you sigh, for what felt like the millionth time in past three days. “simon—”

“and promise me you’ll at least wait a couple of decades before finding someone else.”

“simon, for the love of god, you’re not dying. just drink the damn soup.”

he scrunched his face as if he had been deeply wronged by you, but he drank the soup from the spoon you had held near his mouth anyway, moaning and groaning after the slightest movements. “you did not answer me, lovie. how long would you wait before finding another man after i am gone?”

simon had caught common cold and it happened three days ago. he had come home after running some errands and later, the same evening, the nasal congestion happened, and then the sneezing. oh god, the sneezing. he drank hot tea and had slept on the couch that night so you wouldn’t catch cold too. he said it’d go away soon, that it was nothing.

only, it didn’t go away. next day, he came down with proper cold. tiredness, headache, sore throat, light fever, cough—all that stuff.

and if simon wasn’t the most dramatic version of himself while he was sick. it was a new experience entirely, watching the big, serious guy act like spongebob once he got sick. simon hadn’t fallen sick before. not that you had witnessed anytime he did. but now that he did, you were seeing a totally different side of him.

he’d been acting as if he had a terminal disease instead of common cold. it was adorable in a way, really.

“hmm, let’s see… perhaps a year, i think?” you say, trying to hold back a smile. if he was going to be dramatic, you were definitely going to play along. “appropriate mourning period.”

“a year?”

“i mean, i am quite young, no? can’t give up on love this young,” you explain, holding another spoonful of the warm soup near his mouth, which he slurped gently. “a woman has needs, after all.”

simon looked at you for a few seconds as if you had betrayed him, and then he pulled up the covers a bit, trying to get inside those fully and lay back down on the bed. “i’ll come back as a ghost to haunt that man.”

now that almost makes you huff out a soft laughter, but you control it. “two years is the max i can do, love,” you say, trying your best to sound earnest, though you were miserably failing trying to hold back a smile.

“i don’t like the thought of dying anymore,” he replies finally, sounding as though he had uttered those words after a lot of thinking, and laid back down on the bed. there even was a soft, pout on his face, as if he was deep in thought. it was all so comical.

“that’s what i’ve been telling you for the past three days—and no you can’t go back to sleep just yet,” you reprimand him mildly, splacing the cup of soup back on the nightstand before pulling him back up using all your strength. “finish the soup first, it’s warm, good for the throat. then you have take the meds.”

“but lovie―”

“simon.” you just had to act strict to get him to listen. after he had finished the soup and taken the medicine, you fluffed up his pillow and let him lay back down on the bed.

“sleep tight, love.” you press a kiss on his forehead, tucking the hair strands back so they don’t fall on his eyes.

you were just about to leave the room before he spoke up, voice hoarse and raspy due to cold. “lovie ’m fucked, nose‘s so blocked… can you spoon me? need yer hugs and kisses...”

you smile warmly at his request. there was a high chance you would catch cold too, but fuck it. it was just a cold. you could recover from it in a week, max. after all, it’s not everyday you get to cuddle with a dramatic simon. “sure thing. but no more talks of dying, okay?”

“mhm.” simon nods obediently, shifting aside on the bed to make space for you. and when you settle down beside him, he rests his head on your chest, finally content.

suddenly, he raises his head up to look at you. “to be clear, you were jokin’, right?”

“yes,” you chuckle.

When you are ovulating, Simon’s cock weeps from overstimulation, but he never complains.

You’ve been riding him for who knows how long, and he’s on his… actually he can’t even remember how many times he’s cum. You’re feral, truly feral, bouncing up and down his length, sitting down fully until his tip is pressed against your cervix and leaking precum. Grinding down on him, your hands fall to his chest, digging your nails into his skin to steady yourself as he writhes beneath you.

He’s a whimpering, whining mess, cursing under his breath, with his eyes rolling to the back of his head when your pussy clenches down on his length. Every time your ass slaps against his thighs a breath of air is knocked from his lungs, leaving him gasping and clutching the bunched-up sheets around his limp body.

“C-can’t take anymore l-lovie,” he stutters, placing both hands on your hips, but instead of moving you away, his own hips buck up just to feel more of your warm, wet walls around his aching cock.

༊࿐⠀ ׅ⠀ㅤ ¹⁸⁺ 𝓢imon 𝓡iley fucking you on a rooftop during a mission ₊ ˚ ⊹ 𝔀arnings. rough pronebone. dubcon. graphic depiction of violence. hair tugging. power dynamics. slight manhandling. ❛ 26 © 𝓵eons𝓫rat.

the mission is an agonizing slow burn. hours dragging on and spent in the same prone position on a gritty rooftop, the world reduced to the circular view through your scope. simon is beside you, a silent, hulking shadow meant to be your spotter. but you can feel his eyes on you, and they’re not watching the street below.

you’ve been in this position for so long your muscles ache, but the tight fit of your cargo pants as you lie on your stomach is apparently doing something for him. you can feel the heat of his gaze burning into your ass, a tangible weight. you hear the soft rustle of gear, the subtle shift of his body closer to yours on the rough surface.

a rough, gloved hand lands on your hip, not to steady you, but to hold you in place. it’s a silent question you’ve both answered a dozen times before. you don’t move from your scope, but you feel the air shift as he unbuckles his belt, the rasp of his zipper a deafening sound in the tense quiet. his hand moves to the front of your pants, popping the button with practiced ease before dragging the zipper down. he pushes the rough fabric of your pants and underwear down your thighs, exposing you to the cool night air.

you don’t flinch when you feel the blunt, wet head of his cock pressing against you. he doesnt waste a second, just shoves himself inside, a slow, thick stretch that makes your whole body clench. he’s so fucking big, a heavy, aching fullness that immediately starts to throb deep inside you.

“focus,” is all he grunts, his voice a low, gravelly rumble right next to your ear. it’s an order. stay on target.

he starts moving, and it’s all so raw. a hard, messy rhythm that slams you into the cold concrete with every thrust. the wet, sloppy sound of his hips hitting your ass fills the air, a disgusting, perfect counterpoint to the quiet phut of your silenced rifle. your body is jerked forward with every single thrust, the recoil from your own shots a dull thud against your shoulder in comparison. his gloved hands grip your hips, holding you down, using your own body as leverage to drive himself even deeper.

you spot quick movement. a tango rounding the corner. you adjust your aim, the crosshairs wobbling for just a second as simon’s cock rams deep right into your cervix, a bruising impact that sends a shockwave of pure, painful pleasure right to your brain. your vision whites out for a second, a hazy, pleasure-fucked blur. you squeeze the trigger. the body drops.

his pace gets rougher, sloppier. he’s fucking you like he’s trying to leave a mark on your cervix, each thrust deeper and harder than the last. you can feel his sweat dripping onto your back, hot trails that snake down your skin, mixing with the grime on your gear. his dick is just a thick, penetrating presence inside you, relentlessly pounding that same spot until you’re sure you’ll be sore on the inside. a low, aching throb starts deep in your gut, a constant reminder of how completely he’s filling you, stretching you past your limit.

he lets out a rough grunt, the sound muffled by his mask, and his thrusts get frantic. he’s close. his hand comes up, slamming your head down for a few brutal thrusts, his gloved fingers fisted at the base of your skull as he grinds your cheek into the gritty roof. the second his hand moves back to your hip for more leverage, you wrench your head back up, pressing your eye to the cold rubber of the scope just in time. another tango. you quickly line up the shot, your whole body shaking from the force of his fucking. you fire. the enemy falls just as simon finally goes over the edge, a ragged, choked-off noise torn from his throat right against your neck.

he gives one last, impossibly deep thrust, holding himself there as his hot cum floods your womb, a thick, scalding release that makes your orgasm crash over you in a wave of static. for a second, he’s jus still on top of you, his ragged breaths ghosting over your skin.

then he pulls out in one slick, wet motion, the feeling of emptiness almost as shocking as the feeling of being filled. you hear the rasp of his zipper, the click of his belt. you manage to pull your pants up, your hands shaking slightly as you fasten the button and zipper.

you look back through your scope, scanning the empty street.

“street’s all clear,” you murmur into your comms, your voice surprisingly steady.

“good work,” he replies from beside you, his voice nothing but cold, flat professionalism. as if the last few seconds never happened.

BAREFOOT IN (THE) PARK (ROW) . bruce doesn’t submit to anything, really. pairing ! bruce wayne x fem!reader wc ! 6.6k warnings ! nsfw. porn with plot. sorta ooc bruce in a way... dom/sub dynamics – bruce is the sub in this instance – implied subspace and the fear of it? discussions around control, nicknames used include : brat, doll, baby, good boy, sweetheart, my man (towards bruce) honey (towards reader) clothed cunnilingus + fingering + dry humping + handjob + spit kink + titplay + dumbification if you squint?

🗒️ this fic is so dialogue heavy i hope it turned out how i intended, inside me there are two wolves, secretary (2002) and barefoot in the park (1967) rip robert redford this one’s for you 💔

now playing ! blues for paul — neal hefti 🎧

“That’s why I broke up with you.”

Across from you, Bruce’s lips halted mid sip of the complimentary glass of water that was placed on the table moments prior, your words ricocheting off the rim like a bullet. A BB-gun’s bullet, at the very least.

Tonight you were dining at Park Row, the playground for Gotham’s finest stuffed suits and powdered elbows where everything was curated to please the eyes and tease the palette.

The furniture was velvet, the tablecloths burgundy, the windows floor to ceiling and the jazz soft and non-intruding; hell, even the lighting managed to match the waiters’ uniforms. Park Row, with its light chatter and the occasional guffaw of wealth which sat oh so high up in Wayne Tower if not to stroke the egos of those who dined here but to keep the city’s most powerful close to the man whose name was on the building.

Close to Bruce Wayne, the man who sat across from you, who was another man, or rather another thing entirely.

“Bruce?” You called to him, peeping over the menu book in your hands. Rings decorated your fingers — right index, pinkie, middle, left index, thumb— “Did I shoot the gift horse in its mouth?”

There was a tease in your voice, a sparkly lilt that could placate any lesser man. If Bruce could ever consider himself a greater man now that he was your ex.

Nothing on your left ring finger.

“I heard you,” he replied, placing his glass down on the table. It met the cloth without so much as a thud, and to the untrained eye, it wouldn’t have been obvious that he even picked it up in the first place. “I’m just—”

“Thinking?” The menu snapped shut between your palms. “Oh doll, don’t do that. Bad things always happen when you do that.”

He huffed under his breath, the slightest uptick of the corner of his lips giving him away almost immediately.

“How’s the new job?” He asked, opening the menu in front of him only to close it again, his eyes meeting yours then looking away. Then back to you again when he realized you hadn’t stopped looking straight at him since you closed the menu in your hands.

“We’re touching that territory already? Ouch.” You feigned hurt, pinching your brows together.

How long had it been, really? Three months? Four? You’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be Bruce Wayne’s secretary, always on-call, always available at ungodly hours, always attentive to every detail because that’s just how he liked it and you’d be lying if you said that extra bonus in your bank account at the end of every fortnight wasn’t initiative enough to have his coffee ready at exactly eight o’ clock — black, two sugars, no cream.

“Apologies, I…” He stopped himself, reaching over to take the menu from your hands and placing it neatly on top of his by the corner of the table. He didn’t look at you for that. “I figured you’d want to talk about it, what with your recent promotion and all—”

“Bruce,” you looked at him pointedly and his shoulders shifted. He couldn’t sit much straighter than he was already, couldn’t look any neater and less imposing than he tried to be. “What is this?”

“Two former colleagues having dinner.” He said, plainly. “What else is it supposed to be?” He finally looked you in the eye again.

You met his stare and laughed, an easygoing wrist propped at the edge of the table where your fingers stroked the tablecloth. “Oh, you’re good.”

“It was in the paper yesterday,” he defended. You stared at him for a moment then shook your head.

“And you read the Saturday paper?” You looked at him incredulously, like he’d kicked a dog or something.

“I did.” Liar.

“What, did Alfred bring it to the Master’s dojo with his afternoon tea?” You mocked, leaning forward with both elbows on the table and he grinned despite himself, mirroring you by leaning forward himself ever-so-slightly. “Bullshit. You don’t read the Saturday papers.”

“I do,” Bruce smiled. That same smile that had Senators and oil heiresses weak in the knees, that curve of his lips that could charm the robes off the goddamn Statue of Liberty if you let him get close enough. “I did. You were phenomenal, I’m impressed.”

“Ha! Complimenting me already and it’s barely been ten minutes since I sat down,” you quipped, light and airy with amusement. “Is there a wire under the table? Am I a suspect in something?”

“Have you done something I should know about?” Bruce asked.

His voice was cool and low, almost Bostonian if you weren’t raised in Gotham to truly know that Upper East side cadence that was like Old Hollywood dipped in sex and danger — transatlantic with a side of Wayne.

The smile on his face had long melted to a soft smirk, the kind that was more him than the Bat, you’d realized after orbiting him for so long. He could be fun, too fun sometimes. You would lose yourself. Now you were sounding like him without even meaning to.

“We should order—” You rerouted, swallowing hard and allowing your gaze to dart around the room momentarily.

The table you both occupied — if it could even be called a table and not a secluded booth that provided an ample view of the other patrons — felt warmer, but you’d run hot all your life.

Bruce, on the other hand, was still as neat as always, non-fidgeting, firm. Temperature never bothered him anymore, not since the mountains and the dunes and the jungles whose names you cannot pronounce. He sat unmoving once more in his dinner tux, a deep-black single breasted thing with tailored proportions.

His bow-tie was crooked, completely off-center and leaning to the left. You would’ve smiled if you didn’t already know it was purposeful.

“How’s our son?” You continued, glancing at him briefly as he beckoned the waiter over with nothing but a look across the room.

“Dick?” His head turned back to you, brows easing up from their crease. “He’s good. He’s… better. Blüdhaven’s better.” Your gazes met and neither of you broke it.

“Better for him,” you began. “Or for you?”

“Certainly not better than that new job’s been for you since it took you away from Gotham, I’m sure.” Bruce smiled, so wide your eyes went to the shine of his canines and the jut of his bottom lip where a laugh tickled and threatened to burst.

“What was that, again? ‘Q-Corp’s new Chief Operating Officer is a riot in red Louboutins,’ or did I get it wrong?” He continued.

“Don’t insult me, Wayne.” You laughed. “And those were suede, by the way. Completely different brand.”

“Gianvito Rossi.” A careful tongue licked his lips and he cleared his throat. “I would know, I bought them.” He looked up at you through his lashes, not that he needed to at all but he did so anyway. “But if we’re talking better as in physicality… you look good. You look… you really look well. I’m happy for you.”

Your fingers teased the edge of the tablecloth. “A facade of a facade,” you said. “Is it you saying that, Bat or is it Mister—”

“—Wayne! Lovely to have you dining in tonight,”

The waiter, a long-limbed gentleman who seemed to buzz with energy, approached. He swept up both menus in his hands like clockwork and nodded a soft good evening in your direction before turning back to Bruce. “What will it be for the boss?”

You snickered under your breath and Bruce bit back a smile, leaning back in his seat, way more casual than Mister Wayne, the boss, should be.

“The lady will choose for me.”

Your eyebrows lifted in intrigue, a smirk curving at the corner of your mouth. Across from you, Bruce sat — or rather reclined — with his head tilted back slightly to stare up at you with those baby blues.

Under the table, the point of his shoe brushed the edge of your heel and your eyes narrowed at him momentarily. Foreplay.

“We’ll skip starters for main, I’ll have the loch fyne salmon,” you began, your eyes fixed on Bruce and he tilted his head in a side nod of approval. “Some honey potato croquettes, and an extra spoon for the table. Oh, and Laurent Perrier, please.”

The waiter glanced between the two of you. Neither of you looked away.

“Mr. Wayne will have a scoop of creamed potatoes, a square of butter, four peas,” you said, calmly. “And as much ice-cream you can eat, doll.”

Bruce’s throat bobbed, his lips parting where no sound left him, only a shaky breath.

“Hazelnut,” he finally turned to the waiter, who was staring at him quizzically.

“No,” you intervened. “He’ll have chocolate,” you proclaimed, that sparkly lilt in your voice again as you shot the waiter a small, sweet smile. Enough to placate lesser men. “He likes chocolate more.”

The poor guy tried to look at Bruce but he was already looking back at you, so he nodded and left.

Once he was gone, a wolfish smile was on Bruce’s face. “You scared him,” he said.

“You liked it,” you rebutted. With a raised eyebrow you huffed, “But hazelnut? Are you teasing me?”

“I like hazelnut,” he sat up straight, moving both your untouched glasses of water to the side to get a better look at you. “You know I like hazelnut.”

“No, you don’t,” you leaned forward in the space he created. “They’ve served it at every charity event in Gotham since before you were born so you think you like it, but you don’t.”

“And I like chocolate better?”

“You like what I tell you to like, because you like being told.”

He blinked.

“Yes, Bruce, you like chocolate ice cream more,” you chuckled. “I’ve seen you eat it all the time. You ate chocolate ice cream on our—”

“First date,” he finished for you. “Your lunch break, it was summer,” he recalled. “Robinson Park by the bench near the broken water fountain.”

“You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered,” he said.

You were quiet for several moments, and in that time the waiter had returned with your salmon golden, an icy bottle of Laurent Perrier in its bucket with two glasses and another plate — a scoop of creamed potatoes with a square of butter on top, four little green peas on the side and a fine bone china bowl of chocolate ice cream, there was even a cherry on top.

Bruce looked at you as he took his first bite, the tiny spoon sinking into the ice-cream first with a curve. It was gummy and soft, and he slid the spoonful into his waiting mouth.

Your lips formed a thin line. “Stop,” you said. “Just stop it, you’re ridiculous.”

Mouth full, he swallowed. “What? I’m eating the ice cream.”

“You’re not enjoying it,” your fork idled over your plate. “At the very best you’re pretending to, and it doesn’t suit you.”

He squinted at you for several seconds. “You’re saying I’m a stuffed shirt.”

“I didn’t say that— you can be… fun,” you argued. “Lots of fun—”

“Well, that’s what you were implying, that I’m a stuffed shirt.”

“Can we— enough, of the stuffed shirt nonsense, please,” you sighed. He took another spoonful of ice cream and swallowed it. You rolled your eyes. “All I’m saying is, you’re extremely… certainly… very proper and dignified.”

Bruce barked out a laugh then, the loudest sound you’d heard from him all night. “Proper and dignified…” he repeated, mulling over the words on his tongue.

He picked up a single pea with his forefinger and thumb, popping it into his mouth. “Right, and your new boss? What’s that like for you? Is he any fun? A little more easygoing than dear old me?”

“You are so unbelievably petty, Wayne,” you scoffed. “Is that why you invited me to dinner? To update your file on me in that mental computer of yours, like some…”

“—sort of stuffed shirt?”

“I was going to say jealous freak,” you shook your head. “You really are a spoiled brat, you know that?” Came as a mutter in the back of your throat as you finally dug into your food.

You didn’t see the twitch of his jaw or the way he reached for his other utensil to shovel that ridiculous little pile of creamed potatoes into his mouth. It was almost humiliating.

But it was good, so good, he liked it. He wanted more, of the potatoes he thought, but what he really wanted was more of you. Like this.

“Tell me again,” he said.

“That you’re a brat?” Your eyes flitted up. “Gladly.”

He shook his head, that familiar peek of his canines betraying him. He liked that. “Robinson Park,” he said. “Why you broke up with me.”

“I told you,” you swallowed. “The last time we went, you wouldn’t walk barefoot with me on the grass.”

“In Robinson Park?”

“Yes.”

The bullet had now come from a water gun instead. “Well, there’s a simple answer to that—”

“Oh,” you chuckled. “You finally got done thinking about it? My big, bad, detective…”

“It was seventeen degrees out,” he argued. “It rained the night before, the grass was wet, the concrete was cold, there was even a wind.”

“Heavens forbid! There was a wind,” you laughed. “All very logical, very sensible and very true, but it’s just no fun, Bruce.”

He shrugged, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am a little bit too proper and dignified for you. And maybe you would’ve been happier, like you are now, with somebody a little more colorful and flamboyant— like the geek that runs Q-Corp.”

“Well, it would be a lot more laughs than with the stuffed shirt,” you hummed. He stared at you seriously and you sighed. “But more than that, at least when he wants me to tell him to do something, he actually obeys without shame or performance. In fact, he could probably even admit to liking it.”

“I was never ashamed of you,” Bruce said, firmly.

“No, you were just ashamed of how I made you feel,” you argued back.

He inhaled through his nostrils, then placed the napkin down, straightening in his seat as if his spine could get any straighter. “When else was I so proper and dignified that I rejected you?”

“Let me think…” You put your utensils down and tilted your head a little to the side, feigning intense thought. “All the time. You’re always dressed right, you always look right, you always say the right things, smile the right way—” you paused to let out a huff of disbelieving laughter. “You’re very nearly perfect, honestly.”

“That’s a rotten thing to say.” Bruce looked down at you.

He didn’t need to feign offense because he felt it. It didn’t matter whether it was true or not. But there were times he thought himself to be a rotten man, so perhaps you weren’t so far off track. A perfectly rotten man.

“B, your bow tie is crooked because you made it that way,” you said. “Your hair is perfect and your suit is perfect and your shoes are so shiny they could be a mirror, but your bow tie is crooked.” Your brows pinched and he closed his eyes momentarily in understanding. “You know, before I went out with you, I thought you slept in a tie.”

“Only for very formal sleeps,” he smiled, just the slightest. “You said I wasn’t a stuffed shirt and that I could be fun, then you said I was no fun.”

“You can be fun sometimes,” you murmured. “When you give in.”

“What’s left when I do?” he asked. “Mr. Wayne? Or…”

“A secret third option,” you raised three of your fingers. “One that’s mine. He’s in there, somewhere.” His eyes followed each ring above your knuckle, crossing a leg over his knee under the table.

Bruce looked down at the half eaten bowl of ice cream, the empty plate in front of him where the peas and potatoes used to be.

He swallowed hard. “I missed you,” he croaked out.

“Did you, really?” you hummed, your brows pinching in faux curiosity. “Say it again.”

He was hungry. So hungry.

“I missed you,” he said firmer. “I did.”

You sucked your teeth. “So that’s why you invited me here.” You lift your head to meet his gaze and a mock pout touches your lips. “So I could fuck you again?”

Your taunts broke the dam. “I couldn’t function without you,” Bruce nearly exclaimed. “The Bat— he exists within structure, order. There’s a routine. You know the job and you know how I am, what I need. But this, Bruce— me…”

“You’re just a man,” you finished.

“A man who needs you,” Bruce reached across the table for your hands.

You let him, your palms pressing under his larger ones.

“I need the coffee at eight, the texts about what to have for lunch, the ties picked out the night before. Hell, tell me to leave you alone, tell me to come find you, tell me to take my shirt off and get on the table. Humiliate me, just don’t—” he rambled.

“Bruce.”

“Fuck, I need you to tell me what you need me to do. I’ll do it. I’ll do anything—”

“Bruce,” you whisper-shouted, eyes wide as you peered at him in the midst of his distress. “Finish your ice cream.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Do I need to repeat myself?”

He was frozen for several seconds.

Then, he uncrossed his legs and reached for his spoon. One spoonful became two, and then three. Soon, he was slouched over slightly, his eyes never once leaving yours where you watched him with your intense gaze.

The more he ate and the more he watched you watch him, he felt a pit swirling in his stomach. Like electricity. That same feeling he gets when he’s ahead of a case, when he knows, when he’s in total control.

“I want more,” his words came muffled after a harsh swallow.

He couldn’t remember what hazelnut ice cream tasted like, but he knew he’d remember chocolate forever. That sweet, creamy, rich flavored treat that left the slightest bitter aftertaste in his mouth as a reminder. He remembered you. He needed you. “Call the waiter over.”

“You want more ice cream?” Your brows shot upwards, all the while your mouth curled in awe.

Bruce only licked his lips clean and looked up at you with that devastating smile. “You said all I could eat, honey.”

Your gaze went shaky for a moment, from his eyes to the waiter across the room as you lifted a finger, then back to his eyes, his hair, his mouth.

“You better eat up, I’m paying,” you huffed.

He grinned around his spoon while hand dipped into his breast pocket. From it, he retrieved his card and slid it across the table. “Sure you are. Tell him to notify my valet, too.”

“Does he still call you Mom?” Bruce asked, twirling the to-go cup of Laurent Perrier in his hand, if it could even be called a to-go cup because it was just a glass of champagne they let him walk out of Park Row with. Perks of owning the place.

The air had a slight chill even this early in Autumn, the warmth of the headlights still fresh on the back of your knees where Bruce had parked the car somewhere by the side of the road below the dilapidated sign suspended over the open gates reading : Robinson Park, The Green Heart of Gotham.

It was well past eleven at night by now, the only sounds heard in the vastness of paved walkways and greenery were your heartbeat and Bruce’s footsteps, each drag of his shoes against the ground flitting towards your awaiting ears. It was the same as you remembered it, except there was no broken water fountain by the bench with the iron plaque bolted into the back marked ‘Wayne’.

“Only when he needs one,” you replied. “I can’t blame him, poor kid. He was so little when I first met him…” Your steps halted by the edge of the fountain and you took a seat on its concrete basin. “Do you remember?”

“I do,” Bruce said. He stopped walking a few steps away, his eyes fixed off in the distance where the path broke off to fork, trees and solitary benches on either side. “You were good with him. I…” he paused to glance at you briefly. “I didn’t always know what to do.”

A soft silence passed between you two. “I still don’t know what to do sometimes,” he admitted. “I didn’t know what to do the last time we came here.”

“Is that why you brought me here?” You looked up at him just as he turned to you. “Not that I’m complaining,” you clarified. “I just figured you would whisk me away to Dracula’s castle across the bridge, we’d make up like old times, I’d be out of town by tomorrow so you wouldn’t have time to say it was a mistake—”

“I changed my mind,” he said. “I wasn’t lying when I said I needed you.”

“But for how long?” you asked. “Just up until I demand too much from you and you shut me out again?”

“The job is unpredictable—”

“The job has nothing to do with you needing me to give you structure,” you watched as his shoulders slackened. “Out there, you control the odds. You’re fucking Napoleon when you’re him. But when you’re mine…”

“I lose myself,” he interrupted.

“You find yourself. Over and over again. So let me show you who you are,” you rose from your seat. “Come here.”

He hesitated. Then he gave in. He reached you, towering over you at his full height like this but still you stared him down.

“Even when I didn’t like you,” your breath came shaky. “I loved you. Even when I didn’t know who you were, I knew you. I know you.”

“I hate it, what it takes away from me,” he sank to his knees, his arms bracketing your thighs. “But I love it. I need you. I need it when it gets my head quiet.” He was almost weeping. “I want it, the way it was all the times before when I lied and said it was a mistake. I want you to show me. I want you to stay— but I don’t know where I stand when there’s no programming, no mission, nothing to overpower.”

“You submit,” you whispered.

Bruce buried his face into your stomach, his nose tickling your skin through the fabric. His grip on you tightened a fraction, brows knit tight and eyes shut near painfully.

You carded your fingers through his hair, leaned down and kissed along his hairline. “My boy,” you whispered to him. “My sweet man.”

With a shaky inhale his lips pursed over your navel first. Then his head went lower, palms going loose around your thighs as his mouth pressed little kisses down its path — your hipbone, the tops of your thighs, the middle, your knees, your calf. He went until he was crouched on the concrete and his lips hovered over your ankle.

You withdrew from him and a sound left his mouth that could make any woman cry. He whimpered for your touch as you staggered backwards to sit down. Bruce straightened his spine and shifted to get up but you stopped him.

“No,” you said and he was frozen in place. “If you want me, crawl to me.”

This time, he did not hesitate.

He let his palms go flat against the rough concrete and he crawled, like an animal, the knees of his tailored suit now scuffed, the palms of his calloused hands shaking with anticipation. When he reached you, you met his eyes, peering down at him as if he’d done something good and not something shameful, degrading.

With a shaky palm, he grasped your ankle. He kissed the skin there softly, then reached for the other and did the same.

“Good,” you repeated to him all the while and he felt the blood rush to his cock as it began to grow in his pants.

When he had one shoeless leg perched on his shoulder and the other cradled in his hands, he looked up at you. “Did I buy these too?” His fingers yanked gently at the shoe straps and you hummed.

“I keep all your gifts,” you said.

Bruce’s eyes darkened further with lust. “I want to give you another,” he said. “Can I give you another?”

You looked at him, waiting. “Please?” he finished, nearly moaning.

You pulled him up by his hair with a tug and he went so eagerly that he stumbled forwards into your kiss. Your tongue slipped into his mouth and he groaned, one hand bracing himself at the edge of the fountain’s basin where you sat.

He kissed you back fervently and you gasped, grasping at him with a madness as you shrugged his suit jacket to the ground.

“Tell me what to do,” he said, breathlessly. “I trust you,” he confessed.

You took one of his hands in yours and placed it firm against your chest where your heart beat wildly. “I’ll take care of you,” you whispered. “No matter how deep you go under, I’ll bring you back. I promise.”

“I want to make you feel good,” he whimpered mid sentence as you slipped his hand under the fabric, his palm meeting the warmth of your breast. Your fingers tightened around him, your smaller digits wrapping around two of his as you maneuvered him like a puppet. His index and middle stroked your stiffened nipple and you sighed.

“Kiss me,” you moaned.

Bruce pushed the fabric of your shoulders and latched his mouth onto your other breast. You arched up against his body and he shuddered at the feel of your thigh brushing his sensitive cock. He lifted his knee to press between your legs and you cursed, bucking forwards involuntarily.

“You’re so beautiful,” He murmured as he sucked each of your aching tits greedily, going from pinching and circling each nipple to repeating what he’d done before. “I’ll be so good for you,” his mouth travelled hot and needy down your body while his knee thrust against your clothed pussy, over and over in a steady motion and hard against your needy, hidden clit.

He rucked your clothes up to your hips, the chilly air against your core making you shiver with even more need.

His knees hit the ground once more and his tongue flattened against your pulsing cunt. With his tongue, he licked fat stripes up and down over the lace of your underwear, gathering your wetness and spreading it, adding his own saliva to the mix.

You swatted his hand away when he reached for the waistband. “Leave it on,” you told him.

Bruce kissed your leaking pussy through your panties, puckering his lips and sucking at your folds, his tongue thrusting against the throb of your clit and the outline of your tight little hole.

You grasped his face in your hands and he whined from the loss. “Open,” you said, gripping his jaw with one hand, your thumb teasing the swell of his bottom lip. His mouth opened and his tongue lolled out obediently. “Don’t swallow,” you gathered the spit in your mouth then spat a stringy glob onto his tongue.

His adam’s apple bobbed as a broken noise leaked out from the back of his throat.

“Fuck,” your eyes rolled back when he spat it back onto your lace-clad cunt, the fabric darkening even further from the wetness.

“Use your hands, doll,” you cooed at him and one of his palms left where it was fondling your breast, pressing tight against the front of your panties as you ground forward, riding his hand back and forth.

“So good,” Bruce let out a guttural groan, letting both his hands slip under the fabric.

He teased his left middle finger over your hole, circling it slowly then rough, sliding one finger in and then two, your back arching as you sat up, bent over him. “So fucking wet— they just go right in—”

“Bruce,” you called out to him in warning, grounding him, and his waiting mouth latched eagerly onto your hanging breasts. His other hand ground over your clit with rough, steady rubs, the harsh squelch of wetness echoing in the darkness, nearly blending in with the rush of water from the fountain

“Ah— shit, yes! like that—” you cried.

He grinned like he’d won a prize at the State Fair. The swell of his cock was painful and he leaked more pre every time he heard the noises you let out.

He wanted more.

“Fuck me,” he said. His fingers withdrew from you and pushed your panties down halfway as you seized from the loss. Before you could rear on him, his head was between your legs and your head drooped backwards with an open mouth moan for more.

More. More. More.

His tongue dragged up the expanse of your inner thigh, lapping up at every bit of slick that had escaped. “Taste s’ good…. so good.”

Your eyes watered and your finger reached down to grasp his throat. “So good, dolly, keep going, keep fucking me like that— you’re doin’ so good for me—” the babbles rushed from your throat as your hips twitched against his mouth, thighs locking up around his head.

His pace stuttered as he slithered the slick pink muscle of his tongue into your weeping pussy.

“F-fuck—fuck me,” he choked out, coming up for what little air he could get, his eyes welling up with tears, those baby blues shining up at you in the dark. “Harder,” he whimpered and your grip tightened.

His cock jerked against your leg as he dipped his head down once more, his tongue fucking into you while you fucked back onto his palm grinding against your clit.

“I’m gonna cum!” you gasped, the pressure on your clit feeling white hot, his tongue burning your insides. “Bruce! Bruce! Bruce!”

You shrieked, back bowing at an awful angle, a gush of cream trickling from your sensitive pussy as you writhed and heaved for more air, your grip on his throat going slack.

Bruce buried his tongue impossibly deeper into you, licking up the mess of your orgasm with muffled little moans of his own, disoriented and uncontrolled.

Slick ran down your thighs and the air made it feel colder. A chilly wet spot on your leg had you finally looking down, only to see where Bruce’s cock tented in his pants, grinding through his own orgasm, sticky cup seeping through his pants and onto your leg.

“Oh, Bruce…” you cooed and he answered with a soft suck at your overstimulated clit. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

He withdrew with a wet pop! a harsh squelching sound echoing as he withdrew his fingers too, and your thighs trembled from the loss. Looking up at you, his eyes were watery and his lips pretty, pink and swollen.

“Are you okay?”

“You were so good,” you whispered, taking his hands and pulling him up to where you were. His knees wobbled slightly from having knelt so long but he endured. “My sweet man,” you cooed. “You did so, so good… you made me feel so good…”

“Can I?” He looked at you, his gaze drifting down to your lips. “Please?”

You hummed and pulled him down onto you, your mouth melding into his. His brows knitted together in pleasure and his hands ran up and down your sides then snaked around your back, pulling you tighter against him, you hugged him back, withdrawing from the kiss to suckle at the sweet spot just below his ear.

He called your name but you shushed him softly.

“Don’t worry about it,” you whispered. “Let me take care of you… remember what I said? Just submit. Let it all go...”

Bruce let out a heavy, shaky breath.

You pushed him down and climbed on top, his back catching against the edge of the fountain before he straightened himself to sit upright. As you straddled him, he felt his cock jump, the sensitivity had him biting his lip so hard he nearly drew blood.

“Be good for me,” You kissed his throat, your fingers undoing the topmost buttons of his shirt first. “I want you to make noise, so make noise when I make you feel good, okay?”

He nodded in response and you looked up at him.

“Your words.”

“Yes—yeah, I will,” he stuttered out. He cleared his throat. “I can do that. Just… go easy.”

You smiled wickedly, then hummed. “Mhm, ‘course I will, you promise to be good, don’t you?”

“Always good for you,” he nodded.

You eased your palm down over the leaking swell of his cock through his pants. Smiling, you felt him twitch against your hand, swelling still.

Slowly, you unbuttoned them, pulled down the zipper and watched as he sprung free, the tip of him rosy and leaking at the tip.

He called your name in a half whimper.

One of your hands wrapped around the length of his cock and he inhaled harshly. Slowly, you began to stroke him up and down, up and down, keeping the same torturous pace.

“Ah, fuck— that feels good…” Bruce threw his head back and moaned.

Your other hand found his hair and yanked his head back up, forcing his gaze to where you were jerking his cock in your fist.

“Don’t look away from me,” you commanded. He whimpered, his hips bucking upwards and you pulled his hair harder. “I thought you said you could be good, doll?”

“I—hah! fuck— I can…” he heaved. “I can, I can!”

“But you’re breaking your promise, Bruce…” you feigned a pout as you jerked him harder, your thumb swiping over the tip of his cock and tightening at the base, fresh ropes of precum dripping down to your wrist. “Tell me what you want, ask me for it nicely and I’ll give it to you.”

His eyes squeezed shut and he forced his hips to keep still while his abdomen burned with approaching release. “Want…” he cried, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes.

You pulled his hair again and they shot open with a chorus of uh! uh! uh! rushing from his lips, the wet, schlick sounds of you fucking his cock in your hand matching the tempo of his moans.

“Wanna cum— fuck, can I cum? Please, let me cum, baby…”

“Should I?” you sighed.

“Please.” He looked up at you with a trembling bottom lip. “Please— ugh, fuck! ‘s good… so good, I can’t— can’t hold it, I need to cum!”

You twisted your wrist, your swollen, used pussy snug against his thigh, and he grinded it upwards to appease you, your mouth slipping open in a quiet moan. “Spit,” you told him and he did, the glob sliding down the length of his shaft as your strokes grew sloppy.

He shuddered through a full body cry when you rubbed the tip. “That’s it…” you leaned forward to kiss his neck. “Hold it for me, just a little longer… you can do it, Bruce… you’re my good boy,” you whispered.

He whined. “I’m… I’m your good… good boy— fuck, I can be good.”

“So good,” you affirmed.

His cock twitched in your hand and you kissed him, your fingers reaching for his throat while your pace grew rougher, faster, untamed. His moans were muffled against your mouth as you choked him tight and you swallowed each and every one until his hips jerked up, hard and you whispered, “Cum, baby, cum for me.”

“Shit— I’m cumming!” he groaned, long and loud, his hips jerking up in hard thrusts, spurts of his hot, creamy cum shooting out and making a mess of his lap and your hand.

You stroked him through it softly, slow, squeezing gently from the base to the tip as he spilled more.

It took several seconds before he could even breathe properly, and even then his chest still felt like he’d been hit by a freight train.

“Christ…” he heaved, head lolling back farther than he anticipated, and he lost his balance, already dizzy from his orgasm, slipping against the edge of the fountain and splashing his head against the water.

He clutched you tight against his chest, and when you realized what had happened, you roared with laughter. “Oh my god…” you huffed between chuckles. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t.” Bruce shut his eyes tight, trying his best to salvage the rest of his remaining dignity by at least buttoning his pants.

You shifted on top of him, snickering behind your palm.

“How did it feel?” you asked softly.

His eyes opened a fraction and he looked up at the sky above you both, at the vast open stars that held alien civilizations and monsters unknown but stars, and the sun, and things he would never have to meddle with. Things that never relied on him to exist.

“Like catharsis,” he whispered. “Fuck me like that again, I might die.”

“Learned something?” you teased, tracing a finger over the buttons of his shirt.

“That I can step outside of my body, yes. And…” He reached a hand to the back of his head and gathered some of his hair in a hand, wringing it out like a wet cloth. “That it doesn’t hurt…giving control up for a change.”

He looked up at you.

“Did I catch you good enough?” You whispered, cupping his cheek with a palm.

“You did,” he whispered back. He sat up and pulled you into his embrace, reaching for his discarded suit jacket and draping it over your shoulders. “I want you to stay.”

“Does this mean we’re back together?” You bit back a smile and he huffed at you in mock offense. “What?”

“We were back together when you showed up for dinner,” he claimed. “I’m surprised you didn’t call the Q-Corp geek to inform him that you’ll be tendering your resignation soon.”

“And what? Go back to being Mr. Wayne’s hot secretary?”

“I wouldn’t say it like that, though I do agree about the adjective,” he shifted to stand and you followed, grasping onto the hand he offered you. “I was thinking you’d be my Chief Operating Officer.”

“What?” You wobbled on your feet, partly due to shock.

“Wayne Enterprises.” Bruce only shrugged. “It’s there if you want it, but you don’t have to…”

The way he looked away for a moment gave him away. A sap.

“Well,” you pursed your lips to hide your amusement. “Q-Corp does pay well. And the work environment is really suited to my standards of feng shui—”

“Your standards of feng shui?” His brows pinched in disbelief. When he saw that your lips trembled and you couldn’t hold your laugh anymore he rolled his eyes. “Right, feng shui. Silly me.”

“Bruce, don’t brood,” you shoved at his shoulder playfully but he stalked off down the concrete path without you.

You stood behind and watched him with the weight of a thousand giggles in your chest.

Then, he stopped halfway, reaching down to kick off his shoes. Soon, his socks were coming off too.

Your eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

Bruce Wayne turned to face you, and halfway down that concrete path he shouted to you, “Honestly? I just feel like walking barefoot in the park all of a sudden!”

The movie hums on, unwatched, a blur of colour and laugh tracks you both ignore. You're curled into Jason's side on the couch, his arm draped around your shoulders, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your skin. His breathing is steady, his body almost unnervingly warm.

You shift, pressing yourself closer, your thigh sliding between his. He tenses for half a second, then tries to force himself to relax, but you feel the subtle hitch in his breath.

"Jay," you murmur. It comes out softer than you intended.

He swallows. "Yeah?"

You hum as you tilt your head and press your lips to the corner of his jaw, slow and deliberate. He shudders, his hand tightening on your shoulder, and when you pull back, his eyes are already darker—glossier, half-lidded with desperate want.

"You sure?" he asks, voice low. "We don't have to—"

You kiss him quiet.

His mouth parts against yours, a shaky exhale escaping him, and when your tongue meets his he groans like it hurts. Your nails scratch lightly against his pale skin, breath shuddering as he gives in, letting out a quiet whimper.

"Fuuck—my god—jesus, fuck—" He doesn't manage to get the next word out. His head tilts back as he keeps going, hips rolling in an uneven, desperate rhythm with the flushed tip of his cock twitching against the friction of cotton and denim. His skin is red hot and ever so slightly tear-stained, his eyes glossy and lost in the pleasure he's grinding out of this moment. He's so darling like this, letting out quiet, shaky whimpers with every grind.

"Sweetheart, wait—hold on— gonna—" Despite his words, he can't stop himself from continuing to rut his hips into yours. He keeps going, shuddering through his orgasm, his body tensing before slowly going slack under you. His pants grow damp with spurts of hot cum, coating the fabric with his release. 

You stare at him, your own arousal still hot. "Did you just...?" you ask, and your voice sounds thick even to your own ears. He looks up at you, eyes fucked-out and lashes clumping together with tears.

He's panting softly, eyes glazed over as he answers, "I'm sorry, I—"

You cut him off with a soft kiss. "Don't be," you whisper, fighting the smirk threatening to form on your lips. 

jason who started smoking when he was a preteen in crime alley, and picked it up again once he became lucid after the pit. it helped him feel normal after returning from the grave; a rare connection to his life before. that, and the nicotine soothed his frayed nerves.

he knows it’s not good for him, honest! he won’t argue with you on that. it just feels too good; it’s too easy to lean on it when things get stressful. they call it a crutch for a reason.

you weren’t sure whether you approved of his ‘habit’ (admittedly he does look sexy), but all of his ashtrays were sterile and lifeless — colourless glass or featureless aluminum. the least you could do was bring some joy into it. one day while thrifting, you’d come upon a little glass ashtray, pink and heart-shaped.

a soft laugh rumbled from his chest when you gave it to him. “thought you didn’t like me smoking, baby,” he remarked wryly, turning it over in his hands. he planted a kiss on your temple and vowed to use it until he smoked his last cigarette.

𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐒

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 ✷ established relationship. domestic arguments. fluff & angst. financially reckless behavior. independent!reader. morally gray income sources. soft!red hood. bickering. slightly clingy jason. implied violence. criminal interrogation. protective behavior. unhealthy coping mechanisms disguised as acts of service. rich boyfriend problems.

Dating an independent woman, Jason had learned, was an exercise in chronic frustration. Not the exhausting kind—the kind that settled warm beneath his ribs, irritating and addictive in equal measure. The kind that made him want to grind his teeth one second and kiss her stupid the next. Because loving y/n was easy. Christ, it was the easiest thing he’d ever done. Existing around her, however, was another story entirely.

She refused help with the same ferocity Jason usually reserved for gunfights and emotional repression.

And that was saying something.

short | fluff | smut | “wiping my drink after him”

synopsis: you try a trend on jason by wiping your bottle after he takes a sip. clearly he doesn’t appreciate it.

a/n: was supposed to be fluff but i’m freaked out sorry

it’s nearly 10pm when jason comes home from patrol. he had planned to get here earlier and switched his shift with dick all because you told him you finished work.

without even asking if you wanted him to do so, he just did it.

“baby?” he calls out as he shuts the front door.

you’re sitting on your bed, practically buzzing as you’d just been scrolling on tiktok and saw a trend you just had to try on him.

“i’m in here jay,” you reply from your bed, fingers idle on the screen as you quickly place it on the nightstand.

enough to capture the both of you.

heavy footsteps approach the room and he opens the door with sweat wicking his brow. he gives a low hum as he takes on the sight of engulfed in one of his t-shirt, a habit you’d taken when you missed him and wanted him home. curled up in your comforter with just your torso peaking out, jason plops right on top of you. no care in his sweat on your skin now of his weight resting on you entirely. you giggle as you run your fingers through his hair.

“don’t you think you should, i don’t know, shower before you come into bed?” no real annoyance behind your words.

he nuzzles even closer to you, shakes his head in the crook of your neck. almost like he’s motorboating your neck.

“nah, i’ll wash the sheets in the morning. they’ll need it after i’m done with you.”

this photo but its blue collar worker!simon and fem!reader … walk with me.

Tags !! - smut, public sex, spoiled!reader, smut

blue collar worker!simon who loves to spoil his pretty girl. loves to buy you everything you’ve ever wanted; stuff you couldn’t get in your childhood or teens years and then some. loves to give you his hand every time you get up into his lifted truck, even puts his hand on your ass to make sure your skirt doesn’t ride up. jealous man, doesn’t want anyone even getting a glimpse of your round ass. especially not in those frilly outfits you like to wear; the ones with the high socks. if it makes him strain against his jeans, he knows what its doing to men passing by.

almost likes it in a way; showing you off in public whenever he’s able to take you out to nice places. which is often. puts his whole weeks worth of paychecks into making sure you’re brought to only the nicest places. and not because YOU demanded it; you asked nothing of him.

you just deserved it. perfect girl.

his perfect, put together little lady that he like’s to ruin at the end of the day.

simon physical cannot get over the way you look spread out on his cock, tight pussy clinging to his cock so hard he could barely move. such a shy girl; can’t even take it in public after all this time.

because blue collar worker!simon riley is a sucker for public sex. especially when you’re all dolled up, and he’s still covered in grease from work. doesn’t even bother washing his hands when he gets home sometimes, just so he can fuck on you and grab at those curves— leaving hand prints.

that and just seeing the physical work on his hands against your soft, plush— and beautifully clean skin. always smelling so good of some sort of perfume or oils.

also; he fucking LOVES when he keeps his belt on, and he just knows you feel it hitting the back of your thigh with every thrust. loves when the sound of his belt buckle and keys are the only sound mixing with the echos of your bodies snapping together, black stained fingers shoving themselves into your mouth so you’d stay quiet.

wouldn’t want anyone finding you in such a humiliating situation, would you, sweet girl?

After the life Simon Riley has had, it’s really not surprising that he just can’t get it up anymore. He’s tried, time and time again, but the blood doesn’t pump through him the same way it did. And it isn’t that he doesn’t have a sex drive, god no, one look at you and he wishes he could fuck you into the mattress until your tears stain the pillows and the only sounds falling from your mouth are screams of pleasure.

You walk around the apartment, his big t-shirt on, no panties underneath, and it drives him insane. You’re an entire decade younger than him, young and sexy, and he can’t help but feel guilty for letting you stay with him knowing that he can’t give you what you want in bed.

It doesn’t stop him from eating you out until your clit is puffy and your walls are rubbed raw by his calloused fingers. When his head is between your legs, he tries, he really does. He gets so worked up, grinding his soft cock against the bed, willing it to get hard so he can fuck you right after, but it never does.

All it ends in is you cumming on his face one too many times and him walking out of the room without saying a word in pure humiliation.

You don’t take it to heart, you know he beats himself up for it, saying he isn’t good enough, that you should find someone who can actually give you what you want and keep up with you at that. Every time you reassure him, that he does satisfy you, that he never fails to make you feel good regardless of how he does it, but it seems to go in one ear and out the other.

But tonight, tonight is different and you will find a way to fuck your man.