madeinheaven

“And if it’s not her, it’s the dog.” You grumble, throwing your head back in exasperation, but giving Clark more room to suck a hickey into your neck. He bites just right till he’s soothing the pain with his tongue, licking a long stripe back up your neck. 

“Uh-huh.” 

It’s not that Clark doesn’t want to keep talking, but he knows he only has so much time with you. It’s been quickies or risky sexy for the past week. At least Kara is apartment hunting now, but considering he had unrestricted access to you before; now it’s nearly impossible. He’s not sure how much longer he can go on like this. 

Especially now, a hand slotted against your mouth as he ruts into you after pulling as many orgasms he could from you before the throbbing of his cock was impossible to ignore. She’s not home yet. His ears haven’t picked up on the sound of the lock turning, but if his hearing goes so far, he can only imagine hers. “I know, pretty.” He reassures, watching the way your pupils dilate. Your breath comes out of your nose, fast and hard, trying to contain yourself. The room is soft groans, whimpers, his words glide over your skin like a secret. You’ve become so used to moaning Clark’s name like a prayer. “I want to hear you. You know I do.” He grunts, his words accompanied by his thrusts. 

Clark’s hand unfortunately can’t cover the lewd sounds filling the room as your pussy grips him. There’s a small puddle of slick underneath you from the other orgasms he had pulled out of you. There was so much pent up want and need between the two of you. It wasn’t much of a challenge for him. You’re soft and pliant beneath his hands now. “Come on, sweetheart. Give me another one.” He’s pleading, wanting to chase after your release with his own. There was no better way than feeling the way you throbbed around him after an orgasm. Just the right amount of pressure, your body alight from his actions. Your pleasure became his own. 

As soon as you succumb to the pleasure, he’s following soon after you, whispering praises along with his sloppy kisses. “That’s it, that’s my girl.” The squelch from his own spend and yours fills the room as he pushes his come further into you with his thrusts. “Gotta give it all to you. Don’t know when I’ll get a chance to do it again.” And Clark after an orgasm is even more touchy, wanting. His hands teasing your sensitive skin. He’s lost in it. All he can see is you. All he can feel is you.

The hand against your mouth is forgotten, his mouth is slotted over your own instead. You practically swallow his words. His cock is still hard inside of you as he begins teasing the bundle of nerves between you. You’re so sensitive, you hiss. “Clark. I–” 

"God, how many compartments do you need?" you grit, fingers scrabbling for the right seam in his suit. You aren't a stranger to wrestling his cowl off, but it's hard in complete darkness, and you've almost cut yourself on a hidden blade more than once. 

But that's how it always is with Batman. Darkness, danger, a knife's edge between will he, won't he. Schrodinger's Bat, if you will. 

The alley you're crammed in isn't really one. It's a side-street, tucked between a condo and a rowhouse. Clean and quiet, in a way that would be surprising if you weren't in the nicer part of the city that lines the financial district. 

You suppose the night is why he even lets you touch him at all. The myth turned man, right at your fingertips. He sows a line of kisses from the right corner of your mouth to your ear, squirming out of your grip on purpose because last time, he admitted to finding you cute when you were frustrated. 

You had half the mind to gag, and the other half you buried deep into the meat of your brain, where it will rot and follow you forever. The thought comes back now, that maybe he's not that bad of a bad guy. 

(It’s not like you hate him. It’s just…you wish he’d leave some of the fun for you—after all, there’s nothing exhilarating in simple reporting. You want excitement, the thrill of the chase.) 

At least he knows how to push your buttons. 

"Not that hard," he mumbles, lips mouthing at the space behind your earlobe. He's somewhere between chapped and baby-soft, like he sometimes peels the skin off his mouth with his teeth as a nervous habit. 

"It is," you respond, swallowing a sound when he bites. Just lightly, not hard enough to bloom, but enough to remind you. 

It's this cat-and-mouse game you play. The PD gets the whole story before the press can jump because of Batman. Therefore, you're justified in your duty as a journalist—a pillar of democracy—to try unmasking him, no? 

The mission may have run awry, but you're here, and you're close. 

Finally, you find the small flap where his mask detaches from his cape. He helps you with it, considerate for once, fingers joining yours in sliding under the cowl and wrestling it off. 

You still can't see him, but you can feel him. The day-old stubble clinging to his jaw. How his nose has that slightly crooked angle, one you couldn't feel if he had his mask on. The way his jaw works, the way his hair is shorter at the nape and soft at the crown. 

You wonder what color his eyes are, if they sparkle in the light. 

He's never taken his suit all the way off with you. How many scars does he have? Does the suit bulk him up? Is he really that tall without boots? 

And then, quieter in your head...does he have cold feet? You know someone who does, and he always presses them to your warmer thighs. 

You grimace. It's one thing to have a covert, inappropriate relationship with the most wanted man in Gotham, but it's another thing entirely to think about your best friend while participating in said relationship. 

"What are you doing." Not a question, but not a demand either. His voice echoes in the narrow side-street. 

"Feeling your face?" 

"That defeats the purpose of being a mystery," he says, low. Then you hear the rasp of his glove sliding off, and the palm of his hand meets your hip, burning as he nudges the hem of your cardigan. 

(You're again reminded of him. Probably dead in that stupidly large bed in his mansion, snuggling silk sheets and the whole works, completely unaware of what you're doing. He'd chastise you if he found out.) 

Humming, your fingers tangle in his hair. "I have a mystery for you: where's Karate Kid?" 

"Taking a break." 

"Can you respond in more than ten words?" 

"Depends on if we're off the record." 

You hate him. Still, you don't stop him from kissing you again, eyelashes fluttering on the apple of your cheek as he moves back down to your jaw. 

A soft sigh burns through you when Batman's bare fingers find the sliver of skin beneath the hem of your rucked-up shirt, then dip into your waistband—myth and man, all at once. 

Face numb with heat, you just hope no one can hear the night’s silence shattering with your quiet whine of want. 

— 

"Thanks, Alfred." 

You know the tight grin you flash looks more like a grimace, but you have to make do with your thighs that scream with every sore step. 

“He’ll be in his room,” Alfred says, and every muscle in his face stays perfectly still as he folds your jacket over his forearm, giving no indication that he’s picked up on your stiffness. 

But knowing the butler, he probably has—he just doesn’t feel the need to comment. 

The halls, however grand and spacious as they are, have never made you feel small. Though your steps echo as you drag yourself up the darkly lacquered stairs, and the grim paintings on the walls regard you with intimidating glares, the Wayne residence has always felt like a second home. 

It’s awfully drafty, though. You know Bruce runs hot (save for his freakishly frigid feet), but the breeze drifting along the ornate walls is making concern for that poor kid itch at your nape. 

You turn right, go straight until the floorboards make a particularly loud creak, then take a left. It’s a path you could follow by feeling alone, by counting the precise seconds until you can see your best friend again.  

You knock on the bedroom door with firm knuckles and resolve. 

“What.” The word comes out as a low, gravelly rasp, devoid of inflection. 

You scoff, wry. “Did Alfred not bring you coffee?” 

The latch twists with a snick, and the heavy, darkly lacquered door parts from the frame to reveal a scruffy jaw and broad ink-strokes of messy hair falling over an angled brow. 

Bruce glares at you, but there’s no trace of annoyance in those clear blue eyes. Only tiredness; slight relief softens the heavy bags beneath his enviously thick bottom lashes.  

“Woah,” you blurt, instinctively taking a step toward him. “Sheepless night?” 

He just makes this…little rough, careless sound in the back of his throat, letting you in as he sneaks one hand beneath his black silk shirt to scratch his stomach. “Not punny.” 

Ignoring the insult, you pad into his room. It hasn’t changed since the last time you’ve been here—which was last week, as always.  

His absurdly massive bed sits in the middle, more rumpled than usual. It’s a shame that he rarely sleeps here anymore, and you almost feel bad that he prefers to spend his nights in his office (or wherever he wants you to believe). 

Like second nature, you choose the silky cushions of the chaise lounge beside the bed to unceremoniously stretch out across. You won’t disturb that sacred mattress with your outside clothes.  

The curtains are drawn tight, forming a thick armor of velvet over the windows, but Gotham’s pale sunlight still wriggles into the room from above the curtain bar.  

The thousand-threaded sheets seem to shimmer in the dim light, rippling as Bruce collapses onto the bed with a sleepy groan. 

“I take it we’re having brunch at home then,” you say, arranging your limbs so that you’re starfished on the lounge. “Shame…Dick seemed like he was looking forward to soufflé pancakes.” 

“Mhm,” he rumbles, dragging a pillow into his chest. Nuzzles into it, and something in your chest loosens like the first bloom of spring. 

Lately, you've noticed that his typically rigid composure has been loosening. Though the ghosts of his parents' deaths still hang over his exhausted head, he's warmed up in small increments—like now, choosing to lean into his sleepiness rather than pushing past the need to maintain his image. 

But perhaps that's because you've known him for too long. You can see through most of his farces, especially the one he insists on displaying to the wider public. 

You almost scoff to yourself. Playboy billionaire. Who's going to tell the paparazzi that he broke into a cold sweat when you joked about setting him up on a blind date? 

He sighs, all rough edges, tinged with the sweet relief of abandoning pretense. “You can blame Dick for keeping me up last night.” 

“Oh, I couldn’t do that to him.” 

Gazing at you with sleep-softened eyes, Bruce says with a tinge of earnest affection, "I was helping Alfred tend to him. Wouldn't have happened if he dressed warmer like I told him to.” 

“What should we do instead?” you muse, absently running your fingers over the smooth, nearly invisible stitches in the chaise’s upholstery. You’ve probably worn a path along the seam with that habit. 

“Tell me about your week,” Bruce murmurs, voice dipping into gravel. His languid words pour over you, soothing.  “Any scoops? See the Batman again?” 

At the reminder, irritation and something akin to embarrassment (though you won’t assign an official name to it) flares in your stomach. The ache in your thighs and a few tender points along your collarbone decide to flare up, which only serves to fuel your annoyance. 

You exhale hard—not so much a scoff than a careless grunt—and choke back the burning urge to roll your eyes. “Alright, that's just provoking, Bruce.” 

A lazy, almost blasé, hum is your answer. “I thought you liked complaining about him. Beating the dead horse much?” 

"Oh, that horse is rotting," you grit, sitting up so quickly that your vision spins with the elaborate detailing on his dark ceiling. Now that it's come to your attention, you're slowly noticing how the Gothic-reminiscent ornamentation resembles the skeletal wings of a bat, stretching above you in desperate flight. Huh. 

"Do tell."  

You cross your arms and glare at him, but he just lets an amused smirk play at the corner of his chapped lips (though still partially concealed by his stupidly fluffy pillow, which you are suddenly thankful for, as you'd probably just suffocate him remorselessly if you'd been exposed to the full power of his smugness). 

"Remember the gang war lead?" 

"Tied above Main Street with Bat-rope," is the confirmation, followed by a couple of nods that are too solemn to not be teasing.  

"And the whole Joker thing—which, by the way, I think he should investigate why the clown keeps escaping—" 

"—it's ninety percent Arkham Asylum's fault—" 

"—plus when I was actively investigating the Riddler's latest puzzle, but he must've stolen my notes because I swear I was this," you pinch your index and thumb together, muscles tensed for emphasis, "this close to solving it." 

To your ire, Bruce chuckles wryly, and if you didn't know better, you'd say he's dangerously toeing the line of self-satisfied. But that would be crazy...unless... 

No, that's just crazy. 

Right? 

"Well, Batman is the world's greatest detective," he says, following the statement with a smooth card of fingers through his inky mess of hair. 

The motion shifts the collar of his expensive pajamas, making the silk dip to reveal a small circular bruise on his collarbone. It's still reddish and stark against his pale skin, so it must be fresh. Weirdly, you distinctly remember the hard press of the Batman's clavicle against your teeth last night. 

Your own bites pulse faintly again beneath your clothing. 

"There's a reason why Commissioner Gordon—" 

"Is that a hickey?" you interject, your pointer finger flicking out to zero onto it. You scoot to the edge of the chaise, frowning; secretly, you're elated at the chance to pivot away from the subject of Batman.  

Your voice takes a teasing tone as you chuckle. "C'mon, you didn't have to lie about Dick's antics keeping you up. Bruce Thomas Wayne, are you finally becoming the playboy they say you are?" 

You bite back the bitter tang of regret the moment those words escape your mouth. Your best friend can have anyone he wants—he's rich, handsome, generous, caring, and despite what the tabloids spew about him, all of Gotham knows that his intellect is damn near genius. 

And yet the discovery stings. Deep down, you chide yourself for being a hypocrite, for feeling the slight betrayal that Bruce had someone in his bed while you were fucking Gotham's protector (you'll use the word loosely) practically every week. 

But still. Maybe he isn't loosening up. Maybe he's still the same guarded boy he's been for over two decades. 

He huffs softly, the white of his canines flashing at you for a moment. "It's nothing." 

"Nothing," you repeat, incredulous. "You don't think—maybe—that this is a significant milestone?" 

"Pssh, you're acting like I'm some fair maiden." 

Doubling down, you slide off the chaise and kneel by his bedside, folding your arms along the edge of the mattress with a pleading look in your eyes and a sharp grin on your face. "Come on, I'm just curious. I tell you everything, down to my leads and sources." 

Eyeing you from behind the soft armor of his pillow, he responds, "Alright. Why were you limping?" 

Shit. The gleeful journalist in you drops dead on the floor, replaced by the anxious secret-bearer, whose knees are knocking together like the erratic tick of your heart. 

"Almost everything," you correct, grin beginning to wilt into a grimace. 

Bruce just regards you with a stare that is almost cold while exasperation weighs heavily on the thick lines of his angular eyebrows. That damn disapproval lances straight through your heart. Jaw tight, you concede and rest your cheek against your arm, frowning slightly. 

"Fine. Sorry. I shouldn't push," you say with a softer voice. "I'm limping because I hooked up with a guy." 

He...doesn't seem fazed, which throws you off. You've always known him to be protective, even possessive at times; even before his parents were murdered, he kept watchful tabs on his belongings, and he'd know if you shifted one of his toys by an inch.  

Naturally, you'd expect him to show some sliver of alarm between his brows—because if you were limping after sex, that would imply that your partner may have been rough enough to affect your gait—but those faint 11 lines haven't budged. 

In fact, he almost looks smug. Or maybe he’s just gotten better at caring more than he lets on. 

"Your turn," you mumble as an afterthought, cheeks burning hot. If this room were colder, you'd be radiating white coils of steam. 

"I also…was intimate. With a girl," he admits, though he works through his choice of words with a faint wrinkle by the corner of his mouth, like they taste bitter. "She’s nosy for a living." 

Sounds like someone you know very well. 

“You could’ve just told the truth,” you mumble, feeling redundant in your disappointment. 

Flashes of your clandestine meetups with Gotham’s favorite vigilante unwittingly resurface, from the softness of his maybe-black hair to the way you’d know the elegant structure of his cheekbones by touch alone.  

You’ve always wondered what he looked like, yes, but you suppose that imagining it with all the parts you have already memorized is different. But if you could hold up a man to the myth… 

…you might raise Bruce.  

Which is—fucking insane! It’s crazy, and stupid, and a terrible thing for him to do. 

Yet. 

Yet the small, needling voice of journalism rises from the dead. Whispers echo in the caverns of your chest: just follow the hunch, wouldn’t it explain a lot? 

A beat of silence follows as Bruce determines his next words.  

“I didn’t want you to see me differently,” he says, low and earnest. “I thought I had a good thing going. For the first time, I don’t want things to change.” 

Somehow, you get the feeling that he isn’t just talking about his hookup. 

“Plus,” he tacks on, like some afterthought he finds vaguely humorous, “you get all flustered when you need the truth. It’s cute.” 

He admits that in the same tone the Bat admitted it, kissing the side of your neck. 

The world shifts just a few degrees. Like the Earth has been spinning on its axis a little wrong, and you sitting up has made the planet right again.  

It fits so fucking neatly that it’s infuriating. The intricate gadgets. The sleek car, with all its sharp edges and plush Italian leather cushions. The way he always seems to be two steps ahead of you.  

They’re both six-two, ridiculously smart, and muscular. You know Bruce had trained in martial arts overseas; you’re realizing with horror that Dick is about the same age as Robin, and the cold would explain the sidekick's absence last night. 

You deal in facts. In hard, concrete truths and testimonies sworn against perjury. Yet, if you wanted to stick with only the cold facts, you would’ve become a lawyer. 

And there’s the subject of his hickey. The thought of it being you twists something around your ribs, ugly and vindictive and satisfied all at once.  

You should be pissed—no, you should be furious.  

Bruce lied, hid, copied off half of your investigations like a bad high school cheater, and fucked you so good that you’d forget about it. 

Yet the truth just settles deep inside the pit of your stomach, like you’ve known all along but never wanted to believe it.  

Because maybe you’re just as possessive. Maybe you do feel ugly and messy and proud that you’re the one that keeps him coming back.  

“Yeah,” you say after a swallow, gluing your gaze onto him to gauge any reaction. “My guy’s pretty nosy too. A lot more annoying than your girl, probably. Tends to hide important information.” 

“It seems like they’ve got their bad habits in common,” Bruce responds. To any other person, he’d seem unfazed, but you know. 

You know that slight downward twitch of his sharp eyebrows. You know the understated purse of his lips by touch in the dark and visual study in the light. He doesn't quite blink, but his long, dark eyelashes flutter like he's making a conscious effort to keep his mask up. 

“That changes a lot, doesn’t it?” It leaves your mouth less like a question and more like a statement. “Does she mean anything?” 

You lean closer to him, eyes flicking all over the planes of his face until he twitches, one hand curling gingerly around your nape, as if deciding between holding fast or not at all.  

“Everything.” He lets it tumble out, just like that, lets the weighty admission bounce off the mattress like a hand grenade. Too easy, too loaded. “She means everything. I think you know that too.” 

The last syllables are breathed softly against your lips, and his lashes tremble as he searches your gaze with a deceptive calm brewing in his glassy eyes. Like the stillness before a storm, except there's a sort of acceptance thrown haphazardly into the blue swirling around his pupils. 

Understanding. 

“I can forgive the lying,” you murmur, tilting your head just so, nose brushing against his. “And the hiding. But out-scooping me? That’s fucked up.” 

“You’re not even mentioning last night, and all the other ones?” A faint laugh colors the question, blooming in the infinitesimal space between your lips. 

It’s then that you realize you can never be mad at him for too long. He’ll just pull some puppy-eyed shit like this, irresistible charm woven into his forever lingering smirk, and you’ll turn the world just because he’d do the same. 

“Those have been forgiven for a long time.” 

Bantering like this, impossibly close yet too far, comes as second nature. You fall into place like the pieces of his two identities, all neat and simple. 

“Can I make it up to you?” 

You flick your eyes to his Gothic ceiling, where the spiny wings of the bats seem to flutter in excitement. “Since you asked so nicely…” 

Bruce presses his gentle, apologetic lips to the corner of your mouth, then traces your bottom lip with a callused thumb. “Can I kiss you here?” 

“Will that stop making you ask questions like a journalist?” 

A soft puff of air leaves him, half incredulous and all endeared. The thought of that being so enamoring, so magnetic flashes through your mind before he softly places his lips over yours—slightly chapped, warm, and completely familiar. 

You've figured the Batman out and solved the mystery of the century. The victory doesn't taste as sweet as Bruce Wayne. 

Without breaking, he draws you up to him as he shifts onto his back, a rough yet cautious hand on your waist guiding you to shuffle across the mattress on your knees and sit over his hips. 

Your head spins, eyes refusing to open out of fear that this is a dream. You feel the gradual slide of his tongue in your mouth, so unlike the feverish way he kisses you in alleyways.  

A quiet moan of satisfaction rumbles in his throat, and it strikes you in the chest, how he seems to be just the same, yet so different. Or maybe it's because he knows this is tentative, precarious, that it's not as certain as you and his alter-ego. 

You shiver—pliant and wanting in a way you didn't expect from yourself—when he diverts his attention, kissing reverently across your cheek, then expertly down your neck.  

Palms and fingers on your waist, surer this time and dragging your weight against...is he serious? 

You sigh against his hair, putting a little firmness behind the occasional rock of your hips against the growing heat tenting his pajama pants. "Really?"  

He groans at the stimulation, cheeks flushing as he ducks his head down. 

"Ignore it. Just want to stay like this," he mumbles, voice rough. 

You slide a hand into his hair, which is prickly at the nape and soft at the crown (yes, yes, yes), and run the other down from the scruff still clinging on his jaw, to his softly heaving chest, to the hem of his shirt. 

You sneak your touch beneath the warm silk, splaying your hand over the burning skin above his hip. This feels like a blessing, to feel the subtle ripple of muscle instead of a toolbelt and a suit. 

Bruce’s sharp canines nip at your fresh hickeys from last night, to which you wince at the twinge of tenderness and slip your fingers higher to fit into the dips between his ribs—he's a little ticklish there, though you know he lies badly about it. 

Paying you back in double, his hands travel beneath the hem of your own shirt, rucking the fabric up to expose your spine to his exploring touch. Another soft sigh burns through you, though the latter half is swallowed by his lips, all lazy and savoring. 

And this might be better than what you've been doing. There's no more dancing, no more cat-and-mouse.  

There's just you and him, sharing breaths in a sliver of air you're hesitant to widen, learning to orbit each other again with the weight of Batman altering your gravities.  

He rolls both of you onto your sides, wasting little time tangling your legs. He traces shapes into your back, weaving around your spine.  

The world smudges around you. Time swims by languidly as he just…caresses your skin, humming against your lips, bent on appreciation rather than stress relief.  

You’ve never wanted something to stretch on forever so badly. 

Unfortunately, impermanence calls when Alfred—and you know it’s him before he speaks—primly raps his knuckles three times against the door. “Master Dick is stirring. His temperature has dropped.” 

“Finally,” Bruce grumbles. He attempts to pull away but can’t resist another two (or five) quick pecks. “Breakfast for lunch?” 

You smooth your fingers over his head, pressing down the strands that stick out at odd angles from your grip. “Weird, but okay.” 

He calls out, “Alfred, order from that French toast place Dick likes.” 

“Will do, sir.” 

You can practically see the way the butler bows slightly and marches down the hall. Never change, Alfred. 

Bruce glances back at you with glimmering eyes, and his faint smile is too tender to be anything but hopeful, "Stay for dinner, too?" 

You twist your lips, faking pensiveness. “Only if you promise to leave something for me to write about.” 

Wrinkling his nose, he scoffs but makes a point of avoiding your gaze. “When have I ever done that…” 

“Don’t even start.” 

“I'm not,” he chuckles against your lips. It’s signed and sealed with a sweet, chaste kiss.

Oh, your heart sighs in wistful recognition. It’s always been him.

It was huge — a massive billboard hanging above the escalators for a luxury watch brand. Bruce’s face stared down at the crowd, sharp jawline, piercing blue eyes, wearing a tailored suit and a watch that probably cost more than most people’s cars. The tagline read: Time waits for no one. But it looks good doing it. He looked every bit the untouchable billionaire — confident, composed, devastatingly attractive.

You stopped dead in your tracks, eyes wide. “Oh my god.”

Bruce followed your gaze and froze. His hand tightened around yours, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Shit. I forgot about that campaign. It went live last week.”

You stared up at the billboard, then back at him, a slow grin spreading across your face. “You look… ridiculously hot. Like, unfairly hot. Is that even legal?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, ears turning pink. “It’s just marketing. Can we keep walking? There’s probably more.”

You didn’t move. “More? There are more of these?”

Bruce sighed, already knowing he was doomed. “A few. The watch brand wanted a full series. And then there was the cologne one. And the suit campaign for that Italian designer. I tried to get them to pull the mall placements but… deadlines.”

You laughed, delighted, tugging him toward the escalator so you could get a better look. “Bruce Wayne, reluctant supermodel. I need to see all of them. Right now.”

He groaned but let you pull him along, his free hand covering his face. “This is why I avoid malls. I knew you’d make a fuss.”

“I’m not making a fuss,” you said innocently, stopping right under the billboard. You tilted your head, studying the image. “Okay, maybe a little fuss. But look at you. That jawline. Those eyes. The way the suit fits… I’m going to need a minute.”

Bruce’s flush deepened. He stepped behind you, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Immensely,” you admitted, leaning back against his chest. “My husband, the billboard heartthrob. I’m going to take pictures and show them to the kids later. Damian will pretend to be disgusted but secretly save them.”

Bruce groaned again, burying his face in your neck. “You’re cruel. I do these campaigns for the foundation. The money goes to good causes. Not so you can tease me in public.”

You turned in his arms, looping yours around his neck. “I’m not teasing. I’m appreciating. There’s a difference. And you look incredible. But I like this version better.” You reached up, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “The one who blushes when his wife points out his own billboards, who holds my hand in the middle of a crowded mall even though he hates us being recognised.”

He smiled then — small, shy, the kind of smile that made your heart feel too big for your chest. “Only for you. I’d rather be recognized as your husband than anything else.”

You kissed him softly, right there under his own giant face on the billboard. He kissed you back, hands settling on your waist, pulling you closer like the rest of the world didn’t exist. When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his.

“Come on, supermodel,” you said, taking his hand again. “Let’s find the rest of these billboards. I need to see the cologne one. I bet you look edible.”

Bruce laughed, the sound warm and genuine as he let you tug him toward the next level. “You’re going to be insufferable about this for weeks, aren’t you?”

“Months,” you promised, grinning. “Maybe years. I’m framing the best one for the bedroom.”

He groaned but followed you willingly, fingers laced with yours, the embarrassment slowly giving way to quiet amusement. Every time you spotted another poster — him in a sleek suit for the watch campaign, him in an open collar shirt looking brooding and mysterious for the cologne line — you’d stop and make a fuss. Pointing out how good his jaw looked, how the lighting made his eyes pop, how unfairly attractive he was.

Bruce endured it all with a mix of mortification and fondness, ears pink, but never once letting go of your hand. He’d mutter “you’re enjoying this too much” or “I’m never doing another campaign again,” but he’d smile every time you kissed his cheek or told him how proud you were.

At one point, a group of teenagers recognized him. They whispered excitedly, phones coming out for pictures. Bruce tensed, the public mask sliding into place — charming smile, easy posture. But you squeezed his hand, leaning into his side.

“He’s even better in person,” you told them with a wink. “But he’s taken. Very taken.”

The kids laughed. Bruce’s ears went redder, but he pulled you closer, kissing the top of your head right there in front of them.

When the crowd finally moved on, he looked down at you, eyes soft. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” you said, rising onto your toes to kiss him properly. “You’re mine. Billboard or not. I like reminding people.”

He kissed you back, slow and sweet, hands cupping your face like you were the only thing worth holding onto in the middle of the crowded mall. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when you make me blush in public. Especially then.”

You smiled, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I love you too. My reluctant model, husband and my everything.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of shopping bags, shared lattes, and stolen kisses between stores. Every time you spotted another poster, you’d make a delighted fuss, and Bruce would groan but pull you closer anyway, laughing despite himself. By the time you finally headed home, the trunk full of new sheets and blankets and a few silly souvenirs, he was relaxed in a way he rarely was in public — hand in yours, shoulders loose, smile easy.

When you got back to the penthouse, he pulled you into his arms the second the door closed, kissing you deeply, hands sliding under your sweater to rest warm against your bare back.

“Thank you,” he murmured against your lips. “For today. For making it fun. And for… seeing me. Always the real me. Not the.. dumb billboards.”

You kissed him again, slower this time. “Always. I love the billboards. But I love this version more. The one who blushes when I tease him. The one who holds my hand in public even when he hates being recognized. The one who comes home to me every night.”

He held you tighter, chin resting on your head. “I’ll always come home to you. Billboards or not.”

You smiled against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The city hummed far below, but in his arms, everything felt exactly right.

Bruce Wayne might be on billboards across the city. But with you?

He was just your Bruce.

"don't leave, babe," he croaks out, sounding a little groggy and whiny. he snuggles into the crook of your neck, his legs tangled between yours under the duvet. you honestly feel like a flabby doll, letting your boyfriend manhandle you any which way he wants. "you're always so soft in the mornings."

"i have to get up, though," you sigh quietly, conflicted between getting up and facing the day, or staying in and digging yourself further into dick's warm embrace. you know you'll choose the latter. "i have that important meeting, remember?"

dick waves his hand dismissively. "just- ditch 'em. for today," he says, voice muffled, because he's still hidden away in your neck. his hair is soft and a little curly at the ends as you absentmindedly card your fingers through his thick, black locks. "i'm more important than them, anyway, right baby?"

you already hear haley — your boyfriend's loyal pitbull puppy - pad over to your messy bed, settling herself over dick's body. he chuckles to himself, his arm reaching out to give the grey dog a scratch behind her soft ear. "see—? haley thinks you should stay here too. give your bovfriend some well-deserved cuddles."

dick pulls away from your neck, his blue eyes piercing yours. he looks so domestic, and soft, and cute, and absolutely perfect. fuck it, you think to yourself. you're already doomed, anyway. 

Bruce was not particularly excited about this date.

She was pretty, certainly, and the very picture of the kind of woman the media expected Bruce Wayne to date. She (Samanatha? Savannah? He remembered her surname, at least) was a B-list celebrity he had been introduced to at a charity foundation–really, she and her producer had been there to promote her movie more than the foundation.

She was nice enough to make Bruce feel bad about his behavior. Honestly, he hadn’t intended to take her out- it was her producer who suggested it in an email to his personal assistant, offering charity compensation in return for some publicity with his new star. A PR relationship for just one evening. Bruce had been hard pressed to turn the offer down, given he had been out of the public eye for a few weeks at this point. He wasn’t even sure if she knew that her producer had set them up, or if she even cared.

Regardless, he played his part well and tried to push thoughts of the recent case he had been working on out of his head. The tabloids had grown suspicious of his departure from his usual abundance of parties and events.

It was for that reason that he didn’t mind the very obvious photographer standing on the corner of the street. Bruce stepped out of the car and into the street, catching sight of the figure out of the corner of his eye. While he would normally walk around the back of the car, he walked to the front, the side closest to the photographer, this time. He made sure to plaster an excited smile on his features as he opened the door for his date and helped her out of the vehicle. Bruce offered a polite wave to the driver and escorted his date inside, ensuring the photographer could snap a few shots of the two of them.

His date giggled and blushed, having noticed the figure at the end of the street. She wrapped herself around Bruce’s arm as he led her inside the restaurant, her chest puffed out at the notion of the world seeing her on the arm of the billionaire.

He put up his best front during the meal, really. He flirted, teased, listened to her talk about filming her movie–under other circumstances, he may have even been interested, at least for the night. But, Bruce was tired, and was far more concerned about tracing who owned the weapons depots in the Narrows. His thoughts slid back to the case each time until he suddenly remembered to snap his attention back to his date.

Bruce finally excused himself for a moment, after a few glasses of wine and his best attempt at witty banter, and hid in the bathroom for a few minutes. He splashed water on his face and righted his tie before stepping back into the restaurant proper. His date (Sabrina, he remembered) tapped idly on her phone. Her eyes lit up when he sat back down and she turned her screen towards him.

“They sure do work fast,” she joked and presented Bruce with a tabloid headline and photo of the two of them outside of the restaurant. In the image, she spoke animatedly to him and clung tightly to his arm. Thankfully, in the photo Bruce appeared just as engaged.

He cracked a smile and leaned back in his seat, allowing himself to feel a slight sense of relief. “I hadn’t even noticed the paps were there,” he lied.

Weeks later, Bruce spotted the same photographer again, this time lodged in a crowd with several others. It made sense–Bruce had arrived at the new Mayor’s inauguration with Dick in tow. It was rare that he brought his barely teenaged ward into the spotlight, preferring to keep him out of the public eye as much as he could until Dick was old enough to make that decision for himself. That, and it made it easier for Dick to maintain his ulterior identity without interference.

Unlike last time, Bruce made sure to make direct eye contact with the cameras and wave, rather than pretend to be oblivious. He noticed that you, the photographer he scrutinized while attempting to make his gaze look sweeping, had failed to lift your camera. Instead, the object hung limply from the strap around your neck.

Bruce ushered Dick inside Gotham City Hall and turned to face the cameras once more, posing briefly for individual photos with his hand raised in a wave. He noticed that this time you did raise your camera and take a few photos, now with Dick out of sight.

Curious.

“I take it the event well?” Alfred inquired the morning after the event as he placed breakfast (brunch, really) on the table in front of Bruce and Dick.

Bruce shrugged as he plated his food. “Just the usual low-life lobbyist trying to make the Mayor a quick buck. Saw some names associated with Maroni. I figure we may need to look into the Mayor’s recent associates,” he admitted as he tucked in. Dick, cast him a sly grin over his plate of eggs, excited by the prospect. Bruce returned the toothy grin with a thin-lipped one of his own.

“Well, the tabloids certainly appreciated your presence,” Alfred spoke with a mirthful lilt to his voice. He placed a tablet on the table between the pair of vigilantes, displaying recent tabloid headlines. Each of them focused on his boisterous ‘drunkenness’ the night before.

Much to Bruce’s surprise, a few of the headline images depicted him in a different light. The images were almost artistic, rather than the usual grainy, motion-blurred paparazzi images. His eyes scanned the name the images were credited too.

Yours. He hadn’t even noticed that you had been in attendance. He scrolled through the tabloids, noticing your name pop up a few more times under associated images–clearly, you were still working as a freelance photographer, but it appeared you had stepped up your game, so to speak.

He nodded and grunted in acknowledgment through a mouthful of food as he passed the tablet back to Alfred.

Bruce arrived early to the annual Thomas Wayne Medical Foundation fundraiser. It wasn’t often that he arrived early to functions, intentionally so, but this was one that he refused to bring a carefree attitude into. His father and the work he had done for the city deserved more respect than that.

The fundraiser, held yearly at Wayne Manor, had gained more traction this year than it had in previous. More Gotham elite insisted on attending and, as expected, had brought along outside guests. Bruce was fairly certain he had seen some wealthy businessman from Star City included on the guest list–that was certainly a long flight for just a gala.

As a result of the event’s increased popularity, Bruce found himself stuck longer than intended at Wayne Enterprise entertaining investors who sought his undivided attention before the event. Why their proposals couldn’t have been forwarded to his PA or board members, Bruce would never understand.

Regardless, Bruce found himself arriving at his own home for his own party just before the party began. Unsurprisingly, reporters had already gathered on the lawn in the hopes of catching sight of the elites in attendance. Each of them wore lanyards stating which agency they worked for–a few had party access listed on their lanyards, permitting them attendance into the actual party.

The driver halted the car halfway up the driveway and Bruce stepped out with a quiet ‘thank you.’ Guests were already trickling in before the main event began. Bruce adjusted his tuxedo, thankful once again that he kept a spare in his office, and plastered on a broad, charming smile.

Cameras flashed as he approached and he raised a hand to wave politely. They lined the walk towards the front steps in a tight cluster, reporters and photographers alike leaning forward to catch his attention. Bruce warmly greeted those he recognized, particularly tabloid heads-

He paused, surprise taking him for just a moment. You stood at the edge of the crowd with your camera raised and pointed towards him, the shutter rapidly clicking. He recognized you instantly, despite the camera obscuring your face and the more business-attire black dress you wore compared to the casual street clothes he had previously seen you in. You looked striking–the dress hugged you in just the right places and flared in the others. Compared to the gowns other attendees wore, it was nothing to glance twice at, but…

Bruce sidled up to the reporter next to you, letting his eyes glance off of you in what he hoped was a casual fashion. “Hey Arnett. How’s the Post treating you?” he greeted, shaking the familiar reporter's hand.

“Just fine, Bruce, just fine,” the balding man greeted, returning the firm handshake. “Don’t suppose you’d have time for me later?”

“Maybe, sure,” Bruce answered noncommittally as he slid past the man with a wide smile. He paused in front of you and tilted his head to the side curiously. You lowered the camera to reveal a doe-eyed expression, suddenly very aware of the billionaire staring right through your lens. He pointedly looked at your lanyard, taking care to read your name off of it. “Hey, don’t I know you?”

“Uh…” you managed to squeak out and quickly glanced at the reporters on either side of you, as if he could be speaking to anyone else and you were just mistaken.

Bruce buried his hands in his pockets. “Thought I saw your name in the Gazette recently.” ‘Recently’ was a stretch–it was about two months ago at this point that he had seen your most recent photos of him.

You perked up and beamed brightly at him. “Yeah, I submitted a few shots to the Gazette a bit ago. I work for the Gotham Post now, though,” you gestured towards Arnett, who placed his hand on your shoulder and squeezed affectionately.

“Our best photographer, I guarantee it,” Arnett encouraged, giving you a slight shake. You blushed sheepishly and batted his hand away teasingly. “I tell you, Bruce, this one’s got real potential.”

“You flatter me too much,” you protested.

Bruce nodded along with Arnett’s words. “No, I agree. I liked your work.” You brightened even more, softness returning to your eyes at the praise. Bruce tilted his head and tapped his right cheek with a single finger. “I like that you get my good side.”

Your eyes dropped to half-lidded and your smile turned coy. “I’m not sure you have a bad side, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce’s stomach flipped pleasantly. Huh. It certainly wasn’t his first time hearing a line like that form a reporter, but… he rather liked the sweet way you said it. Better yet, you held his gaze firmly as his grin turned wolfish, all teeth and charm.

“Will I see you inside?” he asked, leaning slightly closer.

“If my boss lets me,” you answered with a bump of your elbow against Arnett’s arm. Bruce glanced at both of your lanyards, spotting a lack of guest privilege listed on them. Disappointing.

“If he doesn’t,” Bruce began, knowing full well your boss had no control over your admittance, “I’ll be sure to tell security to make an exception.” You beamed at him as he turned and continued making his way inside.

To your surprise, security really did make an exception. You were new to events like this, and barely understood the admittance rules. Security let you through easily after the guests arrived, although Arnett was not so lucky. Upon security halting his entry, he held you hostage on the front step and explained in an abundance of detail who you should seek out, what angles he hoped for, and implored you to please get him a few interview dates.

You took dutiful notes on the notepad you kept in the camera bag slung across your shoulder, fully expecting to not meet any of Arnett’s demands. The squat, balding man had given you a list of names that went in one ear and out the other despite how quickly you attempted to keep up with your pen.

You would be lucky to find even one of these names in the crowd, particularly considering you didn’t want to feel disruptive. It was already a privilege for you to be allowed admittance to the private event at all. Your best bet was to simply take as many photos of guests as possible, or at the very least take some creative shots of the event for broader headlines.

At the very least, you could build your portfolio and move your way up the Gotham Post.

You hesitate to move through the crowd, feeling out of place. The party was in full swing, and guests prance around with flashy, art deco attire customary of the Gotham elite. You, on the other hand, were dressed more akin to the servers milling about the room, rather than the well-dressed attendees. 

Certain the camera strung around your neck and the associated bag across your back drew more attention than you desire, you hid behind your lens again. You lift your camera to your face and adjust the image distance. The chandeliers in the event room glimmer like starlight captured in the warm ambience. If you angled just right, you could keep the chandelier in the center frame and capture the crowd from shoulders up (for the most part). You adjust slightly, maintaining your rule of thirds-

The image distorts and you furrow your brows in confusion. Had your lens gotten wet? You lower your camera, intent to turn it and inspect the glass, only to realize the distortion had been caused by a champagne flute presented to you just below eye level.

In a confused daze, your eyes follow the hand around the neck of the champagne flute to the tailored tuxedo sleeve, to the pressed collar and white white bow tie, until your gaze finally settles on Bruce Wayne.

“Mr. Wayne,” you greet warmly, your surprise thinly veiled. The camera slips from your fingers and returns to its hanging spot on the strap around your neck as you reach for the glass offered to you.

“Enjoying the party?” he asks as he falls in beside you, shoulder to shoulder, and surveys the crowd. He holds a full glass in his right hand, a mirror of yours. You notice a signet ring on his pinky, emblazoned with a cursive ‘W.’

“I am now,” you admit. He turns his head towards you and arches his brows, a playful look in his piercing blue eyes. You noticed, curiously, his eyes are closer to grey than they are to pale blue under the warm lighting. “Are you bored of boozing and schmoozing yet?”

Bruce barks what you think was a genuine laugh, caught off guard by your comment. “Eternally,” he answers with a toothy grin. You return the expression with one of your own. For a man in his early-thirties, he appeared nearly boyish at your joke. “Can’t say I find much enjoyment in events like this.”

“I can’t blame you. This is my first and I’m already overwhelmed.”

“Not much of a partier?” You shake your head in answer to his question. “Quite the career you’ve picked, then.”

You shrug. “Most people ignore the photographer. You’re an anomaly, Mr. Wayne.”

“Bruce,” he corrects, and you feel your cheeks warm. You probably shouldn’t have been caught off guard by the familiarity–Arnett called him by his first name after all. Perhaps he was informal with most reporters.

“Bruce,” you echo, rectifying your earlier statement. He turns back towards the crowd, finally taking his eyes off you, and you find you already miss the attention. “Honestly, events like this are just a stepping stone. At least, I hope so. I’d like to get away from glamor shots and paparazzi work eventually, but… it’s where the money is.” You take a sip of your champagne, hiding from what you expect to be judgment from the wealthiest man in Gotham who clearly did not mind the publicity he got from people like you.

Instead, he huffs out a laugh, like your comment was the first genuine thing he had heard all evening. “I can’t blame you. Personally, if I could take a step back from it all, I would, too.”

At that, you turn to look at him and find him already, once again, gazing back at you. He is as handsome as the tabloids say and your photos make him out to be, you note, as he fixes you with a charming grin. You find yourself surprised by your admittance, thinking, despite what others in your profession say, there may be more to Bruce Wayne than that of a playboy.

Bruce sets his untouched champagne glass down on the tray of a passing server and you blink away your sluggish thoughts. “Have you seen the grounds yet?”

“From a distance.” He offers you his arm instantly, clearly meaning to lead you. You hold up your hands in protest. “Your guests-”

“- Don’t give much of a damn about me, honestly. This party could happen without me and the results would be the same,” he debates, his arm still extended in invitation. You hesitate for just a moment before settling your hand on his covered forearm. Bruce smiles warmly as he directs you away from the crowd and towards the open doors that lead to a balcony.

Warm, early-summer air coasts around you, carrying a floral scent with it. You tilt your head back and allow the breeze to brush pleasantly over your skin, a welcome reprieve from the stuffy atmosphere of the gala. Your eyes adjust to the dark evening as Bruce guides you onto the balcony, then towards a set of stairs to the left. You place both hands on his arm to steady yourself as you take down the steps in tandem, falling into an easy pace.

The grounds are stunning–it’s a shame that everyone is stuck inside. Your fingers itch to reach for your camera as you wander down a gravel path lined by manicured hedges, broken only by lilac bushes in full bloom. Lights dapple the property, adding more ambiance than spotlight.

“What drew you towards photography?” Bruce asks, breaking the comfortable silence between you. You lean into him and he eagerly draws you closer until your shoulder is pressed to his arm.

“I suppose… I’ve spent my whole life in Gotham, and I love this city to death, but there are parts of it that deserve to be seen.” You level him with a stare out of the corner of your eye. “Darker parts, I mean. Corruption. I wanted to showcase that, but…”

“You got stuck with tabloids,” he finishes for you. You nod in affirmation.

“It pays the bills, but it’s not the angle I want to present,” you admit. “I’ve been working on a collection about Crime Alley that I’d like to submit to publishers for review. No one deserves to live like some people here do, but not many people seem to want to make a change at the street level. I doubt it’ll get picked up.”

Bruce is silent for a beat, and you worry you’ve misjudged him for a moment. He seems like he’s on the same page as you, but what if the papers were right about depicting him as shallow-

“I wish I could do more for the city, too,” he finally states, and you breathe an audible sigh of relief. His opposite hand comes to rest atop yours on his arm, offering an affectionate, familiar squeeze. “I know half of these galas don’t make much of a difference for most Gothamites, but… well, there’s only so much I can do as Bruce Wayne.”

Your brows furrow at that comment and you turn to scrutinize him carefully. He doesn’t elaborate, and you shrug off the tail end of his statement. “I was offered an entry-level position at the Daily Planet, the one in Metropolis.”

Now it’s Bruce’s turn to hesitate. “Do you want to take it?”

“God, no,” you laugh, and the tension in his shoulders seems to ease. “Gotham is dirty, and dangerous, and corrupted, but it’s home. I would prefer to pull back the curtain and make the city a better place than abandon it. I’m not sure how well photography can manage that, but it’s something, at least. Not all of us can launch off of buildings like the Bat, right?”

Bruce’s lips quirk up in a subtle smile. He guides you up the steps of a small pavilion ringed by golden string lights located not far from the balcony you entered the grounds from. Your hands release him and clasp the railing as your eyes close. The warm breeze passes over your face, drowning out the dying sounds of chatter and car engines. It seems the party is finally starting to clear out.

“I should probably head home soon,” you remark quietly, trying and failing to hide your disappointment. “I don’t think I got any of the shots my boss wanted, but… I had a good time.” You turn to face Bruce and smile coyly at him.

The light cast by the string lights frames Bruce as a statuesque figure, as handsome as he is formidable. It strikes you then how broad he is, filling out his tuxedo. You try not to ogle and think about what may lie under the tuxedo.

Your thoughts are cut short as his hand crosses the railing to settle on your wrist. Bruce lifts your hand, then slides his from your wrist into your open hand. Your eyes slip half-lidded as he presses a feather-light kiss to your knuckles.

You expect him to release your hand. Instead, he keeps yours clasped in his and lowers your joined hands to the railing. Your heart patters in your chest, growing faster as the seconds stretch between you. Maybe…

You take a step closer, nearly chest to chest. He leans over you slightly, eyeing you playfully as his lips quirk up at the corners in a subtle smile. Your heart thunders now as you hesitate, steadily building courage. 

You press up on your toes and brush your lips tenderly against his. It can hardly be considered a kiss, more an invitation of one than anything else. He takes the invitation eagerly as his free hand rises to cup your cheek and press his lips more firmly to yours. It’s a tender kiss, but it takes your breath away all the same.

You chase him the moment you feel him start to pull away as your mouth slots against his. You feel Bruce sigh against you as he tilts his head to accommodate your insistence. Your hand fists his tuxedo jacket, dragging him closer as his lips part against yours and drag you back under for more.

When you fall back on your heels, he follows you with open-mouthed kisses that nearly make your toes curl in your shoes. His tongue brushes across the seam of your mouth and you part your lips eagerly. You think that it’s quite possibly the best kiss of your life. It’s unbearably gentle, and yet each sweet press of his lips against yours draws every thought out of your mind without fail.

For just a second you think it’s silly that you’re weak in the knees until his hand still clasped around yours releases and moves to hold your waist. You think that’s when you finally give way to something more demanding, when you feel the heat of his wide palm on your waist. You want to feel it under your dress, on your skin-

Your camera bumps against his chest, causing you to pull back in surprise. He follows you for just a second, his eyes fixated on your lips. Bruce’s pupils are blown wide, and you imagine yours are much the same. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths as his eyes rise to settle back on yours.

“Do you want to come back inside-?”

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation and surge to kiss him again. His breath catches this time as he leans into you.

You’re nearly lightheaded with glee as Bruce’s hands settle on your waist and he half drags you back towards the Manor. He parts from you only to hurry you across the gravel path, stopping periodically for feverish kisses that leave your lips tingling and demanding more.

When you reach the foot of the staircase up to the balcony, Bruce’s lingering kisses find the corner of your mouth, your jaw, and your neck. Your hand winds into his hair as his teeth drag teasingly over your skin, and you bite back a sound that waits in the back of your throat. He practically pushes you up the stairs, and you step backwards and up, mindful not to catch your heels.

Once inside the Manor, you find yourself briefly pressed against every available surface. His kisses are hungry, and you return them with equal fervor. Your hands bury in his hair, squeeze his arms through his tuxedo jacket, and drag his collar aside to expose untouched flesh. You smile victoriously as a breathy sigh passes Bruce’s lips when your teeth nip at his jaw.

The moment your back is pressed to a door you begin unfastening his bow tie. His kiss is all tongues and teeth as you slide his jacket off his shoulders, and you revel in it. You were wrong–this has to be the best kiss of your life. Bruce kisses you like a drowning man coming up for air.

He dips slightly as his hands find the hem of your dress and he pushes the fabric up, exposing more of your flesh to him. His hands knead your thighs and his nails tease you in gentle scrapes that have you gasping against his lips. He smiles against your mouth and finally opens the door, ushering you into the room.

Now it’s Bruce’s turn to be pinned as you press him firmly against the door. You both kick your shoes off, your heels disappearing somewhere into the darkness of his bedroom, while your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his dress shirt. He helps you, stripping the fabric from his body and is quick to yank his undershirt over his head next.

You take a step back to marvel at the man in front of you, lips parted in silent praise.You were right to wonder what he may be hiding under his attire–your hands settle on warm, firm muscle, pulled taut with anticipation. You meet his eyes for just a moment then quickly pull your camera bag over your shoulder and toss it to the ground. You unloop the strap of your camera from your neck and gently place it atop its associated bag, then promptly sink to your knees.

“Fuck-” Bruce groans as your nails drag down his chest before your palms settle on his thighs. You press your cheek to the prominent bulge in the front of his slacks and gaze up at him from beneath your lashes. He sucks in a sharp breath as one of his hands winds into your hair. “You don’t have to-”

You press a kiss to the inside of his wrist, his hand twisting in your hair as a result. “I want to.”

You hear him inhale sharply through his nose, then his hands are on his slacks without a second thought. You wait eagerly on your knees as he unzips his slacks and slides the fabric and his briefs down his thighs. You nip the exposed flesh of his thigh just as his cock frees itself from the confines of his garments and bobs upright. Bruce kicks the fabric away and you once again lean back to take him in.

He seems hesitant to move as you watch him, taking in the full length of him and the flushed head of his cock. Bruce breathes a sigh of relief as your hand settles on the base of his cock. He expects you to glide your soft hand across the length of him, and instead finds himself biting back a moan when you lick the length of the underside of his cock.

Bruce’s breath hitches and one hand settles in your hair while your tongue swirls around his tip. His head falls back against the door with a grunt as you flatten your tongue against him, seal your mouth around him, and slowly take more of him in your mouth.

“Fuck-” he groans as your hand pumps what your throat can’t reach. Your throat vibrates as a groan escapes you and a gasp leaves his mouth. You pull back, keeping the flat of your tongue against the length of him, and suck before descending again.

You close your eyes and quicken your pace, occasionally rolling the flat of your tongue against his length as the tip of his cock hits your throat. Your head bobs and his grip on your hair tightens each time you bottom out.

Bruce’s head lolls to the side and watches you with parted lips. “God, you have- no idea how good you look… taking me like…” he groans and knocks his head against the door once more.

Your eyes open as you bob and slide your hand in tandem, a devious thought worming its way into your mind. Your free hand skitters across the floor until your fingertips brush over the canvas of your camera bag. You snatch it and drag it closer until your fingers find the cold plastic of your camera. Fumbling with it until your fingers find the grip, you lift the camera and present it over your head to Bruce.

His panting pauses for a moment and you worry he may be panicking on you. You nearly withdraw your offered camera, until his cock jumps in your throat and his hands shakily grasp the object.

“Holy- fuck…” he gasps as his hand fists your hair. His hips gently push forward, the tiniest motion than as you moaning around him in appreciation. At that, his hips snap forward and the tip of his cock bullies its way into your throat with each gentle rock of his lips. “Just like that, beautiful, just-“

You hear the telltale snap of the camera shutter. His hips stutter as you moan around him, your eyes sliding closed. His cock twitches, and you think he might be about to cum-

Bruce yanks you off him and you whine as cock leaves your throat. Your whine is promptly silenced as he drags you to your feet and his lips crash against yours. You sag against him, and Bruce wraps his arms around your waist to stabilize you. Once you find your footing, one hand is quick to find the zipper of your dress and tug it down while the other handles your camera still tight in his grasp. 

You gasp against his lips as his hands wind beneath your dress and shirk the fabric from your body. You shrug the dress from your shoulders and allow him to pull it down your body. As the fabric pools at your feet, you kick it to the side and press your body against his.

Bruce’s insistent hands on your hips usher you backwards until your calves hit the edge of what you assume is a bed. You drop to a seated position and he chases your lips with hungry kisses. You feel the weight of your camera drop to the bed beside you just as the man in front of you sinks to his knees.

You have half a mind to be embarrassed about the fact that you tremble in anticipation when his knees hit the floor, but that thought quickly vanishes the moment he places one leg over his shoulder and drags his lips across your calf. You lean back on your elbows and watch his lips draw closer to where you need him, his teeth occasionally nipping your flesh and making you jump.

When he reaches your knee, his attention turns to your other leg which hangs limply over the edge of the bed. His lips glide up your thigh and you whine impatiently. You think you might die when his nose finally brushes your core over the fabric of your underwear.

“Bruce…” you moan, your voice rising to a demand. He meets your demand as his tongue laves a flat stripe over your underwear. Your hips buck and he withdraws just enough to loop his fingers around the fabric and tug it down your legs.

He doesn’t wait for you to beg. The first press of his lips to your clit makes you jolt. He repeats his earlier motion and drags his tongue through your folds, gathering your wetness. Your head drops to the bed, your back arches, and you buck against his mouth.

“Good?” he asks, warm breath fanning over your flesh. In response, your hand settles in his hair and drags him closer. Bruce chuckles against you as he dives back in, setting a steady rhythm of flicks and sucks against your clit. Your hips push up against his mouth as he works, dragging moans from your throat.

Bruce pulls you closer until your ass nearly hangs off the bed and throws both legs over his shoulders. Your thighs tighten around his head briefly in response and he moans, prompting your hips to buck. One of his arms loops over your pelvis, keeping you firmly in place. Your head lolls to the side, catching sight of his signet ring on his hand as he buries his tongue in you.

Your fumbling hands reach for your camera as you tremble against his mouth. Shaking, you grasp the plastic and aim it at him. “Can I?” you ask, earning an eager moan from Bruce in response.

The shutter clicks, and he groans against you as if it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever heard. You drop the camera beside you and recline on the sheets once more as you move against his mouth. You feel Bruce’s thumb settle on your clit, circle once, twice, then everything goes tight.

Your back arches as you clamp down on nothing and tremble through your orgasm. A choked out whine escapes your throat as you tug at his hair, unsure if you want him to stop or keep going. His tongue pulls you through it until you finally stop writhing. Your chest heaves as you deflate on the mattress.

“Oh my God…” you mumble. Bruce chuckles and stands at the foot of the bed. He leans over you and presses another tender kiss to your lips. His hands glide over your flesh, slowly working feeling back into your limbs.

“Good?” he reiterates. You mumble a quiet ‘mhm’ against his lips and he laughs again. His hands usher you to move further up the bed and you do, allowing him space to crawl over you. Bruce settles between your thighs, his cock resting against the bend of your hip as he kisses life back into you slowly.

He moves in the moment your thighs part to accommodate him. You shift and brush your wet folds against the head of his cock, feeling it catch your entrance. Bruce rests his forehead against the crook of your neck and pushes forward.

You choke out a gasp as the length of him fills you in one slow, fluid motion. You tighten around him and he groans, pausing as he hilts inside you. You push your hips against him and he takes it as an indication to draw back slowly. You whine as each agonizing inch drags slowly against your walls, and your nails settle on his back, grazing and demanding more.

His hips snap forward hard enough to make the bed frame jolt against the wall, and you keen. He builds a steady rhythm, drawing out slowly then slamming his hips forward. Each time you gasp and writhe beneath him. When his pace picks up, you see stars.

“Thought about you all night,” he groans as his lips coast over your throat and shoulders. “Thought about what you’d feel like around me- fuck, you feel perfect, gorgeous-” You claw at his back with a whine.

Bruce sits on his heels and drags you with him. His hands grip the backs of your knees and tugs your legs over his shoulders. One hand winds over your thighs, keeping your legs against his chest while his other settles over your clit. Your back arches as his deep thrusts quicken to a punishing pace. Your eyes roll back as you tighten around him.

“Fuck, just like that-” he gasps as his hand leaves your clit and fumbles across the bed. His wandering hand finds the camera, lying forgotten beside you. His rhythm falters for just a moment before picking up again as he turns the lens down, snapping a photo of his cock sliding through your folds. “Just like that, baby, stay just like that-”

Your back arches as your eyes roll, and the camera drops back to the bed with a bounce. “Come on, baby, give me one more,” Bruce pleads as sweat beads on his brow he leans forward, folding you nearly in half, and you wail as his cock reaches deeper, brushing against a spot inside of you that makes you clench.

He coaxes a shattering orgasm from you. Your legs drop from his shoulders and wrap around his waist as you tug him down to your chest and tremble. He moans, keening high as you clench around him, and you wish you could hold on to that sound forever. Bruce presses his forehead to yours as his thrusts once, twice more than spills inside you.

You stay like that for a while, clinging to him as you come down from your high. Your thighs tremble around him and you feel him soften inside you. He makes no move to pull away. Feather-light kisses dust your hairline as he whispers praises to you.

When Bruce does finally pull away from you, it’s only for as long as it takes him to retrieve a warm, wet cloth and clean you with the same focus he had fixed you with in the garden. You pull him to you and kiss his knuckles appreciatively. When he stands again, his hands find your camera and return it to its rightful place in your bag by the door. He’s quick to climb back in bed with you and pull you tight to his chest.

You press tired kisses to his lips, the curve of his mouth molding perfectly with yours. The kisses drag out slower and slower until he pulls away and settles you against his chest. You fall asleep tracing scars on his flesh that you hadn’t noticed in the darkness.

The next morning, Bruce would rather be anywhere than a board meeting. He slumps in his chair at the head of the table as board members report the various investors and donations gained through the previous night's event.

He tugs at his collar, his fingers sweeping over an already fading red mark you had left just beneath his shirt. His gaze lowers to the table as his mind wanders to the feeling of your thighs wrapped tightly around him-

His phone buzzes in his coat pocket, and he withdraws it in what he hopes is a discreet fashion. An unknown number flashes on his screen. Opening the text message, Bruce’s eyes widen seeing the photos of the previous night’s escapades. His cock in your mouth, his mouth between your thighs, and-

His chest tightens as three dots pop up below the image, indicating you’re typing. Bruce’s cock hardens in his slacks as he waits. His phone buzzes in his hand as you finally hit send.

Dinner tonight?