#batsy

For you, of course I can!! I'm so happy you liked it, I personally thought it was weird. But the people want what the people want!

After your nap with Simon, both of you act like it didn't happen. You continue about your days, cooking supper, doing chores, and playing Nintendo in the living room. Days pass, and then weeks. You sleep in your own bed, and he sleeps in his.

Tonight... you had a nightmare. You wake up in a cold sweat around midnight, panting from the adrenaline. You can only remember bits and pieces. Running from something, or maybe... running to something? Voices shouting at you from all around, telling you about each and every flaw you have.

You get up from your bed and stand in Simon's doorway. He isn't asleep. He rarely is. He looks up at you from his phone, unbothered. "Hello," he grunts. "Why aren't you in bed?"

"I had a nightmare," you say, like a toddler telling their parents. You pout at him, though you're not sure he can see it from afar.

"Hmm," he hums. "Me, too."

"Can I sleep next to you?" you ask, voice wavering from the shock of the nightmare.

"No," he says, almost sharp enough to make you cry.

"Simon, please?" Your voice cracks this time. "I had a nightmare. You let me do it a few weeks ago."

"Don't cry," he whispers. "I just don't want you gettin' any ideas... about you and me."

Your lip quivers. "Why did you say I made your nightmares go away? Can't you do the same for me?"

"Because I don't want you to think we're... an item," he says carefully.

"What's wrong with that?" you whimper.

"Because someone could find you and hurt you if they knew you were mine," he whispers. "I don't want you to get hurt because of my job."

You wipe your eyes. "Can't I sleep beside you? Just for tonight?"

He's silent for a few moments, weighing the options. "Fine. Fine, come here."

You drag your blanket behind you, and Simon opens his arms. You crawl into his lap, pressing your cheek against his chest. Simon wraps you in the blanket you brought, then pulls the comforter over both of you. He properly tucks you in, making sure you're comfortable. "Thank you," you breathe.

"Better?" he asks, smoothing a hand over your hair.

You nod against his skin, gently looping your arms around his back. He sighs, adjusting your position in his lap. You curl against him like a kitten, nudging your nose against his chin. "Better," you agree.

"I'm not doin' this every time you have a nightmare," he warns you.

"Yes, you are," you mumble.

"No, I'm not," he argues.

"Yes, you are," you retort, rubbing soothing circles over his back with your thumbs. "You better."

"I'm not your boyfriend," he whispers, though it lacks conviction.

"Not yet," you giggle softly. "I'm just warming you up."

He grunts, a sound you can't tell what it means. His arms tighten around you, and he rests his chin on your head. "Go back to sleep. I'll keep you safe from the nightmares," he says, so soft you almost don't hear it.

"Ni-ni," you murmur sleepily, burrowing further under the blankets. You hope you never have to leave his arms, his bed, the warmth of his body. The blankets cocoon you both in a perfect bubble, where nothing in the world can get you.

Part I

The Dress

Bruce Wayne x f!Childhoodfriend!Reader

Mind if I indulge my biblical neediness for Bruce Wayne? Good, ‘cause this is a selfish piece lol. I am a fiend for a good beefy Bruce fic. Thank you to my fabulous long lost twin, @barnesandnoblecauses , who this is dedicated to. I’m glad I could get you on the Bruce Wayne train! Thank you for beta reading. Dividers by @strangergraphics , pics sourced from comics and Pinterest.

synopsis: At a Wayne Foundation gala, Bruce Wayne freezes when he sees you—a childhood friend—in a stunning gown. The sight makes him realize the feelings he’s hidden for years. Tension builds through lingering glances and quiet moments together—when the crowd fades, Bruce finally gives in to what he wants, turning the night far from innocent.

warnings: 18+/MDNI! LONG FIC!! Maybe ooc!Bruce, pet names (darling, sweetheart, baby, Brucie) alcohol consumption, cursing, very brief (slight) harassment of reader, angst if you squint, fingering, size kink if you squint, unprotected sex, p in v sex, creampie, some dialogue is inspired by bat x cat comic panels. I think that’s it! Please let me know if I missed one.

Crystal chandeliers cast a golden light across the vast ballroom of Wayne Manor, their reflections glittering across polished marble and champagne glasses. Gotham’s elite gathered for the annual Wayne Foundation charity gala. Politicians, socialites, business leaders—all dressed to the nines with polite smiles. At the center of it all stands Bruce Wayne, effortlessly playing the role the world expected of him. Billionaire, playboy, hopelessly eccentric. A perfectly curated mask for what was lying beneath his fortified surface.

Bruce leans casually against the bar, one large hand wrapped around a glass of bourbon he hasn’t sipped in nearly five minutes. A charming smile curves his lips as he listens to an investor talk about renewable energy initiatives, nodding almost to the beat of the man’s voice. To anyone watching, Bruce looks perfectly at ease—comfortable and confident—Gotham’s prince-bachelor enjoying another glamorous evening in his impressive home.

The truth is that Bruce feels anything but comfortable, and decidedly less confident the moment he caught sight of you. His childhood companion—the daughter of a maid—who became so much more to him after the death of his parents. Across the ballroom, the crowd shifted just enough for him to see your familiar form step through the tall archway leading in from the corridor. Conversation around him blurred into background noise as his gaze settled on the full sight of you.

The dress you wore caught the chandelier light like liquid. Elegant, and undeniably bold, it was the kind of dress that demands attention without trying too hard. For a moment Bruce forgets the investor mid-sentence, forgets the dozens of press cameras scattered around the room, forgets the careful persona he wears like armor at events like this. He simply stares, his eyes following you as you glide into the room. It takes him a second too long to realize the man in front of him has stopped talking. “Are you feeling alright, sir?” Bruce blinks, quickly forcing his attention back to him. His easy grin slips back into place with a practiced sort of ease. “I’m sorry,” he says smoothly, lifting his glass slightly, “I must’ve lost focus.” The investor lets out a puzzled sigh, continuing his explanation, but Bruce is only half listening. His eyes drift again, almost against his will.

You were moving through the crowd now, greeting familiar faces, your smile warm and genuine. A few guests turn to look as you passed—both admiring and curious—but none of them look quite the way Bruce is looking. He notices everything. The way the fabric of your dress moves when you walk. The way your face lights up when you laugh—something that had always made his heart flutter. The way your hand rests lightly on someone’s arm as you spoke. Bruce takes a slow sip of bourbon, finally returning to it after minutes of observing you. You look delectable, edible, divine—dangerous. Not just because of the dress, though that certainly wasn’t helping, but because he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold himself together tonight.

Bruce has known you long enough to understand that being around you has consequences. You make him forget himself in ways that are…inconvenient. And Bruce Wayne, the filthy rich ladies’ man and secret guardian of Gotham, did not—could not—forget himself. Not at galas. Not in front of donors. Not when half the city’s press was watching. Yet somehow, the moment you step into the room, the carefully constructed walls he keeps around his emotions lower. Again.

Bruce’s jaw tightens slightly as he forces his attention back to the investor, nodding politely at whatever point the man was making. He delivers the appropriate response, vague and agreeable, exactly what everyone expects. But his eyes betray him. Because every few seconds, without fail, they drift back to you across the ballroom. And the worst part? You haven’t even noticed yet. He’d have to change that.

“Excuse me, I’ve spotted an old friend. Call me with your proposal?” Bruce says, handing off his glass to the investor, already setting off towards you. “Will ya answer, Wayne?!” The investors calls after him, bewildered. Bruce smiles, turning over his shoulder, “Wayne Enterprises always answers!” Shuffling his wide shoulders through the crowds of patrons, Bruce makes his way to you, standing against a wall near the refreshment table—ever the wallflower. “Mr. Wayne,” you greet with a smile, a perfectly manicured hand curled around a champagne flute. “Darling, so nice to see you here,” he replies. You chuckle, lashes fluttering, “you invited me.” It’s Bruce’s turn to chuckle, “I suppose I did.” You hum in response, setting down your glass on a passing waiter’s tray. “It’s curious though, isn’t it, Mr. Wayne? Inviting the daughter of a servant to a charity gala? I have no…surplus of charitable funds, you could say,” You say, running a hand against his shoulder, doe-eyed. “You’re incredibly successful, sweetheart. That gig at Gotham Gazette is going well, no? Surely the Batman gives you plenty to report,” he replies, taking the hand lingering at his shoulder in his. Suddenly, Bruce pulls you close, one large hand splaying against the expanse of your hip—the other still gripping your hand. “May I have a dance?” He asks, voice husky with that undeniable charm. “Of course, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce’s hand rests warm and steady at the swell of your hip, guiding you effortlessly across the floor as though the orchestra were playing just for the two of you. His other hand holds yours with an ease that came from years of familiarity. Childhood familiarity—dangerous familiarity.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him with a look that had always meant trouble for him. “Tell me,” you murmured, voice soft enough that only he could hear, “how many women did you abandon tonight to drag me onto the dance floor, Mr. Wayne?” Bruce shrugs, “abandon implies they had a chance.” His thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles as he guides you into a slow turn. When you come back against him, you feel the quiet strength in the way his hand tightens around you. His gaze drops—not at all subtly—to your accentuated cleavage. Your gown had been chosen with care. Silk in a magnificent color, highlighting every curve before spilling into a soft sweep of fabric. The neckline dips just enough to make several Gotham socialites choke on their drinks when you entered. Bruce had noticed almost immediately. You lean into his chest, your voice teasing. “Careful, Mr. Wayne.” His eyes flick back up to yours, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he was blushing. “If you stare any harder, people might think Gotham’s golden boy has poor manners.” His expression softens in that ruined way it only ever did around you. “Darling, you wore that dress,” he says calmly despite the heat rising within him, “knowing exactly what it would do to me.”

A laugh slips from you before you can catch it, “Did I? And what exactly is it doing to you?” Bruce leans in slightly as the music slows, bringing you closer still until the space between your bodies evaporates. Your breath brushes his jaw. His voice lowers, “testing my self-control.” Your pulse falters. You recover quickly though—years of knowing Bruce Wayne has taught you how to handle his charm. Most of the time.

You tilt your head, letting a strand of hair fall over your shoulder. “My dear Mr. Wayne… struggling with self-control?” Your fingers slide lightly up Bruce’s shoulder toward the back of his neck as you continue your dance. “That’s a headline I’d love to see.” His breath catches—barely—but you feel it, his hands gripping ever so slightly at your waist.“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you sweetheart?” he murmurs. You bat your eyelashes, tongue darting out to lick your lips, “I am—immensely—Mr. Wayne.” You spin again, skirts flowing, and when he pulls you back the momentum brings your face impossible close to his. The orchestra swells around you, but the room seems strangely quiet—almost as if it’s just the two of you. “You know,” Bruce says, studying your face like it’s something precious, “we used to dance in this manor when we were kids.” You nod, “we were twelve. And you stepped on my foot.”

“I was distracted.”

“By what?”

His eyes darken.

“You.”

Your laugh comes quieter this time, “you’re laying it on a bit thick tonight, even for a playboy.” Bruce doesn’t laugh. He simply takes you in—really looks at you—in that steady way that had always made your chest feel a little too tight. “I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen, darling,” he says, like it’s always been a known truth. Your eyes widen, betraying your surprise. You’d known. You’d both known for a long time, but the moment never seemed right. Not until now. Bruce flashes you a faint, crooked smile, “so yes,” he adds gently, “I might be trying a little harder tonight.” The orchestra shifts then into a slower melody. His hand slides slightly lower along your hip, respectful but intimate, guiding you until your bodies moved in perfect rhythm. Your voice drops to an even quieter whisper. “Is that what this is?” you ask, “a campaign?”

Bruce leans in to the side of your face, his lips near your ear. “If it is,” he mumbles, “I’m fully committed.” A shiver erupts across your skin—but you recover in record time, a mischievous spark lighting in your eyes. “Well,” you say—matter of fact— “I suppose I should ask the obvious question.” Bruce raises a thick brow, “and that would be?” You tap your finger once against his lapel like a reporter punctuating a question. “Are you wooing me, Mr. Wayne, or the Gotham Gazette?” Bruce blinks. You continue innocently,“because as flattering as this all is,” you gesture between the two of you with your free hand, “I do happen to be the top journalist at the paper.” A slow smile spreads back across your face, “and I know how much Gotham loves a positive Bruce Wayne headline.” Bruce stares at you, starstruck for half a second. Then he scoffs, low, offended, almost hurt, “you think I’m ‘seducing’ you for media coverage?” A beat of silence passes, both of you locked into a staring contest, before you finally break. “I’m a journalist, Mr. Wayne,” you say smugly. “I consider all motives. Especially when I’m invited to lavish galas by billionaire bachelors trying desperately to woo me.” Bruce leans closer as the music flows, his voice dropping into something teasing. “Alright,” he concedes, “let’s examine that theory.”

Your brows lift, “shall we?” Bruce’s hand tightens slightly around yours as he maneuvers you into another spin, bringing you back against him just as suffocatingly close as before. “If I wanted good press,” Bruce says, “I’d donate another ten million to the orphanage.” You click your tongue thoughtfully, feigning a look that says I’m-totally-buying-that. “True,” you add.

“If I wanted a glowing article,” he continues, “I’d schedule a formal interview with you, sweetheart.” You hum, trying to disguise your amusement, “also true.” You tilt your head—time for the kill shot. “So what does dancing with me accomplish?” Bruce’s eyes hold yours—dark, steady, almost unbearably sincere. “It gives me an excuse,” he said softly, “to hold you close.” Your heart stutters, hammering against your breast in a way you pray he can’t feel. Bruce’s hand shifts and a thumb brushes slowly against the small of your back, sending a warmth shooting straight up your spine. “And if it helps my reputation,” he adds with a quiet smirk, “that’s just a bonus.”

You narrow your eyes playfully, “dangerous answer.”

“Is it, darling?”

“Because now I have to decide if you’re being charming…or manipulative.” You conclude. “After knowing me for twenty years,” he growls, “you still can’t tell?” You shake your head, half in disbelief, half in surprise—blinking slowly. “I know you,” you sigh, your fingers sliding slowly down his lapel, “but I also know a good story when I see one.” Bruce’s gaze flicks briefly to your lips, “then write one.”

“And what exactly should I write, Mr. Wayne? Another glowing review? Or perhaps a scandalous exposure piece?” His gaze softens, but shifts—burning with something deeper. “Write about the billionaire who’s been hopelessly in love with the same woman since he was sixteen,” he replies, maybe a little too loud. Your eyes widen again, shocked at his heightened tone—vigilant of who may be listening. Bruce leans down, your foreheads almost touching now as the music reaches its final notes. “And how,” he says, voice turning to gravel, “he’s still trying to convince her to give him a chance.” For a moment, you say nothing. Then a slow, teasing smile returns to your lips. “Hmm,” you chirp, “that chance will depend.” Bruce looks puzzled, “on what, sweetheart?” Your voice shifts into that silky, sultry tone you know drives him crazy, “on whether Mr. Wayne plans to kiss the journalist…or keep giving her quotes.” Bruce’s sputters—his careful, respectful demeanor slipping.

The music stops suddenly, instantly pulling you from the heated exchange. Around you, other couples slowly begin drifting apart, applause rippling through the room. Bruce doesn’t move yet—neither do you—his hands still warm against you. He whispers again, “will I be seeing you at the end of this gala?” You narrow your eyes, pretending to consider it. Your fingers swiftly adjust his tie, smoothing it down his chest. “I suppose,” you begin, “that also depends.” Bruce’s eyes roll and you meet them with a playful, taunting look, “if you’re good.”

For a moment Bruce simply looks at you. Then that cocky, confident smile appears—the one that had charmed all of Gotham. “Then I will be seeing you at the end of tonight, darling,” he asserts. Your stomach flips in a way that annoys you slightly. He knows just how to get under your skin. Bruce squeezes your hand gently as you begin to pull away, desperately needing the air his flirting had deprived you of.

The rest of the night goes by agonizingly slow. More droning talk from investors, some genuine—most just trying to get their hands on Bruce’s money. A girl…several girls will walk by occasionally, throw themselves at him, and are sorely disappointed when he doesn’t reciprocate. The usual. Except it’s anything but usual. You’re still here—somewhere. Bruce can practically feel it, your presence sizzling through his veins, a left over need burning through him. He’s lost sight of you for now, your silhouette having been swallowed by the large crowd. From where he stands, propped up against a marble column, you’re a phantom. Bruce resigns himself to pouting, checking his watch every couple of seconds. You’d be back—you had to. He brings his wrist up to check the time again when he hears it, your voice. It’s polite, but he can sense the annoyance that lurks beneath it. Years of knowing you gave him that advantage. “I think you’ve had too much to drink, sir. A dance, perhaps, isn’t the best idea. After all, there isn’t any music!” You laugh, and suddenly Bruce can see you through the shifting crowd. Across the ballroom, you stand—too close for Bruce’s liking—next to some hot shot no-name lawyer, his grubby hand holding your wrist tight. You’re trying to shrink back, but the man only pulls you closer, slurring god-knows-what into your ear. You grimace and that’s enough for Bruce. He pushes off of the column, making his way to you in record time—anger, jealousy, possessiveness bubbling beneath his practiced reserve.

“Darling! There you are!” Bruce exclaims, hoping he comes off as charming—he feels anything but charming. Reaching between you and the scumbag currently holding your wrist hostage, he pats the man’s hand, “so sorry to break this up sir, but our lovely guest is needed elsewhere.” Before the man can reply, Bruce is dragging you towards the grand staircase that leads up to the rest of the manor. “Who needs me? Where are you taking me, Mr. Wayne?” You huff, struggling to keep up with his rushed strides. “The party is over. Alfred will see to it that everyone is escorted out, especially that jerk,” he replies, offering no real explanation. “Ending a gala an hour before its scheduled end is highly unusual, you know! So is throwing out some poor guy fishing around for a lay. I had also hoped there would be fireworks after the party,” you pout—half serious, half jesting. Bruce pauses, halfway up the staircase. He turns over his shoulder to look back at you, your hand intertwined with his, “trust me, sweetheart, there will be fireworks.”

The door to Bruce’s bedroom clicks shut behind you, the sound echoing impossibly loud in the halls of the manor. For a moment neither of you speak, just breathe heavily under the weight of the night’s tension. Bruce stands a few feet away, his tie hung loose around his neck, and there’s something almost vulnerable about the way he looks at you now—nothing like the untouchable man the world believed him to be. “Kiss me,” he says quietly, though he makes no move towards you. You raise an eyebrow. “You just told me you love me, don’t you want to talk about that? Or the fact that you left me to be groped by a sleaze?” His jaw tightens, a conflicted breath leaving him. “Of course, darling, and for the record I am sorry. We can talk, we will, about it all. After.” You step closer. The room is dim except for the soft glow of a moonlight seeping in through the tall windows, mingling with the shine of a single lamp. It catches in his eyes, making them look even darker, deeper. They seemed to glow in a way that made your pulse quicken. “Mr. Wayne,” you say softly. He looks away like your voice alone is enough to shake him—like he’s bracing to lose you, to watch you refuse and run out. “I know,” Bruce exhales, “I should’ve told you a long time ago. I should’ve scooped you up the moment you walked in tonight and let you know that I have loved you every waking moment of my life since you came into it. Should’ve thrown out that bastard for even looking at you. But for now, please. Kiss me.” You move forward and stop directly in front of him. A moment passes where you simply look at him—really look at him. The shy boy who you used to play tag in the manor with, the lanky teenager who stomped on your feet when you danced, all wrapped up in the man stood before you. It was simple, you’d loved him then and you loved him now. Every iteration of him, every phase. All yours. Your Mr. Wayne. The air between you felt charged with your realization, like the moment before a storm breaks.

“I do love it when you beg, Mr. Wayne,” you murmur, smiling. Bruce’s brow furrows, “what?” You sigh, a little giggle at his obliviousness slipping between the two of you, “you don’t think that I love you as well? That I didn’t when I’d put up with your antics as a girl? That I wasn’t swooning over you as a teenager? I’ve loved you since the moment I saw your dorky smile.” Something in his expression cracks then—years of restraint slipping just enough to reveal the man underneath. His hand comes up like he means to touch your face, then hesitates midair. “You’ve felt it all this time?” he asks.

“All this time.”

The words barely leave your lips before Bruce surges forward, closing the distance. His hands settle on your waist, firm but careful, as if he was still giving you time to pull away. When you don’t, his grip tightens around you, drawing you closer until your chest becomes flush with his. The warmth of him was overwhelming. His smell, his hands, his breath—everywhere. Just when you start to crave more, running your hands through his raven hair, he pulls back just barely, lips still brushing yours. “I must be dreaming,” he whispers, voice low, his tongue darting out to lick your bottom lip. You shake your head—no.

That was all the reassurance Bruce needed. He kisses you like a man starving, aching, longing—carefully at first, almost hesitant, but beneath it was a fire, a hunger that made your knees weaken. One hand slides from your hip up your back, pulling, while the other comes up to tilt your chin just enough to slip his tongue between your parted lips. The controlled, composed billionaire the world saw was gone now. In his place was a man who kisses you like you were the only thing grounding him. He breaks the kiss just long enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breathing coming out in jagged, labored puffs. “You have no idea what you do to me, my sweetheart,” he whispers. You smile faintly, brushing your thumb along his jaw, “I believe I do, something about losing your composure? Sound right, Mr. Wayne?” A quiet laugh escapes him—soft, almost disbelieving, “Quit calling me that, you tease. I’m your Bruce, I always have been.” Then he kisses you again, slower this time, lingering, like he wanted to memorize the moment.

“I seem to recall that I was promised fireworks,” you quip, pulling back just enough to speak. Bruce chases your mouth, stealing one more peck before he replies, “you were. What my darling wants, I am more than happy to give her. Turn around for me, please.” It takes all of your restraint not to throw yourself around, face first into his bed—you manage a shaky turn, slightly fumbling over your heels. Bruce’s hands come up to brush over your shoulders, moving until they find the zipper of your gown. “May I?” He whispers, leaning down to rest his chin in the crook of your neck. You manage to hum a response, something akin to the resounding “yes!” echoing through your mind. Bruce leaves a warm, firm kiss where his chin had rested against your neck before his hands find their way to the zipper of your dress. He pulls it down with one large hand, the other stroking the skin that’s revealed.

“You’re so beautiful, sweetheart. Always so beautiful. Want to step out of this for me? I’ll help you out of your heels,” Bruce whispers, watching with hungry eyes as your dress pools around your hips. You turn to face him, a mousy smile spreading over your lips. “Oh, she’s shy now? Where’s that little vixen that sauntered into my bedroom, hmm?” Bruce says. He always did know how to read your expressions, as oblivious as he could be. You step closer instead of responding, pulling your dress down until it falls in a puddle at your feet. Stepping out of it, you let him guide you until your knees hit the back of his bed. When you fall back with a soft thud, Bruce kneels in front of you like a man praying—devout, worshipful. He slides your feet out of your heels, letting his fingers linger over your ankles. When he looks up at you, eyes sparkling and wide, mouth agape with anticipation, he glides his touch up to the waistband of your panties. “And these,” he says with a tsk, “I think these should go, what about you, darling?” Your hips wriggle involuntarily, winding around with a mind of their own. “Y-yeah…yes. Yes they should, mister—I mean Bruce,” you whisper. At your expression, he continues, swiftly removing your underwear and turning to your bra. When you nod, he unclasps it, leaving you bare beneath him.

“You next?” You prompt, tugging Bruce’s tie with a new found urgency. He smiles, lifting himself off the bed. “Will you say please? You used to have such good manners,” he purrs. “Please, Brucie?” you respond. Brucie. Your childhood nickname for him resurfaced like a melody that his heart recognized before his brain could catch up. It drives him wild. With quick hands, he rids himself of his suit—forgotten next to your clothes on the bedroom floor. Before you can help yourself, your jaw drops, and Bruce blushes. He follows your gaze down to his dick where it bobs against his lower stomach, pre-cum glistening in the lamplight. “It’s all for you, darling. If you want it, it’s yours.” You smile, pulling your lower lip between your teeth. “Mine?” you whisper, planting your feet on the bed and spreading your legs. “Yours,” Bruce says, and he means it.

“Oh god,” you whine, velvety walls clamping around two of Bruce’s thick fingers. He’s slotted between your slick thighs, spreading you open with his hands. He’d already coaxed an orgasm out of you, muttering something about “getting this pretty pussy ready for me”. It doesn’t matter to you, the moment his fingers found that searing spot within you, all thoughts melted away. A spasm of your muscles pulls you back into the moment. “Need you,” you whimper, reaching up to cup Bruce’s face, pressing a kiss to his lips. “I don’t want to hurt you, sweetheart. Wanna make sure you’re ready.” He’s already panting, running his nose over your cheek, using his free hand to grip your jaw. “Please, baby? I’m ready, Brucie—fuck—need your dick in me,” you say, eyes pleading, boring in to his steely blues. “Yeah? Fuck, okay. I’ll give you just what you want,” he grunts.

Bruce pushes into you with a hiss, your pussy still sinfully tight around him despite his efforts to ready you. “You’ll tell me, god damn, you’ll tell me if it hurts, yeah?” He says, and you nod—the air punched out of you with every thrust. Bringing your knee up, he presses it up towards your shoulder, deepening the angle of his hips. “Fuck baby, I can’t I-“ you cry, and he’s all over you. Broad shoulders, raven hair, warm hands—all over you. Kisses press into your jaw, “You can. I know it’s big darling, but you’re taking me so well. My pretty girl. Doesn’t hurt?” You shake your head no, clawing at his back, one thigh bouncing where it’s wrapped around his hip. “Be a good girl, roll over for me. Yeah sweetheart?” Bruce groans and you do—of course you do.

Now on your knees, spine arched, with your arms stretched in front of you, Bruce lines himself back up. You curse when he bottoms out—the stretch of him stinging, delicious, everything you’ve ever wanted. “Darling,” Bruce says, his hands gripping your hips, “I love you. Fuck, I love you. I’m gonna give you everything, whatever you want it’s yours. I’m yours. Shittttt—forever.” His words, the strangled noises of his pleasure ripping through him, it all has you tightening around him, squeezing him like a vice.

Bruce can see it now, a giant diamond glittering on your ring finger.

Thrust

Your gorgeous face lit up with a smile as you walk down the aisle towards him.

Thrust

Coming home from nightly patrols to your warm, sleeping form in his bed in your bed.

Thrust

His forever. You.

Thrust

You’re getting close now, Bruce can feel it—your ass wiggling against him, pussy fluttering around him, moans and cries spilling from your parted lips. With a strong arm he pulls you up, chest to your back. “Cum for me, sweetheart, please, I need to feel it. God, fuck, I need it,” he groans, warm breath fanning against your ear. That’s all it takes—you’re gushing around him, screaming his name. When you glance back, throughly fucked out, and whimper a tiny “baby, cum in me” Bruce loses it. Still crushing you against his chest, he buries himself deep, warm release coating your cervix.

It’s all a blur, really, how you ended up clean, snuggled into one of Bruce’s t-shirts. He had carefully eased you on to your back, disappearing off and remerging with a warm, damp cloth. Bruce was gentle with you in this state, lightly wiping you down, hushing your whines of overstimulation with, “shh, you’re okay, I’m here,” and “need to make sure my girl is okay”. He has you tucked into his chest now, fingers tangled in your hair, whispering sweet nothings against your forehead. There’s promises of a bath later, his other hand massaging your hip—he quietly checks in with you, “do you need water? A snack? Anything you want, I’ll have it brought for you.” You grumble, something about dinner sounding nice. He smiles and tells you it’s on its way. When you finally do fully come back to your senses, you gaze up at Bruce, a dazed look in your eyes. “Brucie?” you whisper. He grunts a response, “yes, darling?” You giggle, “all this over a little ol’ dress?” Bruce rolls his eyes but responds anyways, “all of this over you.”

“Brucie?”

“Yes, darling?”

3 little monsters in a trenchcoat: ❌

not batman, but bruce being his true self

Author's note: Author's note: More of Olly in Husbandry AU! I collaborated with @c-u-c-koo-4-40k on this next set of chunky chapters. Anrir belongs to @kit-williams, Khopesh and Lullaby belong to @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, Cedric belongs to @sleepyfan-blog, Felix, Batsy and Mic belong to @felinisnoctis. Thanks y'all so much!

Summary: Lullaby navigates the labs alone, narrowly escaping an ambush by the Blood Claws. Using speed, skill, and quick thinking, they evade capture until Olly intervenes with overwhelming force.

Warning: Graphic violence / combat, Blood and injury, Threats and attempted harm, Intense tension / fear, Mild gore, Strong language / profanities. LMK if I need to add anything else.

tagged: @sleepyfan-blog @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @i-am-a-dragon34 @ms--lobotomy @jaghatai-khock @legionsofthehungry

tagged: @kit-williams @aprofessionaln00b @bleedingichorhearts @thevoidscreams @gra93fruit-blog

Tagged: @felinisnoctis @egrets-not-regrets @finchly-tintinnabulation @nereidof40k @bookandyarndragon