#dcverse

Lois needed a bath.

A bath, a soft bed, and dreams that didn’t include deadlines or front-page disasters.

After a long, soul-draining day at the Daily Planet, all she wanted was to peel off her clothes, sink into warm water, and forget the world existed. But just as her hand turned the doorknob, the low murmur of a television echoed faintly from inside her apartment.

She paused.

That wasn’t right.

She hadn’t even touched the remote that morning, and barely managed to grab her coat on the way out. Her brow furrowed. Slowly, cautiously, she pushed the door open.

The familiar scent of home greeted her, but it did little to soothe her nerves. She moved in silence, her heels muffled against the wooden floor. In the corner, she reached instinctively for the baseball bat - her emergency companion - and raised it with practiced form.

But then came the laugh.

The most unmistakable, heartwarming of laughter.

Her muscles lost all tension in an instant. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, returned the bat to its resting spot, and tossed her keys into the ceramic jar by the door with a muted clink. Kicking the door shut with her foot, she marched into the living room, frustration already mounting.

“How the hell did you get in here?”

You were lounging comfortably on her sofa, still chuckling at the black-and-white chaos of The Addams Family playing on the screen. That stupid, charming smile was plastered across your face when you turned to face her, and Lois’s heart had the nerve to skip.

“You still leave the spare key in the same place,” you said casually, one arm draped along the back of the couch as you shifted to face her.

She crossed her arms, willing her heart to behave. “That doesn’t mean you get to break into my apartment.”

“Break in? I used the door,” you replied with a grin, as if that made it any better.

She didn’t bother answering that. Her gaze had already drifted past you, narrowing at the chaotic sea of boxes strewn around the living room. Some were sealed, others open, spilling out belongings - too familiar for her comfort.

“What is all this junk? Is that why you’re here?” she asked, already stepping closer. Her eyes scanned over trinkets, clothes, photos, each one tethered to a memory she hadn't been ready to revisit.

And then she saw it.

The teddy bear. The one she'd impulsively bought you on your first date, after you'd offhandedly mentioned never getting one as a kid. Her steps faltered.

You noticed. Of course you did.

You always noticed when it came to her.

Clearing your throat, you shifted on the couch, suddenly unsure of yourself.

“I’m not... returning your gifts,” you said awkwardly, scratching behind your ear. “Well - I mean. Kinda. The internet said that’s what I should do.”

She turned sharply, her expression unreadable.

“You’re what?”

“I did some research,” you explained, with a helpless little gesture. “You know. ‘What to do after a four-year breakup with someone.’ Step three: return sentimental items to gain closure.”

Lois blinked at you. “You’re kidding.”

It took less than a second before your composure cracked. Laughter burst from you like a wave, unfiltered and genuine. She couldn’t help the faint smile that pulled at her lips, even as she rolled her eyes and grabbed a throw pillow to hurl in your direction.

“Asshole,” she muttered, her aim decent, but your reflexes better.

You batted it away, still laughing, and she crossed the room with a grudging exhale. “Seriously. What really happened?”

“Flood,” you said simply, still catching your breath.

Her expression shifted instantly - brows furrowed, concern replacing irritation.

“Everything in storage got hit,” you added with a shrug. “I just... grabbed what I didn’t want to lose.”

She glanced again at the boxes. Her voice was quieter now, almost hesitant. “Most people would save appliances.”

You didn’t look away. “I was more concerned with what was irreplaceable.”

Her gaze flicked back to you. And stayed.

For a long second, neither of you said anything. The television continued playing behind you - Morticia and Gomez dancing across the screen, black and white shadows flickering over the furniture.

Lois felt her throat tighten.

She hated how easy it was to get lost in your eyes.

How natural it felt to have you here.

She forced a laugh, light and brief, as if that might dispel the weight in the air.

Instead, it only made it settle deeper.

“Don’t even start,” Lois warns, her tone sharp enough to draw a line.

You raise both hands in surrender, staying silent, letting her focus drift back to the contents of the boxes. A pause stretches between you as she kneels beside one, brushing her fingers over old photographs like they’re artifacts from a life she’s still trying to make sense of. She opens jewelry boxes with hesitant curiosity, chuckles at notes you'd once tucked into books and cabinet drawers, each one a tiny time capsule. There’s nostalgia in her movements, but also caution.

You finally stand, your body unfolding with a soft exhale. “I saved some of the food too,” you murmur, voice casual as you step past her, but closer than you need to. The couch offers plenty of room, but you take the narrow path, close enough to catch the sudden hitch in her breath.

“My aunt left a bunch of homemade stuff,” you add, heading toward the kitchen like you’ve done a hundred times. “And I thought, since it’s Wednesday and Lois Lane definitely hasn’t eaten a proper meal, I’d better bring something for my girl.”

You’re already rummaging through the fridge when the words hit her like a thrown stone. Lois crosses her arms tightly over her chest, trying to fold herself against the quiet thrum in her ribs.

“We’ve talked about this,” she says, stepping into the kitchen behind you. The room feels smaller now, too full of memory. “I’m not your girl anymore.”

You glance over your shoulder, feigning a wounded expression as you unpack a container with practiced ease. “Don’t be silly, Lois,” you reply, flipping open the lid. “Dating or not, you’ll always be my girl.”

You wink.

Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She nearly chokes on the heat climbing her neck and face. She hopes - prays - you don’t hear the slight shake in her voice when she answers. “That’s not how this works, Y/N. We’re broken up. We need... boundaries.”

You stop what you’re doing. Close the microwave door, press a button. Turn to her slowly, leaning back against the counter with both palms braced behind you. The casual stance doesn’t hide the way your brow creases.

“We have boundaries,” you say, genuinely puzzled. “You told me not to call anymore. I haven’t. I don’t show up at the Planet. We don’t have date nights. We don’t even sleep together.”

Lois presses her fingertips to her forehead and groans softly. “Yes. Because we’re broken up!” Her voice echoes slightly in the tiled kitchen, her frustration rising.

You tilt your head at her, not quite getting it.

“That means,” she says firmly, pointing between the two of you, “you can’t just barge into my life whenever you feel like it. Not anymore. Tonight is an exception - because of the flood. That’s it.”

She gestures toward the boxes now, to the steaming container in your hand, to the unspoken rhythm you always fall back into so easily.

“We - as in the couple, the thing that was - don’t exist anymore. You don’t bring me your aunt’s home-cooked meals. That’s what you do for a partner, Y/N. And I’m not your girlfriend anymore.”

You sigh, arms folding across your chest now, your expression dimming with quiet defiance.

“That’s absurd, Lois,” you mutter. “Humans have the most ridiculous customs about ending relationships, I hope you know that.”

She scoffs despite herself, a bitter little sound as she shakes her head.

You hesitate, then add, more softly, “Besides... we only broke up out of convenience.”

Her head snaps up. "Oh, we did what now?”

You shrug, like you didn’t just drop a grenade in the middle of her kitchen. “I moved. We had zero time. Your job keeps you tethered to Metropolis. Mine doesn’t. Plus…” You raise an eyebrow. “You’ve got commitment issues.”

Lois lets out an incredulous laugh, her eyes wide. “Me? I have commitment issues?”

You nod solemnly. “Absolutely.”

“Wow. Just - wow.” Her arms fall to her sides, and she stares at you like she’s reevaluating her entire life.

You grin, playful now. “It’s okay. This is a safe space.”

She takes a threatening step forward. “I’m going to kick you out of my apartment.”

You burst into laughter, unbothered. She lunges to grab your shoulders, half-exasperated, half-laughing herself - but you're ready. You dig your heels in, refusing to budge. Lois underestimates the resistance and stumbles forward, catching herself only by grabbing the counter beside you.

Too close now.

Your hands are at her waist before either of you can pretend otherwise. It’s muscle memory. Dangerous and familiar.

“What happened to boundaries, Miss Lane?” you ask, your voice dropping, amused and almost tender.

Your eyes drop to her lips, slowly and deliberately. Lois exhales shakily, her hand still on the edge of the counter like she needs grounding. 

“I told you last time was the last time,” she says.

Your mouth is so close now that she can taste the breath between you.

“We’re not going to relapse,” she promises, though her gaze has already fallen to your lips, too. “Again,” she finishes, the word barely a whisper.

But neither of you moves away.

And when your lips brush hers, soft and fleeting, Lois summons every shred of mental discipline she has left.

She pulls away.

Firm and breathless, her body protests in silence - heat pulsing beneath her skin, heart pounding in her throat - but she doesn’t let it show. Not entirely.

You let out a quiet giggle, not teasing, just... disarming. You don’t press the moment further. Instead, you pivot effortlessly, moving to retrieve the food just as the microwave lets out its soft beep.

Lois leans against the doorway for balance, pressing a hand to her chest as if she could will her heart to slow down.

“Stop beating yourself up, Miss Lane,” you call over your shoulder, casual and light as you begin plating the food. “This is just dinner. Friends have dinner together.”

Lois laughs dryly and humorlessly, a breath caught between amusement and disbelief. “Friends usually don’t date for years. Or sleep together. Or break up. Not in that order, anyway.”

You shake your head, grinning to yourself as if her logic is merely technicalities. “Can you clear the table?”

She exhales in resignation at the subject shift, but she doesn’t argue. As you finish plating, she returns to the dining table in the living room, sweeping aside notebooks, a tablet, and some pens. The space between the two plates looks neat. Too neat. Like she’s preparing for something she doesn’t want to name.

You join her with the food, placing each dish down. Neither of you speaks right away.

It’s not uncomfortable.

Not at all.

You’ve had dozens of dinners like this before - quiet, cozy, sometimes exhausted, sometimes flirty. Lois eats like she’s starving, and in truth, she is. Her body finally relaxed enough to demand what it’s been denied all day.

Your aunt’s cooking tastes like memory. It fills the silence. There are a few mumbled complaints about work - Lois vents about her editor’s last-minute chaos, and you grumble about scheduling disasters - but eventually the rhythm slows again. The silence stretches, not quite as easy this time.

It lingers. 

You catch her stealing a glance at the boxes still cluttering the living room, then another glance at you.

She clears her throat.

“Do you plan on staying here?” she asks. Her voice is measured, casual on the surface, but too careful. “Because of the flood, I mean.”

You dab at your mouth with a napkin. “I was going to. But that was before you freaked out about my visit. Now I’m thinking I should find a hotel.”

Lois groans softly, rubbing her hand through her hair. “I didn’t freak out,” she argues, shooting you a look you know too well.

You smirk knowingly. She ignores it.

“I was just... serious,” she says, quieter now. Her voice carries the exhaustion she’s been holding back since the moment she walked through the door. “We need boundaries, Y/N. So we don’t keep hurting each other.”

You nod once, expression softening, eyes searching hers.

“It’s not healthy to pretend nothing’s changed,” she continues. “We ended things. Even if we’re... still us, in some weird way, we can’t just slip back into habits and ignore the fallout.”

You sit with that for a moment. Let the silence speak first. Then, gently:

“I feel, Lois,” you say quietly. “I know it might not seem like it. Like I’m just coasting through this, pretending we didn’t break up. But I feel it.”

Her eyes flick to yours. Vulnerable and guarded.

You offer a small, sad smile. “I guess I haven’t been showing that, huh?”

She doesn’t answer,  just swallows hard. You glance down, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the table.

“I know there are some things, some customs, that you have a hard time guessing or following right away, but I'd rather you ask. Instead of assuming everything's okay when it's not.”

A beat. You raise your eyes again.

“Okay. Then let me ask.”

Her posture shifts. She leans slightly forward, curious despite herself.

“Do you want me out of your life?”

Her face changes. Quickly. Like she didn’t expect the question to land so heavy. Lois looks away, heat rising beneath her skin. 

She crosses her arms and mutters, “Straight to the point. That’s great.”

“You told me to ask!”

“Okay, okay,” she says, waving a hand as she stands, like she needs physical space to respond. You watch her, but you don’t push. You wait. 

She paces slightly, only a step or two, then stops. Her shoulders drop. She sighs loudly and turns to face you again.

“I obviously don’t want you out of my life,” she begins, voice firm but raw. She lifts a hand preemptively when you open your mouth to respond. “But I don’t want to pretend I’m not hurt, either.”

You blink, gently stilling again.

“We were together for a long time, Y/N. And then suddenly... we weren’t. You were gone. You are gone, and I know you have to be, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped feeling your absence.”

She swallows. The words are thick. 

“I don’t want to pretend that it doesn’t upset me. That it didn’t break something. That there isn’t this distance now, and that it doesn’t matter.”

You stare at her like she’s the only thing in the room. You don’t move. You don’t interrupt.

“I want space to heal,” she says. “We decided to break up. We did it kindly. But if we want to stay kind - if we want to preserve anything real between us - we have to honor that decision. That means space.”

You lick your lips before you dare to speak.

“So… you want me to leave?”

Lois exhales. Slow, sad, and heavy.

“The thing is…” Her voice falters just enough to hurt. “I never wanted you to leave in the first place.”

Your breath catches.

“That’s the problem,” she adds, her tone gaining a bitter edge. “You left.”

“Lois-”

“No, come on,” she cuts in, shaking her head with a dry, humorless laugh. Her arms cross, a reflex to brace herself, like she’s afraid of what she might say next, or what you might say back. “Let’s be honest, yeah? I suck at relationships. I know that. I don’t date. I pull away. I shut down. I isolate myself when I should reach out. I’ve got baggage and walls and a thousand excuses.”

You open your mouth, but she doesn't let you interrupt.

“Well, Y/N, you leave.” Her eyes lock onto yours, unblinking. “That’s your thing. When things get hard, when they start to get real, you just… disappear. You step back. You leave.”

You’re quiet. The room seems smaller. Tighter. Like there isn’t enough air between the two of you, yet somehow, the silence feels vast.

“I...” Your voice barely escapes your throat. The protest dies on your tongue, unspoken. Because the truth is - she’s not wrong. You can’t look her in the eyes. You sigh instead, gaze falling. “I’m sorry.”

Lois huffs, no satisfaction in her expression. “Apologies don’t fix anything.”

“No,” you agree quietly, lifting your gaze back to hers. “But they’re what I can offer. Right now, at least.”

You straighten, standing slowly, and the distance between you shrinks. Neither of you moves, but the space feels charged now.

“I can’t undo what I did, Lois. I can’t rewrite the last few months, or pretend I was the girlfriend you deserved. I let my work come first. I let everything come first. But you- ” your voice breaks for a moment, your jaw tightening to stay steady, “you were always my person. Always.”

Lois’s throat bobs as she swallows hard. You can see the shine in her eyes before she speaks.

“I fucked up,” you continue, more quietly now. “I know I did. But I won’t lie and pretend my feelings disappeared. Because if we’re being honest? They haven’t. They won’t.”

She blinks slowly, and when her gaze meets yours again, it’s full of something heavy. Something raw.

“You can’t do this,” Lois whispers hoarsely, stepping toward you like her body has made the decision for her. “You don’t get to vanish for weeks and then show up with food and a kiss and tell me you still love me.”

“I haven’t said that yet,” you murmur, smiling softly.

She rolls her eyes, but it’s mostly to cover the way her hands reach out, finding your shoulders like they belong there.

“Yet.” Her voice is scolding, but she’s already too close for it to stick.

Then she kisses you.

And you melt.

It’s not rushed, at least not at first. Your mouths meet like a slow, aching memory, like you’re trying to relearn the shape of each other all over again. It’s deep and drawn-out, breathy and broken in places, full of unsaid things that bleed through parted lips and shallow exhales.

Lois’s hands are in your hair before you know it, nails grazing your scalp just enough to make you groan softly against her mouth. Your fingers tighten on her waist, tugging her closer until your bodies press together, heat chasing the space that had separated you for weeks.

For a moment, the world vanishes. The mess, the flood, the heartbreak - none of it exists. Only her.

Then she breaks for air, just barely, and your lips chase hers instinctively. Her breath catches - soft and sharp - and when she kisses you again, it’s hungrier and hotter.

Lois licks into your mouth with slow precision, and when your tongues meet, the sound she makes - a desperate, breathy whimper - is shamefully real. You swallow it.

The kiss deepens. Turns urgent. Her fingers tangle and tug in your hair with little grace, and your hands clutch her waist tightly, possessively. Needy. She presses into you, and your knees nearly give when her body meets yours that firmly.

You’re not sure when she started backing you up. You don’t even notice the couch behind you until the backs of your legs hit it and you fall back with a soft oof. The kiss breaks just long enough for you to look up and she’s already climbing into your lap.

Her mouth finds yours again, this time fiercer. Everything is spiraling faster now. Her breath ghosts against your cheek between kisses, her hands all over, gripping your shoulders, raking down your back, anchoring herself to you like she’s afraid you’ll disappear again.

You hold her like you never meant to let go.

Because maybe you didn’t.

Lois kisses you like she’s been holding her breath for weeks - and maybe she has.

In your lap, her thighs bracket your hips, her hands still threaded in your hair as her mouth moves against yours with growing desperation. There’s no rush in her rhythm, but there’s hunger in it; slow and certain, like she’s remembering what she already knows too well.

You don’t speak. Not yet. You just follow her lead.

Your hands slide over the curve of her waist, over fabric and memory, holding her like she might vanish again if you let go. Her hips shift subtly against yours, and your breath catches in your throat. She notices. She always notices.

When her lips break away from yours to trail along your jaw, you tilt your head instinctively, giving her more room, your pulse fluttering beneath her mouth. You can feel her sigh against your skin, warm and familiar, and it draws a shiver up your spine.

“Lois…” you whisper, but it’s half breath, half prayer.

“Shut up,” she murmurs against your neck, but there’s no heat in it. Just need. Just ache.

Your hands roam slowly now, reverently. Up the curve of her back, down her sides, memorizing her all over again. When your palms settle under her shirt and touch bare skin, Lois lets out a soft gasp that sinks straight into your chest.

“You okay?” you murmur, finally daring to speak.

She just nods, barely.

You lift her shirt only as far as she’ll allow, revealing smooth skin. Your mouth follows, pressing soft, open kisses along her ribs, her stomach, the edge of her bra. You worship with silence and lips, and she melts under the weight of it.

Lois’s fingers curl into your shoulders, grounding herself.

“This okay?” you ask again.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “Don’t stop.”

You don’t.

You shift just enough to let her straddle one of your thighs, guiding her gently with your hands on her hips. She groans softly at the contact, burying her face into your neck as she starts to move - slowly, hesitantly, testing herself against you.

You offer her only comfort. Still beneath her, letting her choose the pace. Letting her feel.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper into her hair, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’ve missed you.”

Her movements stutter. Her arms tighten around you.

“I’ve got you,” you promise. Your hands slip beneath her waistband with practiced gentleness, and she doesn’t stop you. She just kisses you again - deep and aching, like she’s pouring every fractured piece of herself into the taste of your mouth.

You explore her with careful fingers, unhurried and soft, touching her like she’s precious. Like she’s not yours anymore, but you remember how to love her anyway.

Lois clutches at your shirt, breathing harder now, mouth trailing over your cheek, your throat, anywhere she can reach. When your fingers dip between her legs, finding her aching heat, she gasps and tilts her head back - her body trusting yours again despite every part of her trying not to.

“You’re doing so good,” you murmur, kissing her collarbone. “Just let go. I’m right here.”

Her breath comes faster. Her hips grind down, chasing rhythm, chasing release. You keep whispering soft encouragements, each word meant to soothe, to hold her steady, to remind her she’s safe with you.

“Don’t think,” you tell her gently. “Just feel. You deserve this. Let me take care of you.”

Lois comes with a strangled breath, clinging to you as she shudders apart. Her head falls against your shoulder, lips brushing your skin as a long sigh escapes her chest, relieved, spent, and vulnerable.

You wrap your arms around her tightly, pressing kisses to the crown of her head while she tries to catch her breath.

Neither of you says anything for a while. The only sound is the quiet hum of the television still playing in the background, forgotten.

Eventually, Lois shifts just enough to tuck her head beneath your chin, her body heavy with exhaustion. Her breathing slows, settling into something steady. You think she’s going to pull away. But instead, she lets herself rest against you, her limbs warm and limp, her cheek against your shoulder.

“I should… go to bed,” she murmurs, barely audible.

“You should,” you agree softly, but you don’t move. Neither does she.

A long beat passes. Her grip on you loosens, just slightly.

“You’re warm,” she mumbles, almost asleep now.

You smile.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper. And this time, you mean it.

You don’t say much after that.

Just the gentle shift of your arms around her, the way your hands cup the backs of her thighs to lift her without asking. Lois hums softly, too tired to argue, too raw to pretend she doesn’t melt into your hold like she’s always belonged there.

Her bed is still a mess of half-folded laundry and scattered notebooks. You clear just enough space with a quiet laugh, settling her down and tugging the blanket over her body like you never forgot how.

She reaches for your wrist before you can pull away.

“You staying?”

Your breath catches. You don’t answer right away, just brush a thumb over her knuckles and press a kiss to the back of her hand.

“I’ll stay,” you whisper. “Go to sleep, Lois.”

She doesn’t let go until she does.

-

The smell of coffee comes first.

Then, toasted bread. Then fruit - her favorite, chopped just the way she likes, not that you’d ever say it out loud.

Lois pads barefoot into the kitchen with sleep-mussed hair and warm skin, her nightshirt twisted around one hip and eyes still puffy from a dreamless sleep. The apartment is quiet, too quiet - and you’re not there.

Just a plate on the table. A steaming mug. A folded napkin with your terrible handwriting scribbled in blue pen.

“Got called in. Supervillain throwing tanks off the Starbridge, you know how it goes. Didn’t want to wake you - you looked too peaceful, and I’m not a monster.

Eat everything.

 - Your favorite alien.”

She stares at the note for a long time, expression unreadable. Then she sits and eats slowly.

She doesn’t cry.

Lois is used to people leaving.

She showers. Dresses. Applies her lipstick like armor and pulls on her boots with practiced ease, telling herself it was always going to be like this - that last night didn’t change anything, not really.

And then - 

The bedroom window creaks open.

And you crawl through it, covered in ash and soot and some sort of cosmic glitter that probably isn’t FDA-approved. Your suit is ripped at the shoulder, one of your gloves is missing, and there’s a faint trail of smoke rising from your hair. You’re breathless, and you look like you’ve just fought the universe with your bare hands and still came back for breakfast.

Lois freezes halfway to the door, her purse in one hand, keys in the other.

“You’re tracking dirt all over my floor,” she says dryly, but her voice is softer than it should be.

You grin, one eye squinting as you wipe at a smear of blood near your brow.

“Could’ve used the door,” you offer. “But I remembered something about boundaries?”

She crosses her arms, ignoring the way her heartbeat triples at the sight of you. “You did promise not to break into my apartment again.”

You glance back at the open window and shrug with faux innocence. “Technically, I climbed. No glass was harmed. Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“I’ve got the trauma to prove it,” you deadpan, limping slightly as you step into the apartment, your suit groaning with each movement.

Lois watches you for a moment too long. Watches the way you wince when you lower yourself to sit on the arm of the couch. Watches the way you’re trying to play it cool, despite the exhaustion in your eyes.

She clears her throat. “Don’t think I’m answering that boundary question.”

“Thought so,” you say, almost smug, like her silence is its own kind of intimacy. “You heading to work?”

“Was,” she mutters, grabbing her coat. “Then a superhero broke into my apartment and slowed me down.”

“Lunch later?” you ask, already halfway out the window again, balance impeccable despite the limp. “If I’m not buried under rubble again by noon?”

Lois hesitates, fingers tightening around the doorknob. You can see the moment she softens. It’s small - a twitch at the corner of her mouth. But it’s there.

“Just don’t bring another supervillain with you,” she says, not quite looking at you.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you promise, then blow her a kiss as a new explosion echoes faintly from somewhere across the skyline.

And just like that, you're gone again - flying into the chaos, smoke trailing behind you, but Lois’s apartment still smells like toast and fruit and quiet hope.

Bruce stared up at the ceiling with his arms laid out on his shirtless stomach, restless but tired. His limbs were sore and heavy, his body bruised and battered, yet his dark eyes couldn’t help but flicker over to his window ever so often when he thought about what was on the other side of it — the source of his calamity.

He’d stare through the droplets of water at the blurred kaleidoscope of lights as they shone onto his floor, not eagerly per say just habitually; Bruce seldom ever saw a peaceful night in, so unaccustomed with the sweet domesticity of crawling under the covers at 10:30 pm and kissing your lover goodnight — he was usually so busy, for Gotham never slept and crime never seemed to stop.

No, Bruce couldn’t sleep; his thoughts a morbid mess of batman-esque obligation that made it impossible to close his eyes.

You were a different matter entirely as Bruce turned his head to look at you; snuggled up on your side of the large bed with his thick, black comforter surrounding you, breathing gently on the muscle of his shoulder and sleeping soundly, beautifully.

His pretty little wife.

His eyes looked over the sharp shadows of your sleeping beauty. From your wispy eyelashes, to your cute little nose, to your softly parted lips, a soft smile adorning the corner of his mouth as he did — he couldn’t help it.

Your hair was frizzy and tangled messily around your head, your soft breaths ever so often stuttered with an adorable snore but Bruce couldn’t help but think how beautiful you looked anyway as he raked his eyes over your face fondly.

As he did he realized how grateful he was that you didn’t need to worry yourself with the things that he did; you were too innocent for the cruelty of Gotham City, too pure and divine; an angel wrapped in wicked tapestry.

Even now, in your pale white pajamas on black silken sheets you looked too fragile for them, like they could wrap their shadowy arms around you and swallow you whole — just as the city could so easily do if he wasn’t there to protect you.

If Batman wasn’t there to save you.

I don’t care, Bruce. I love you anyway.

That’s what you’d always say when Bruce would settle down in bed beside you with a heavy sigh and whisper why do you stay?, on those long nights when he’d come home brutally battered and fatigued. After a night of being heavily reminded to the real dangers waiting just outside his door like a pack of feral dogs and how easily they could ensnare you in their jaws.

I don’t care. I love you.

He loved you too, he really very did.

With that final thought, Bruce was still caught staring at you with a soft look of love on his face when you gently fluttered your eyes open, your body sensing his awareness before your mind could.

He watched patiently as you groggily looked around before eventually meeting his gaze, his eyes getting even softer at the adorable look of confusion on your face.

Your eyes tiredly looked back up at him despite the darkness surrounding you two, able to see his frowned lips and dark eyes clearly, “Bruce? Why are you still awake?”

Your voice was raspy and tired, a small yawn following your statement that made pity tear at his heart for waking you up.

Bruce ran his hazel eyes over your face some more before he responded, unable to stop cherishing you.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He simply responded, voice low and intimate, words spoken in the bare space between his lips and yours.

You settled into your silken pillow with a small huff, eyes focused more on Bruce’s face now as the grogginess gradually melted away and your vision became clearer — the silence and rain thrumming calmly around you. It wasn’t a normal night in Gotham City without the rain.

“Well, did you try?” You teased just as quietly as he, smiling a little at the chuckle he gave you in response.

“Yes, of course I tried. It clearly didn’t go as planned.” Bruce mumbled back with a faint snicker, speaking just loud enough so you can hear him over the rain pattering on the windows, a small smile now quirked on his sharp lips.

You hummed in acknowledgment, eyes looking between his, knowing Bruce well enough to know when he was lying.

“I don’t really believe you. What’s keeping you awake?” You sighed with furrowed brows, resting your head right next to his bare shoulder to look up at him better — maybe if you pouted in that cute way he liked he’d tell you honestly.

Bruce faltered at that, looking down at you with a heavy heart; he couldn’t possibly tell you that he felt guilty laying in bed with you when he should’ve been out there, out there protecting those who needed him. But the fact of the matter, one he couldn’t argue with, was that you needed him as well.

He couldn’t possibly tell you how conflicted he really was but probably shouldn’t have been; two parts of him sharing the same mind and body but each with entirely different obligations — the irreconcilable duality that was he.

One part of him was Bruce Wayne; millionaire, orphan, husband, you needed that side of him, you deserved to have him for at least one night. But he was also Batman, and Gotham always needed him.

He was haunted with a classic case of Jekyll and Hyde but instead of one side lusting for murderous intent his alter ego longed for rightful justice in the grandest city of injustice. Batman was the only one who could live harmoniously in the dark, the only one capable of doing the things he did. It was an enervative dichotomous life of matrimonial duties and moral obligation.

There were two men sharing the same halves of the same soul and Bruce couldn’t decide which heart to listen to without making the other one feel guilty.

“Just work stuff, honey. It’s nothing you need to worry about, trust me.” Bruce dismissed after a short moment, shaking his head gently with a reassuring smile on his thin lips — like that could convince you of anything.

You narrowed your eyes at him slightly, registering the slight blue bags under his eyes and the crippled fault in his smile, all small clues of his devious, well-intentioned deception.

“Which work stuff?” You prodded carefully, raising a brow at him as suspicions already began to brew in the back of your mind as to what he was really referring.

Bruce chuckled again at that, loving your caring and inquisitive nature any day but wishing you’d just drop it already. He really couldn’t bear weighing any of the pressure he carried on your delicate shoulders, fearing you’d crumble under the weight of it.

“Really, it’s…” Bruce looked back up at the ceiling in indecision, searching for the right words, “it’s nothing I can’t handle, okay?” He looked back down at you with confidence, his voice firmer than before but still softly spoken to get his point across.

You narrowed your eyes at him with that, knowing it was a response you fully expected but were still annoyed to hear.

You were aware that he was lying to you but also aware that he wouldn’t tell you no matter how much you begged him; he never liked to tell you anything about his Batman related problems and it greatly frustrated you for some reason.

As his wife didn’t you deserve to know at least something? You were fully aware of what you were getting yourself into when you agreed to his long awaited proposal. After all, you didn’t just marry Bruce Wayne but you married Batman as well… you could handle the truth even if he didn’t seem to think so.

You sighed anyway, unable to mask your irritation towards him for keeping you in the dark. Your lack of sleep didn’t help the influx of annoyance either.

You took your head off his warm shoulder and went to turn around away from him, your fatigue easily irritating you more than usual.

Bruce licked his lips and sighed, having already disappointed you in an attempt to protect you; a small price to pay if it meant your pretty little head wasn’t clogged with constant, pained disquietude like his was.

“Fine, don’t tell me.” You muttered more to yourself than anything, fussing with the blanket you had wrapped yourself in during your slumber and now seemed to be stuck in.

Before you could fully turn around though Bruce laid a warm, consoling hand on your forearm that made you pause, “Hey, hey, wait.”

You lingered a moment at the feel of it before turning back around to face him, expression a little more sour than before — tired and impatient.

Bruce felt guilt swirl in his stomach at the look on your face, knowing he was disappointing you but also knowing it was for the best.

He kept the hand on your arm, leaning up and wrapping it around your back to bring you into his chest, his other arm going behind your neck and tucking you into his side like you were his most precious doll — you were of course.

You didn’t fight him even if you wanted to, enjoying the warmth he provided and the safety you subconsciously sought out snuck tight in between his arms.

“Bruce.” You grumbled anyway as you settled against him, his arm releasing you for a moment to pick the blanket up and over his waist so there was nothing separating you two from each other.

You felt hard plains of muscle underneath you when he did, a flustered pinkness appearing on your cheeks, then slowly crept in hot embarrassment at the fact that your husband’s carefully structured body that you’ve seen many many times still managed to make you shy.

You melted into his side, albeit a bit stiffly as you were still annoyed with him and wanted to blatantly show it, your arms stubbornly slotted against your chest to separate yourself from laying completely on his.

When Bruce was done adjusting the blanket, the bed moving as he did, he settled still and looked down at you with those kind eyes of his you loved so much, the ones that always flustered you when you stared back into them for too long.

The arm behind your neck pushed you closer to him while he took his right hand and wrapped it around your chin, his palm so warm and big against your jaw that you couldn’t help but sigh in submission.

Bruce gently forced you to look up at him, his eyes staring down at you softly but earnestly.

“Alright, hey, don’t be like that with me. If there was something I thought you really needed to know I’d tell you. Otherwise, it’s best I keep that side of myself as private from you as possible. I hate the thought of you being in danger because of me, because I exposed you to that side of myself you didn’t need to see.” Bruce whispered genuinely, minty breath fanning over your nose as you stared up at him, seemingly calm now and even just a little regretful for being so upset with him in the first place.

“Just give it a rest honey, alright? I promise you, it’s nothing you need to worry about. Do I ever go back on my promises, hmm?” He said sweetly, looking down at you with insistent but loving eyes in the expectation of you responding.

You paused for a moment as you registered his words, still curious to know what he was really thinking about because you just couldn’t help it. You worried for him, wished he’d be more open with you so you could help him in whatever way you could. However, you also didn’t want to stress him out any more than he already was either, your mind picturing all the purple bruises littering his beautiful body pitifully.

So, you just shook your head like a scolded child, “No… you don’t.” You’d have to bite your tongue for now, pouting up at him cutely — Bruce was just too sweet to argue with sometimes and he knew it.

Bruce gave you a charming smile, gray shadow washed over the angles of his straight nose and narrow cheeks. His brown hair was more unkempt than usual, wavy tendrils of it fallen around his face. He looked so handsome, more tranquil this way, as he leaned down and gave you a peck on the forehead, a sweet hum sounding in the back of his throat.

“That’s my girl.”

You sighed happily, giving in to him completely now and wrapping an arm around his chest so you could burrow against him; he wrapped his arm around you tighter instinctually, enjoying the feel of you against him as he looked up at the ceiling in content.

Nothing was better than being with you, so much so that Batman himself felt satiated from his lonely perch in the back of Bruce’s mind.

You stared out the large, arched window on his wall for a few quiet moments, watching as the rain quickly fell down the glass one by one as Bruce softly traced his textured fingertips along the spine of your back.

“It always rains, you ever notice that?” You murmured tiredly against his skin, in a daze from the tingling sensation on your skin as he caressed your back in gentle, loving touches.

Bruce looked away from you a moment when you spoke to spare the window a disinterested glance, “What? You don’t like the rain, Mrs. Wayne?” He teased you, his spirits higher than before as he looked back down at you even if you couldn’t see, his nose filled with the sweet smelling shampoo you used — coconut and vanilla.

You smiled a little — you loved when he called you that.

“Well of course you do. You’re Batman, you’re supposed to like depressing things.” You spoke with a smile, only teasing him as your eyes drifted shut from the comfort of his body against yours, muscles melting against the black sheets nestled between his own.

Bruce chucked at that, his hand ceasing its calming motion, “oh, is that right?”

You hummed with an amused smile on your lips, nodding your head, “mmhmm, yes sir.”

Bruce scoffed playfully at that, looking down at you with a fond playfulness in his eyes before gently taking his muscled arm out from underneath your head.

You lifted your head up curiously to look at him, wishing for the moment to not be disturbed, only to be gently rolled over so that Bruce was laid on top of you and you were now sunken into the inky black abyss of cushions beneath him. Your lips parted in a slight gasp, staring up at him with those beautiful eyes he loved so much in surprise.

“Now now, Mrs. Wayne, don’t go calling me that unless you plan on doing something about it, it’s in bad taste.”

You giggled at that, a joyous and twinkling sound that made Bruce tense up, his eyes darting towards your lips and his heart quickening in his chest. You always had such an effect on him even if you didn’t know it.

“How ‘bout you do something about it then?” You whispered up to him sensually, voice low and playful. You could feel the air surrounding the little bubble you two found yourselves in change heavily as you ran your hands softly over his midsection, his light skin cold and soft, muscles hard and firm as you traced your fingers delicately over each individual ab until Bruce was twitching at the feeling.

He glanced down at your hands hotly, already worked up from your minuscule touches alone, his skin tingling from the sensation as a familiar heat started to twirl in his lower tummy.

He looked back down at you, eyes more hooded now but just as eagerly as rain pounded on the windows somewhere in the background — you couldn’t focus on anything but the sound of his warm breaths and the gradual throbbing between your own legs.

“Yeah? Would you like if I did something about it, Mrs. Wayne?” Your husband mumbled huskily, a teasing smirk on his lips as he lowered down closer until his face was just above yours, his big arms pressed into the pillow on each side of your head so you were surrounded by him.

He could see the way you inhaled at the name, felt the way your nails dug into his skin for a subtle, fleeting moment. He always knew all the right ways to turn you on, knew all the right words to say to make you melt in his hands like warm syrup — you were certainly just as sweet.

You stared up at your husband with heavy breaths, mouth watering for a taste of him, eyes blown black with love and unabashed want as he sat in the reflection of your irises. Your skin felt hot and your thighs tightened around his waist, arms aimlessly tracing the ridges of muscle that coated Bruce’s front; it was in an innocently naive way now, so unaware of how badly it was affecting Bruce himself as your initial confidence dwindled down to need.

You impatiently waited for him to make a move, give into the desire you both so clearly felt as your eyes ran over his shirtless body and perfect face in the mean time. With every exhale of breath out of his mouth you found yourself inhaling it back in, breathing his air and smelling of Bruce’s aftershave, Bruce’s shampoo, it was all just Bruce, Bruce, Bruce.

He had completely overwhelmed your senses with his smell, his presence, his very existence and it was making it hard to think clearly — only he plagued your thoughts so much it made your fingertips buzz to feel more of him.

It was in moments like these where the sheer size of Bruce was brought to your attention; he was much more muscular than you, all sharp edges and ridges of pure muscle and destruction that could destroy anything he put his hands on.

It was ironic to you, how those same hands that broke bones were the same hands that caressed your skin in the softest of touches, in the softest of ways, irrevocably incapable of breaking you.

Bruce believed he was all carnal ruination — hands made to break and fists made to destroy. He believed he had a dark side in him he couldn’t control, that Batman was the outlet for all the frustration he felt towards the injustices of the city and how easily it corrupted the lightest of souls. He believed he was made to hurt, to cause ruin — a reason why he never took a single human soul no matter how rotten it was.

But you believed he didn’t give himself enough credit, which is exactly why moments like these were so important to remind him.

You swallowed nervously now as you looked back into his eyes, your fingers faltering in their movement as they stilled on the angles of his hips, right outside the tight band of his black sweatpants.

“Yes, Mr. Wayne, that’s exactly what I want.” You whispered back up to him in a velvety soft tone, eyes looking at his pink lips and then flickering back up between his hazel irises lustfully; the look in them was too intense for you to handle but you sufficed, your heart thrumming passionately under your skin at the attention.

Bruce almost melted at the name, just as affected by the title as you were, lowering his face down until his nose was touching yours, his lips hovering right above your own.

“That’s my girl…” Bruce breathed thickly against your lips, his eyes flickering to your mouth as yours did the same to his, your mouth salivating for a taste of him.

A silent beat passed as you both just stayed in that position, locked into each other’s loving gazes and gentle touches, his lips just a whisper away from yours screaming to have you, to taste you. It was intimate and warm, quiet, your body feeling fuzzy and alight with something similar to deep admiration and not so far from a deep, shared love for each other.

There was no playfulness about it now.

It was then, when the tension had sizzled into flame did Bruce finally lean down and kiss you, his lips soft and cold, so contrasting from the warmth he sought in yours as the rain pattered on the windows and your angelic essence drowned him further into the depths of you.

You moaned softly, feeling relief flood through you as your hands gripped his hips for some sort of anchor off the clouds you seemed to be floating on. Bruce kissed you lovingly, a characteristic act of tenderness as he found his own needy noises hum in the back of his throat.

It was sweet and slow, lips careful and gentle against each other between delicate sighs and hums. He tasted of peppermint and the faint drawl of bourbon, his tongue damping your lips and your shared saliva wet on your mouths.

He seperated from you just for a short moment, your lips feeling the loss but not for too long before he was on you once more with a fervor, tongue molding between your lips forcefully and sucking yours into the warmth of his mouth.

You whined at the sudden confidence within him, lips barely moving against his as he took control of your movements and gave you no other option but to take what he gave you — his lips and his tongue tangling with yours messily as sensual rumbles sounded deep from within in his chest.

He brought a hand down from the pillow and intertwined it in your hair, tangling his thick fingers into your roots and pulling hard enough to arouse you further. It made your back arch and lips part in a salacious gasp.

Bruce found himself unable to part from your delectable taste for long, taking that moment to reconnect his damp lips to the skin between your chin and shoulder. He forced your head back as he kissed your neck, the cold air hitting every damp spot in a pleasurable tingling sensation that had your nails digging into his abs.

“Bruce…” You sighed oh so sweetly in a distracted state of mind, just wanting to say his name and have him hear how good he was making you feel with his simple kisses alone — a feat he always accomplished anytime he did.

The praise didn’t fall on deaf ears but he was too preoccupied with the sound of your heavy breaths and whines to really pay attention, too love drunk on the smoothness of your skin falling over his tongue as he licked his way down to your collarbone. He released his grip on your hair and his hands made idle work in caressing their way down your body to the hem of your white pajama top.

His hands were eager, so familiar on the curves of your body as they slid back up to your chest, hands big and desperate as they tightly gripped your bosom for a fleeting moment that had you moaning at the sting — he was handsy, unable to get enough of you and the way your body perfectly slotted between the strength and ridges of his hands.

His cock was already hard in his slacks, poking against your thigh absentmindedly as his hands dug into the center of your top and adamantly ripped it right down the middle. The buttons flew over the bed and your tits spilled out of the ripped material in a gorgeous ripple of flesh that had Bruce groaning at the sight.

“So beautiful, so gorgeous, just fucking perfect…” He mumbled in a lustful daze, more to himself as a factual observation, his hands now gripping your waist, eager mouth leaning down and making quick work to lap at your chest in the way he knew you liked.

You giggled dreamily at that, feeling fluttery and lightheaded at the praise, body warm and melting like a cube of butter on top of his silk bed sheets. He was always capable of making you melt with just a few loving words and caresses, another one of his talents.

Your hands had found their way into his thick hair, massaging at the loose strands when you decided it was impossible to stay still from the buzzing running through your pores.

Your pussy throbbed in your pajama shorts, painfully so, stomach in tight knots at the sparks shooting down to your core from his ministrations.

He found himself enthralled by the feeling of your tit in his mouth, fervently sucking on the skin there as his hands gripped into your waist so tight in a subconsciously possessive hold so you could never leave. Maybe it was the semblance of Batman himself leaking out from under tight fingertips, a degree of fierce protection in the way he held you underneath him, unable to be taken or destroyed by the same evil he fought almost every night.

You were here with him, with him and all of his burdens for the rest of your lives.

“So gorgeous…”

Bruce was lost in the pleasure you helplessly moaned in his ears, feeling his own mutual desire swirling in his tummy and thrumming through his skin that made every touch feel like fire, every kiss an ember from the flame until you and him were intertwined ash lost in the black smoke.

He loved you, his pretty wife, always so supportive and forgiving in the moments he definitely didn’t deserve it.

He picked his head up, panting and lips wet, your chest littered in pink marks and damp with his spit as Bruce licked his lips, hungry for more already.

You looked at him in all his glory, admiringly, just as enamored with him as he was with you as your warm hands slid down to his cheeks. Your own were flushed pink and feverish, breath warm and heavy as you lovingly ran your palm over his sharp cheekbone. His skin was soft, smooth and tepid under your dainty fingertips.

You gently caressed the faint purple of a bruise with your thumb, right in the hollow of his eye.

Bruce leaned into the tender action for a spared moment of comfort, his eyes hooded and twinkling in the dark as he breathed heavily against your lips. He kept finding himself absent in the presence of your beauty, staring at your face and your lips and being so thankful he had you at all.

“So beautiful…” He breathed gingerly, eyes looking over your face like he was seeing you for the first time — no, he was selfish in his blatant admiration of your magnificence, his heart throbbing almost painfully in his love for you as he watched the soft corners of your mouth twist into a shy smile at your devotees idolatrous attention.

He leaned down after a fond moment of your thumb tracing his cheekbone, after he was satisfied with his generous intake of your prettiness. He pecked an affectionate kiss on your smiling lips before dipping his head down and laying several kisses to your neck once more.

You bit your lip at the sensitive feeling, closing your eyes, lost in the feel of him, as he pampered you with doting kisses all the way down to your ribcage, his hands now playing with the hem of your shorts but not too boldly as to take them off quite yet.

“You’re everything, you know that? I could never imagine my life without you… you’re perfect, so perfect.” He rubbed your stomach adoringly, “Your body is perfect, so beautiful, I can’t believe you ever married me…” He mumbled in that rough voice of his, vulnerable in the night, in the moment when you couldn’t see him all the way clearly but he could see all of you just fine.

You could feel another smile playing on your lips — not that it had even left — the heavy sensation of happy tears casting a light sheen over your eyes. He was the perfect one, he was the gorgeous and beautiful counterpart of you that didn’t seem to realize his own value. You only wished you had the poetic spark in yourself that he had, then you’d be able to voice it properly. Still, his praise made your heart swell as he took your left hand and kissed the diamond ring on your finger amorously.

“Oh, Bruce…” You spoke in a hushed manner, voice wobbling from the overwhelming infatuation you had for the man, so thankful and grateful for such a man as wonderful as he. In your eyes the sudden romance had come out of nowhere, but it was still greatly appreciated as it caused your voice to thicken with the downpour of love it had spiked.

He looked into your eyes as he warmly kissed your palm, lips quirked slightly, eliciting another tender hearted smile from you. He then let you settle your hands back on his shoulders as he slotted himself between your hips, the affectionate moment lingering in the air as you pet his wide shoulders.

You were laid on your back, smooth thighs spread to accommodate his size between them, pajama top ripped down the middle in fragmented material hanging off your shoulders, your tits pooled on your chest and wet with his kisses. Your hair was tangled, fanned around your head, lips pink and plushy from all his salacious kisses, your eyes glittering erotically bright.

Despite that, you were not uncomfortable to be so exposed to him, exposed in a way you’d only ever be with him. You knew he would never judge you nor your body, that he loved you and all your freckles and scars and all the blemishes you considered imperfections — he loved them all. The only part of you not seen were covered by the shorts Bruce was already eager to take off.

You were beautiful to him, ethereal even, just as he said you were an angel, something divine and pure, a holy deity completely out of this world that transcended the mortal plane he was bound to, letting his lowly lips and hands cherish your merciful soul and body. Just oh so perfect.

“I love you…” You whispered, pathetically cute, down to him, a whisper wafting into his ears soft and fragile as if you were scared he wouldn’t say it back — he’d say it everyday for a thousand years if he had the blessing of living that long with you. Your nails dug into his shoulders, pulsing with need, as you smiled down at him sweetly.

“I love you more, Mrs. Wayne… I love you more…” He breathed hotly against your stomach, already leaning down and peppering sugarcoated kisses along your pelvis, so much closer to where you really needed him that the throbbing had become unbearably intense, wetness soaking your inner thighs and cream colored shorts. You felt your body shiver at the title once more.

You swallowed shakily as Bruce moved down, his daft fingers hooking into the band of your shorts and gently shoving them down to your knees as his longing lips reached the band of your lavender laced panties.

Your thighs tightened around his head as cool air hit your wet center, your body sensitive and pulsing heavy notes of desire straight into your pussy that made it hard to keep your head up and eyes open.

You just needed him, needed him and his expert mouth to bring you some sort of relief. Your toes were curled already, pussy clenching around nothing and spewing out clear juices that only damped your underwear further. You tangled your fingers into his hair heatedly, resisting the urge to shove his head down where you really wanted him.

Bruce swallowed hungrily, staring at your panty-clad pussy with dark eyes. He could smell your sweetness on his nose, the rain pattering on the windows still and the room still dark as sin but he could see his heaven clear as day, hypnotized by the patch of wetness in your panties, molded to the shape of your pussy lips and begging to be ripped apart.

His eyes flickered up to you, feeling your grabby fingers tangled in his hair as your thighs tensed back and forth around his neck.

Your head was barely held up, eyes hooded and sparkling with a form of lustful desperation as you stared down at him. Your chest bobbing up and down heavily and your skin radiant and smooth, the city lights from his window blurredly reflected in the fat of your cheeks. You already looked destroyed, like he had just fucked your brains out yet he really hadn’t done a thing.

“Bruce, come on…” You whined in a delicate plea when he made no movement further, hands barely pulling his hair but it was hard enough for his skin to prickle in pleasure, a hiss leaving his lips, just hard enough to get your message across.

He snickered at that, lips shiny and jaw chiseled, his face so sharp yet soft at the same time. His beauty greatly perplexed you for how could a mere mortal be so fucking handsome? He was though, he was strong and big and riddled with scars and imperfections yet the accumulation of all those little faults are what made him flawless.

Bruce himself felt the throbs of impatience nestled in his stomach, burrowed in his heart, buzzing at his fingertips, as he looked down at your pussy once more just inches from his mouth, both wet and watering for the other.

“Be patient, honey. I just wanna look at ‘cha first. You’re so pretty, dripping wet for me…” He had the audacity to murmur in that cocky voice of his, yet simultaneously genuine and stunned at the observation as his hands rubbed your thighs, being sure to heartily press into the tissue in that way he knew you liked.

You couldn’t help but pull his hair some more, bursting at the seams for some sort of pleasure you feared it would boil over and you’d explode. You felt frustration settle through your veins once more like molten lava, your skin tensing and thighs aching from their tight grip around his neck.

“Bruce, no more teasing, please? Just please…” You moaned and whined like a stubborn girl, voice thick with need and painful yearning that made his cock twitch in his pants. You almost sounded broken, voice fragmented with a certain torment only his mouth and fingers could appease.

He licked his lips, feeling desire swell in his lower tummy at the state of you — already so incapable of any thought but the memory of his cock inside you, the feeling of his fingers drilling into your tight hole as he spat and licked on your sensitive clit. It was all you could think about, all you could picture in your mind as your head laid back on the pillows and you scooted down the bed until your pussy was right in his face.

The blanket had long since been forgotten, bunched around his hips and aiding as a nice cushion for his abdomen hunched over the end of the bed.

Bruce felt himself chuckle huskily at your shameless neediness, his big hands stopping on your plush inner thighs as he settled down between your legs on the soft mattress, getting himself comfortable for you.

You breathed heavily, eyes closed as you laid back on the silken pillow with your face crumbled so cutely. He was such a tease even when he was meant to be sweet, even when he was insistent on being a good husband who doted on his wife whenever he could — you guessed growing up rich gave him that arrogant edge.

Your stomach was knotted so tight, your skin hot and shivering for some sort of touch as your fingers dug themselves into the roots of his damp, brown hair. You needed him so bad, but your pussy needed him worse.

You felt your thighs tickle as Bruce lightly traced the pads of his fingers down, down, down until he was at the crook of your inner thigh, his right hand digging into the flesh of your leg like he himself couldn’t hold back from you anymore.

Bruce didn’t bother voicing any teasing quips or dirty statements, knowing you were so out of it you wouldn’t listen to him anyway. Every fiber of your being was hooked on his touches, hyper aware of the spots his fingers trickled across, eager for some degree of pleasure that would make this painful waiting period worth it.

He swallowed down the salvia pooling in his throat, so hungry for a taste of you, starved almost. His index finger hooked into your panties and delicately pushed them out of the way until they were bunched in the crook of your thigh. His eyes were met with your soaking wet slit in all its glory.

White, creamy arousal stuck to your panties and dripped down your pulsing hole into the crack of your ass, sheer white beads of cum dribbled down your needy hole that would escape his tongue before he even got a proper taste of you yet.

The cool air made you whine behind closed lips, your voice high pitched and desperate now, your fingers tighter in his hair as your hips subtly bucked forward. The beautiful noises you were making made Bruce’s jaw clench.

You were glistening, shiny with arousal and the strings of impenitent want, evidence of your desire and love for him as he found himself inhaling the scent of you once more.

You smelt so good. He found himself groaning at the musky sweetness, his finger still hooked around the crotch of your panties as his other hand tightly gripped your thigh — you moaned softly at the pressure, sure that there would be the faint yellow bruises of his adoring fingerprints pressed into your skin tomorrow. A charming reminder of the evening when they blossomed.

You felt your core clench once more, thighs tensing up as wetness shone in his greedy irises.

Bruce was unable to wait any longer, his mouth salivating and his eyes blown black as he pressed his tongue into your wet hole and licked a bold stripe all the way up to your buzzing clit, the taste of your arousal pooled on his tongue and already dripping down the sharp corners of his mouth.

You couldn’t stop the loud moan from echoing in the room, euphoric sounding as sweet sparks went off all over your skin at the long awaited contact. Your fingers tightly anchored themselves in Bruce’s hair as his tongue went up and down your folds, gathering as much of your wetness in his mouth as he could.

His hands swiftly dug themselves into your hips to hold you down once you started writhing in his hold. His tongue forcefully circled your clit in sharp wet strokes, deep rumbled moans escaping his chest that vibrated the sensitivity of it and only made more wetness gush out of you and soak his chin.

You tasted so good, so fucking good; he wanted nothing more than to be drowned in your essence, choking on everything you gave him until his belly was full and even then he wouldn’t be satisfied, he’d never be satisfied. He was like a monster, chasing every little drop of cum that pebbled out of your clenching hole with a forked tongue, greedy and carnivorous like you were the only nectar he ever wanted to taste again.

His tongue lapped your pussy once more as you gasped, back arched and toes clenched as he thrusted his tongue into you over and over, wet and messily as your juices shimmered on his cheeks and lips.

No, he decided, the beast within him would never be tamed.

You bucked away from his mouth in a pathetic attempt to free yourself from the overwhelming pleasure, but Bruce held you down with his strong arms, staring up at you with furrowed brows of concentration as his lips molded over your puffy clit once more, swollen from need and his relentless licking.

He was nothing if not devoted, devoted to your elegance, to your holy figure and endless love as he lapped at you desperately, his tongue swirling your clit as the fabric of your panties tickled his nose. He couldn’t get enough, pushing deeper and harder until your wetness was messily smeared on his mouth and face, eating more and tasting more until his entire being was smothered with your cum inside and out.

“Bruce, o-oh my god!” You squealed wantonly, one hand now gripping the black sheets between tight fingers as your other hand remained in his hair, following the movements of his head as he went up and down, side to side until not an inch of you wasn’t covered in his salvia.

He breathed hotly against you, his eyes closed as he savored the feel of you in his mouth and trickling down his throat. He couldn’t think of anything else, couldn’t listen to reason as all he could focus on was you and your cum, tasting you, licking you, having you in every sense of the word. No one could tear him away from you, not now, not when he was so close to having you cum in his mouth and reaching his final purpose.

You were so close, you could feel it in your tummy. Your hole clenching around his tongue as he went back and forth from your clit and your soaked hole, wanting to pleasure you but simultaneously wanting to taste you for his own pleasure.

Your toes curled, stomach tightened, hands gripping the sheets as your mouth flew open in sporadic moans and gasps, tears prickling the corners of your eyes as your thighs squeezed around Bruce so tight you’d fear he’d never surface from between your legs again.

He wouldn’t have a problem with that.

Bruce picked his head up only high enough to talk, lips dripping and almost incoherent as he mumbled deeply into the wet folds of your pussy like he couldn’t bear to part, “You gonna cum for me, baby? Come on, Mrs. Wayne, make me proud, cum in my mouth.” As he voiced this his one hand crept down and slyly inserted themselves into the tight confine of your warmth, his index and middle fingers pushing inside you, so long and so big it made you cry out.

It was wet and warm, your juices slapping against his knuckles as he circled his fingers inside you, pushing on the spot he knew he was supposed to as his mouth eagerly returned to your clit. He looked up at you, eyes dark and heavy as he stared at your tits jiggling with every thrash of your hips, every arch of your back and every gasp out of your pretty, dampened lips.

He groaned into you at the sight, feeling his cock achingly hard in his pants as he sucked your clit into the warmth of his mouth and refused to let go, tongue prodding the area skillfully and harshly. He wasn’t going to stop this time, not until you were creaming around his fingers and leaking down his neck.

The air was so thick and stuffy that you couldn’t help but pant fervently, your body prickled with pleasure and overwhelming sensations that made it hard to focus on anything but his fingers inside you, long and lithe, slipping in and out as the sounds of your wetness clouded your ears and muffled your moans.

Bruce himself was lost in you, tongue and lips a glistening mess as they lapped and circled and sucked every part of your pussy exposed to him, it felt so good it stung — he was groaning into you softly, pleasure building in his tummy and rumbling through his mouth to your already so sensitive clit.

It was then, just a few short moments after his fingers wormed their way inside your tight walls, just a few short moments after he sucked your clit into his mouth did you feel your stomach relax, thighs squeeze around his head so hard he felt himself go dizzy.

“Ahh, O-oh my god, Bruce!” You moaned so blissfully, so sweetly, as your juices squirted onto his chin and his fingers squelched inside you.

Bruce moaned at the feeling, fingers gently sliding out of your clenching hole so his tongue could catch all the cum pouring out. You whimpered at the feeling of his mouth still on you, lapping at your hole like a dehydrated villager kneeling at a prosperous fountain, your skin pasty and so so hot.

He lapped at your pussy a few more times, up and down, ensuring he got his fill for the evening as faint tremors wracked your body in the aftershocks of his giving nature. You were flat on the bed now, belly sore from the tightness it held for so long, legs limp and body spent as you panted gently, heart throbbing in your ears.

You managed to lazily caress his sweaty hair though as Bruce surfaced from between your legs, face glistening and lips sore and pink. He looked manic, hair pulled and tangled and messily scattered on his face yet he seemed to be glowing at the same time, like he had never felt so alive and it made you want to giggle.

He sniffled, looking up at you with an impish grin, the taste of you lingering in his mouth and staining his nose. His hands fondly massaged your shaking thighs, noting your wrecked appearance and tired eyes, your sweaty skin flushed and warm.

He couldn’t help it as he glanced down at the mess he made, your slippery wet folds and the large patch of wetness staining his sheets.

“Mrs. Wayne, pardon my brashness of course,” He said almost sarcastically, breathless and rugged, an amused smile quirked on his lips as he leaned forward and embraced your hand with his, “but you taste utterly divine.”