older!brucewayne x fem!reader
The moment Bruce saw you walk in for your interview, he knew he was fucked.
And now, here you are—standing in front of his desk in that unmistakable pink skirt, twirling a lock of hair around your finger as if you’re unaware of the effect you have on the room.
“So… the café said they were actually out of your cappuccino,” you say nervously, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.
Bruce can’t help it but a slow smile pulls at his mouth.
“No worries, sweetheart,” he replies, voice warm and low in a way he doesn’t entirely mean to let slip.
You relax, offering him a shy smile before turning to leave, pink fabric swaying in your wake.
Later that night, long after the office has gone quiet, Bruce sits alone at his desk. He tries to focus on paperwork, on deadlines, on anything else—but his mind drifts back to you. Your nervous voice. Your skirt. The way you looked at him like his opinion mattered.
And that pink skirt keeps replaying in his mind like a problem he’s already losing control of.
Late that night Bruce would stroke his cock thinking of his pretty little assistant in her pink skirts.
Soon after, you found yourself staying late at the office, buried under clutter and stacks of disorganized paperwork. The building felt different after hours—quiet, cold, the long hallway of Wayne Enterprises stretching ahead of you like a tunnel of shadows.
As you walked past the executive suites, you noticed Bruce’s office door slightly ajar. A thin sliver of light spilled into the hallway.
“Mr. Wayne?” you called softly.
You pushed the door open a little more and stepped inside. The office was empty—dim, orderly, untouched, exactly the way he always kept it. You hesitated before moving around the desk, your eyes drifting over the neatly arranged papers and the personal items he rarely let anyone see.
A small picture frame caught your attention.
You picked it up carefully. It was a photograph of a much younger Bruce sitting between his parents on a sun-lit bench—his smile open, uncomplicated, the world clearly different for him then.
A sudden, low throat-clearing behind you made you jump.
The frame slipped from your hands, clattering loudly against the desk.
You gasped and spun around.
Bruce stood in the doorway, shadowed by the dim light of the hall.
“M–Mr. Wayne…” you stammered, your face burning with embarrassment.
He stepped into the room slowly and pushed the door closed behind him, the soft click sounding far too loud in the quiet office.
The quiet stretched until it felt like the air itself was vibrating.
You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice came out thin.
“I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to intrude.”
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Or maybe he just took up all the space in it.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” he said, his voice was low, controlled—too controlled. Like he was holding something back with both hands.
Your breath slipped out unevenly.
“I know. I’m sorry. I just—your door was open and—”
He was stating it like a fact he didn’t know what to do with.
Bruce moved closer, slow, deliberate, like you were something he was afraid to startle… or something he wasn’t sure he trusted himself around.
When he reached the desk, the space between you was barely a few feet.
Close enough to feel the warmth of him.
Close enough that it made your skin prickle.
He picked up the fallen frame, turning it over in his hand. His jaw tightened once, sharply. Then his eyes lifted to yours.
Whatever was in them made your breath stop.
Bruce leaned over you, his presence suddenly enormous, his shadow falling over the desk. The air between you felt impossibly tight, charged.
“Don’t you know,” he said, his voice low, controlled, yet laced with something dangerous, “not to touch things that don’t belong to you?”
You froze, heart hammering, heat pooling in your chest. His gaze was fixed on you, dark and unreadable, and for the first time you noticed how close he had leaned over, the faint brush of his shoulder against yours, the intensity in his eyes that made your knees feel weak.
“I—I’m sorry,” you stammered, unable to look away.
He didn’t move back. Instead, he leaned slightly closer, the faint scent of him wrapping around you. His hand rested on the desk, just inches from yours, and the tension between you crackled like electricity.
“You really have no idea,” he murmured, voice rougher now, almost a growl.
Your pulse spiked. Your fingers itched to pull away, but you couldn’t. The heat in his gaze pinned you to the spot, every instinct in your body screaming that you should leave—but every part of you wanting to stay.
His eyes softened for just a fraction of a second, and then darkened again. “You shouldn’t be here this late. Not alone. Not like this. And yet…” He exhaled sharply, the restraint in his voice making the tension almost unbearable. “You keep testing me.”
You swallowed, chest tight. “I… I wasn’t trying to—”
“You don’t have to try,” he interrupted, leaning just slightly closer, enough that you felt the faint brush of his breath against your neck. “I notice everything.”
The words lingered between you, heavy and sharp. You could feel the heat, the desire, the restraint all coiling tight between you like a spring ready to snap—and neither of you could look away.
The room was impossibly quiet, except for the faint hum of the city outside. You could feel Bruce’s thigh between your legs, close enough that the warmth of him pressed against you made you shake yet not close enough to satisfy the ache building in your core.
you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Every instinct screamed to step back, but every nerve in your body was alive, aware of him, drawn to him like a magnet.
“Bruce…” you whispered, breath uneven.
He didn’t answer with words this time. Instead, he leaned just a fraction closer, his lips hovering near your ear, and you shivered at the proximity, every hair on your arms standing on end.
Your heart hammered. You could feel the heat of him, the tension coiling in the small space between you. He tilted his head slightly, giving you a look that made your knees weak, your fingers clenching involuntarily.
And then he was closer still—closer than he should be. Your breath caught when his lips brushed against the side of your neck, light and teasing.
“I can’t… I can’t ignore this anymore,” he admitted, voice low, raw, full of restraint and something unspoken. “You make it impossible.”
Before you could respond, the words, the heat, the pull between you snapped. His lips were on yours—soft at first, testing, seeking, and then insistent, desperate, desperate enough to take your breath away.
You melted into him, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the tension beneath the fabric, the warmth radiating off him. He deepened the kiss, pressing closer, but not too close—enough to make every nerve in your body hum, every thought blur, and every rule you’d tried to follow vanish.
When you finally broke apart for air, both of you were panting slightly, foreheads pressed together, eyes locked. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to. The tension lingered, heavy and sweet, a promise that neither of you would forget this moment—nor each other—anytime soon.
“I…” you whispered, unable to finish, and he pressed his lips to yours again, softer this time, almost gentle, as if to soothe the storm raging between you.
“You’re mine,” he said against your lips, almost a warning, almost a plea.
He pushed you back onto the polished mahogany desk, the cascade of papers and pens hitting the floor like a declaration of war on restraint.
Now, he leaned over you, his broad shoulders blocked out the world, hands planted firmly on either side of your head, caging you in. His breath was hot against your neck as he kissed down the column of your throat, teeth grazing the pulse point that raced under his touch.
Each unbuttoning of your blouse was methodical, his long fingers deft from years of handling boardroom deals, but here they trembled with barely contained hunger.
The silk blouse fell open, exposing the delicate black lace bra that cupped your breasts, nipples already pebbled and straining against the fabric.
Bruce's growl rumbled deep in his chest, a primal sound that sent shivers racing down your spine. He latched onto the spot just above your left breast, sucking with possessive force, his tongue swirling over the skin until a blooming red mark testified to his claim. You arched up, the cool wood of the desk pressing into your spine, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body.
His hands, calloused from late-night patrols in the shadows of Gotham, slid down your sides, tracing the curve of your waist before gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
“You're mine right now,” he murmured, voice a low timbre laced with authority, the same tone he used in board meetings but infinitely more intoxicating. “No distractions, no escape. Not from this.”
His mouth claimed your breast fully, shoving the lace aside to expose the flushed skin. Teeth closed around your nipple, biting down with just enough pressure to make you cry out, the sharp sting melting into liquid pleasure that pooled hot and insistent in your core.
Your pussy throbbed, slick arousal soaking through your panties as he lavished attention on the sensitive peak, tongue lashing before soothing with wet, open-mouthed kisses.
Bruce's other hand ventured lower, bunching your skirt up your thighs, the fabric whispering against your stockings. He pressed his hips forward, the rigid length of his cock—thick and unyielding—grinding against your inner thigh through his tailored slacks. The friction made you whimper, imagining how it would feel stretching you open.
“Feel that?” he rasped, switching to your other nipple, nipping the underside before sucking it deep into his mouth. “That's the effect you have on me every damn day, watching you bend over files, your ass teasing me from across the room.”
Your fingers twisted in the crisp fabric of his white dress shirt, pulling him closer as desperation clawed at you. He hooked a finger into your panties, the damp cotton yielding easily, and pulled it aside. Without preamble, two fingers thrust into your wet heat, curling against that spot inside that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
He fucked you with them steadily, thumb pressing firm circles over your swollen clit, the dual assault building pressure until your thighs quivered
“Good girl,” he praised, the words vibrating against your skin as he trailed bites up to your jaw. He added a third finger, stretching your walls, the lewd sounds of your arousal filling the quiet office. The city hummed faintly beyond the glass, but it was drowned out by your gasps and the slick rhythm of his hand owning you.
Suddenly, he pulled free, leaving you clenching around nothing, a whine escaping your lips. Bruce's eyes locked on yours, dark and stormy, as he unzipped his pants.
His cock sprang out, veined and heavy, the head slick with pre-cum that beaded at the slit. He gripped your thighs, spreading them wide, Positioning himself, he dragged the tip along your folds, coating himself in your wetness, bumping your clit with each teasing stroke.
“Beg for it,” he demanded, voice rough as gravel, his free hand tangling in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing your throat.
“Please, Mr. Wayne... fuck me. I need you inside me,” you pleaded, the formal title slipping out from habit, making his gaze darken further.
That broke him. With a guttural groan, he slammed into you, burying every inch in one brutal thrust. Your pussy stretched around him, the burn exquisite as he filled you to the hilt.
He didn't give you time to adjust, hips snapping forward in a punishing rhythm, the desk groaning under the onslaught. Each plunge drove deeper, his balls slapping against your ass, the angle hitting your g-spot relentlessly.
Your nails raked down his back, tearing at his shirt as pleasure coiled tight in your belly. Bruce's hand came up, wrapping around your throat—not choking, but a firm anchor, his thumb stroking your pulse. He captured your mouth in a fierce kiss, tongue invading like his cock below, dominating every sense.
“Cum for me, Princess,' he growled against your lips, the word a filthy twist on your professional role.
The command shattered you. Your orgasm ripped through, walls fluttering and squeezing him in rhythmic pulses, juices gushing around his pistoning length. Bruce thrust erratically, chasing his release, before yanking out at the last second. Hot ropes of cum painted your stomach and the underside of your breasts, marking you in the dim glow of the desk lamp.
He slumped over you, both of you panting, sweat-slicked skin sticking together. His lips brushed your ear, voice husky. 'This office just got a lot more interesting. And don't think this is a one-time thing—next time, I'll have you bent over my desk during a conference call.'
