008

spam acc | @bat1nsignia

[bat1nsignia]

lights, camera, action!

➣ (#bat1nsignia) INSIGNIA. she/her. eng/arb. bruce wayne. red bull addict. multifandom. madonna. the wknd. gold jewelry. kohl. lana del rey.

MASTERLIST ! MAIN TAGLIST !

(all works under #bat1nsignia) (other acc: @bat2nsignia )

wanna talk or have a request? read the rules, ring the phone & leave a voicemail!

©bat1nsignia— please do not steal, repost, translate or reuse my work.

[urluviskillingme]

bruce wayne x fem!reader (long term relationship, no age gap)

Bruce Wayne who loosens the tie around his neck and pops the top button of his crisp dress shirt when you’re upstairs alone after a long day of work, the sleeves rolled up and pushed above his elbows. Smelling like fresh cotton, his fancy aftershave you got him for his birthday, and something uniquely Bruce. Defined forearms on show, too (whore).

Bruce Wayne who watches with a fond little smirk and a teasing glint in his eye as he watches you pay for dinner. Always a fancy candle lit restaurant, the meals listed on the menu barely pronounceable as you sit across from him dressed to the nines (obviously). You’re using your back up card, the debit card that’s linked to his account, but that’s irrelevant.

Bruce Wayne whose voice does that deep and smooth thing when talking to you and you only. Lips brushing your ear, a small smile tugging at the corners, nose brushing your cheek.

Bruce Wayne who drapes his arm over the back of whatever seat you’re sitting in: The sofa in the living room on lazy days, dining room chair at whatever fundraiser or gala Gotham’s elite is hosting this time. Never even necessarily touching you, just lounging there like it’s his natural resting position.

Bruce Wayne who lets you fiddle with his fingers to your hearts content.

Bruce Wayne who wears one of those long woollen trench coat, black obviously, and when it’s cold in the evening and you don’t have a coat on account of not messing up your perfectly curated outfit, he drapes it over your shoulders. The material practically swamps you, the sleeves way past your hands and functioning more as an open dress, but warm and safe and smells like him.

Bruce Wayne who reeks of aftershave in the most tantalising, mind numbing, best way possible.

Bruce Wayne who always overly tips servers, and when he pulls the cash out of his authentic Italian leather wallet his cufflinks glint in the lights, silver rings tastefully styled on his gorgeous fingers too. You stay tucked into his chest, swaying a little in your heels as the alcohol goes to your head. No one will ever be able to out drink Bruce Wayne himself.

Bruce Wayne who listens intently whenever you talk. It doesn’t matter what it’s about, if your mouth is moving you better believe he’s locked in. Your job, weekly gossip from Gotham’s upper class, whatever nonsense the tabloid is saying about the two of you now. He couldn’t tune you out if he tried.

Bruce Wayne who presses your knees together under the table at breakfast. The quiet mornings are the perfect excuse to stay connected in your own private way that no one else is privy to. He’s already dressed for work, hair styled to perfection and expensive suit ironed and buttoned up, as you sit opposite in your cotton pyjamas buttering your toast.

Bruce Wayne who adjusts his watch as a grounding technique, not noticing as your eyes track the movement every time. The flex of his fingers fiddling with the clasp (he should really stop; the mechanism is going to fall loose) and sliding it backwards and forwards on his wrist before pulling it tight again and tugging his sleeve down over it. Worth more than people’s homes and being treated like a fidget toy.

Bruce Wayne who kisses the back of your hand whenever he sees you, completely casually. No matter how many years you’ve been together, he never changes.

Bruce Wayne who, when driving, speeds up when on an empty stretch of road in some boyish attempt to impress you. It’s not a real attempt; it’s just something silly he used to do in high school that he keeps up just to hear you shriek with laughter and beg him to slow down through your giggles.

Bruce Wayne who naturally settles in a slight man spread, legs set just far enough apart for you to hook your knees over his thigh and dangle your feet in the gap when joining him on the sofa. His hand absentmindedly grabs onto your ankle, and his thumb rubs back and forward over the bone in a soothing gesture.

Just Bruce Wayne.

[beafond]

𝓣𝗬𝗣𝗜𝗡𝗚…

( 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 ) Bruce Wayne x fem!office siren!reader. workplace romance, employer/employee relationship, slow burn, mutual pining, texting/social media format, light flirting, age gap, food mention, late-night work, overworking, reader is Bruce's assistant, eventual romance.

꒰ fio’s filings : first time making this kind of fanfiction 😗 if it’s ass … suck it up brochacho idfk . also like ignore the time stamps idk how to change em so … actually just dont be picky how about that 😀

© 𝕭𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.

[dollyivy]

being bent over older.ᐟ bruce wayne's knee with your pretty ass sore from spanking, hidden inside the intimacy of his office. the tenderness of his lips pressed in gentle kisses after each precise hit; it makes you squeeze your pussy around the two fingers he’s stuffed inside your stretchy walls— how simply irresistible you are, with your dress pulled up your waist and high heels adorning your feet. no panties.

you’re needy on top of all, always sinking your teeth down your soft lip, eyes lit with ingenue excitement for something that’s supposedly meant to discipline you and fix your attitude. it’s something bruce always corrects with a gentle sweetheart, and you already know that it’s time to stop messing with your lips.

and it wasn’t already enough, he presses the tip of his thumb just at the entrance of your mouth and greedily, you suck on it. relax. focus. focus on how this is all making you feel. feel the palm of his rough hand massaging and soothing your aching skin. focus on the anticipation of each slap landing on your sore ass, pain and sweet pleasure vibrating through your entire body.

stop biting your pretty lips. don’t even lick them. let bruce tease and stretch your pussy with his fingers. his nature is to discipline, but he indulges, oh, how much bruce spoils— always keen to have you squirm in his lap, with the pleasure of submission, pressing the tip of his fingers right on your sweet little spot.

[1nsignia]

18+ mdni, bruce wayne

—————————————————————————

bruce was a busy man, both as batman and bruce wayne

all he wanted to do was to finish the rest of his work by tonight, especially since lucius has been hounding him for weeks about the overdue paperwork. if bruce could get it completed on time, lucius would let him breathe and he would get to retire early that night to your embrace

what he didn’t expect was the door opening to reveal you, wearing a silk robe and still awake at this time of night after trying to fall asleep without the presence of your husband

and what he certainly didn’t expect was how things took a turn— from you sitting by his side and trying to convince him to come to bed with occasional small kisses to you, full-on straddling his lap, the kisses turning hotter and messier by the second

the robe was slipping off your shoulder, your hair covering you and bruce around like a curtain as you moaned on his lips from the slight rock of your hips to his. one hand of yours was cradling his jaw while the other was on his tie to pull him close

bruce’s hands slid under your robe to hold onto your waist, feeling the unmistakable boner of his grow under you just by the warmth of your skin. it made him groan on your mouth when he felt you slightly shift under him, biting your bottom lip and sliding his tongue in right where you let out a sound as a response

he couldn’t help but rock your body with his, feeling the slight damp spot of your panties hit his clothed boner that made both of you moan

bruce broke the kiss, catching his breath as his eyes never left yours. “fuck” he groaned, feeling your body slowly grind on his. it made him take one hand to grab your face and immediately go back for another taste of your lips, capturing your mouth with hunger

“you’re distracting me” 

“and you love it”

oh yes he did. how could he not? 

you felt bruce rock his hips back with yours, giving your throbbing yet clothed cunt the attention it needed as it made you break the kiss to throw your head back with a pleasured moan, the heat in your core slowly getting satisfied by the friction the tent in his pants was giving you

and there, bruce pulled off the tie of your robe with a smooth motion. only to realize that the only thing you were wearing under that robe was your undergarments. all it did was darken his gaze with desire and tilt your head down to make contact with your lips, unable to resist your taste and touch

safe to say the paperwork was fully forgotten that night

—————————————————————————

main taglist: @sweetpeasosweet @lcvgty-4929 @fratbrochrisgf @wrldbloom @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @vianawaits @edawgz @hottubnda @onlyfeng @lucky-clover13 @tragicfiend @nyx-of-night @missmontiopath @bloomfaery @booksrcool @jaydennicole @gglouise23 @sicklyhana @klauvy @pocket-fish0 @romancedawn333 @sashadonat @uxavity @batslilwhore @oh-sheetcake @boo-123456 @ydivine @the-star-rover @slutfordpr @advline @arfemiz @freakkay09 @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @hernersworld @starrydustedwinter @inejskywalker @seeker2028 @ksiazkowaxx-blog @kh4dij7 @vanillakirstein @lillie1320 @scissorhvnds @branchesofmagic @devilslittlehelper @starr-jazz @nightwingblvd @yukimaniac @freddiweasly @devorator666 @dadump @ftkats @starl1ghtgr4yson @st4rstuddedreblogs @em12021 @heleneae

@darkxwolfsstuff @imintoomanyfandoms14 @littlelightbearer @th3d1nOr3ad3r @psychopompsblog @wwolfsca @kaiiii1009 @century-eggg @tvhore @chickenchickenpie @fanofthebatfam @sillygayfreak @tskdeion @potatoheartsyou @faepoetry @theall-seeingone @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @goobfeels (tags are open)

©1nsignia— please do not steal, repost or reuse my work

[1nsignia]

18+ mdni, tim drake

—————————————————————————

at the beginning of your relationship, tim drake tried to be quiet during sex— keyword, tried

he’d swallow moans and just let out a gasp of your name whenever he was balls deep inside you, feeling the walls of your pussy give him such a warm welcome that tim swore he was gonna cum right that instant

and whenever tim felt like a sound was gonna slip from his mouth, he would capture your lips with his to muffle a sound and swallow some of your own

but as time in your relationship passed on, so did his attempts to be ‘quiet’

and by quiet, im talking about tim sitting on his chair and full on moaning your name while you deepthroated him under the desk of his monitors, on your knees and holding his inner thighs as you looked up at him with those pretty wide eyes of yours he would stare at for hours

and god, was he singing like a fucking canary

“shit, baby” he let out another whimper, closing his eyes shut and knocking his head back to the headrest of his chair as he kept blabbering to himself. “so good, so good, so good—"

you just let out a hum, and the vibrations of your voice made his thighs in your grasp tremble for a second and a choked gasp leave his lips. it was so so hard for tim to focus on anything but the way your tongue swirled around the length of his cock and how warm your throat felt

oh, and you took him by the fucking hilt, mind you. so much so that your chin was hitting his balls and resting on the chair.

beads of sweat were forming on his face, his breath narrowing by the second. tim opened his eyes to look back down at you with that blown-out look on his face, heavy pants leaving his mouth.

and you were able to see his mouth open for a loud whimper to drag out of his fully parted lips from your tongue flattening on his tip, causing a small grin to form on your lips before your head slowly began to bob and drag his cock so much deeper in your throat that saliva started to seep from the corner of your lips

oh boy, when i tell you tim couldn’t keep his eyes off you— and his mouth shut too

“oh my god, ohhhh my god, you feel so good. takin’ me like a fucking goddess”

“don’t stop, please— hah— dont stop” “fuck, im close. wanna cum in your mouth so bad”

“please baby im so close— god, i wanna cum. pleasepleasepleaseplease—”

hey, at least he stopped trying to be quiet

————————————————————————— main taglist: @sweetpeasosweet @lcvgty-4929 @fratbrochrisgf @wrldbloom @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @vianawaits @edawgz @hottubnda @onlyfeng @lucky-clover13 @tragicfiend @nyx-of-night @missmontiopath @bloomfaery @booksrcool @jaydennicole @gglouise23 @sicklyhana @klauvy @pocket-fish0 @romancedawn333 @sashadonat @uxavity @batslilwhore @oh-sheetcake @boo-123456 @ydivine @the-star-rover @slutfordpr @advline @arfemiz @freakkay09 @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @hernersworld @starrydustedwinter @inejskywalker @seeker2028 @ksiazkowaxx-blog @kh4dij7 @vanillakirstein @lillie1320 @scissorhvnds @branchesofmagic @devilslittlehelper @starr-jazz @nightwingblvd @yukimaniac @freddiweasly @devorator666 @dadump @ftkats @starl1ghtgr4yson @st4rstuddedreblogs @em12021 @heleneae

@darkxwolfsstuff @imintoomanyfandoms14 @littlelightbearer @th3d1nOr3ad3r @psychopompsblog @wwolfsca @kaiiii1009 @century-eggg @tvhore @chickenchickenpie @fanofthebatfam @sillygayfreak @tskdeion @potatoheartsyou @faepoetry @theall-seeingone @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @goobfeels (tags are open)

©1nsignia— please do not steal, repost or reuse my work

[bat2nsignia]

tim dayyyyy

[ackleskisser-mp4]

meet... ART CURATOR!READER

Sharp. Elegant. Observant. Deeply grounded. Sophisticated. Quiet resilience. Tailored blazers. Structural jewelry. Cool, precise & unwavering. Dark espresso. Amber & cedar wood. Smooth. Measured. Firm. Expensive oil paints. Sharp wit. Intellectual. Historian nerd. High heels. Stylish dresses. Modern art.

Some headcanons

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who met Bruce at the Gotham City’s Museum of Modern Art (GCMoMA) during a gala in which she caught his eye. He decided to make a donation if she gave him her number. She gave him a fake one.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who made it crystal clear to Bruce Wayne that his money didn’t impress her and that he needed to do more than that for her to actually give him her number.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who decided to give him her real number after he showed up in the museum almost at the closing hour, just him. He had studied up the painting, painters, the techniques, and really understood what they were on about. He didn’t ask for her number; she just decided to give it so they could talk more about paintings.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who worked late hours at the museum lab restoring paintings older than a century.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who noticed that Bruce always showed up after hours. It was always around nine, and he would give her a ride home around eleven. Then he would entirely disappear at midnight. like clockwork.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who awaited 9 pm so she could talk with Bruce about everything. Including the trauma of him losing his parents.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who figured out on her own that Bruce was Batman. Because she’s smart and observant, and she was quick to notice how he was deeply scarred (both physically and emotionally).

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who awaited Bruce to arrive while she restored a painting. When he came in, she didn’t greet him; she just said, “Chiaroscuro. The treatment of light and shade in drawing. I just didn't realize how literally you took it, Bruce."

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who fell in love with the smart, utterly broken, deeply troubled man she met during the nights in the museum. Not the billionaire philanthropist, Playboy, who donated seven figures to the museum in exchange for her number.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who treats Bruce’s scars as a masterpiece that has been damaged but is still priceless and worth preserving.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who married Bruce. Just Bruce. Not Bruce Wayne. Not the Batman. Just him.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who is Bruce’s anchor.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who isn’t afraid of Batman nor intimidated by Bruce Wayne. That’s just her husband.

Tags: @anvidea @freaksinlovexx

[ackleskisser-mp4]

meet... ART CURATOR!READER

Sharp. Elegant. Observant. Deeply grounded. Sophisticated. Quiet resilience. Tailored blazers. Structural jewelry. Cool, precise & unwavering. Dark espresso. Amber & cedar wood. Smooth. Measured. Firm. Expensive oil paints. Sharp wit. Intellectual. Historian nerd. High heels. Stylish dresses. Modern art.

Some headcanons

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who met Bruce at the Gotham City’s Museum of Modern Art (GCMoMA) during a gala in which she caught his eye. He decided to make a donation if she gave him her number. She gave him a fake one.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who made it crystal clear to Bruce Wayne that his money didn’t impress her and that he needed to do more than that for her to actually give him her number.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who decided to give him her real number after he showed up in the museum almost at the closing hour, just him. He had studied up the painting, painters, the techniques, and really understood what they were on about. He didn’t ask for her number; she just decided to give it so they could talk more about paintings.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who worked late hours at the museum lab restoring paintings older than a century.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who noticed that Bruce always showed up after hours. It was always around nine, and he would give her a ride home around eleven. Then he would entirely disappear at midnight. like clockwork.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who awaited 9 pm so she could talk with Bruce about everything. Including the trauma of him losing his parents.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who figured out on her own that Bruce was Batman. Because she’s smart and observant, and she was quick to notice how he was deeply scarred (both physically and emotionally).

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who awaited Bruce to arrive while she restored a painting. When he came in, she didn’t greet him; she just said, “Chiaroscuro. The treatment of light and shade in drawing. I just didn't realize how literally you took it, Bruce."

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who fell in love with the smart, utterly broken, deeply troubled man she met during the nights in the museum. Not the billionaire philanthropist, Playboy, who donated seven figures to the museum in exchange for her number.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who treats Bruce’s scars as a masterpiece that has been damaged but is still priceless and worth preserving.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who married Bruce. Just Bruce. Not Bruce Wayne. Not the Batman. Just him.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who is Bruce’s anchor.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ᝰ🖌 Art curator!reader who isn’t afraid of Batman nor intimidated by Bruce Wayne. That’s just her husband.

Tags: @anvidea @freaksinlovexx

[patientofarkhamasylum]

urgent business bruce wayne x fem!reader

summary: you miss bruce while he’s away on business, so you send him a little reminder of what’s waiting for him at home. tags: sexting, sending nudes, teasing, dirty talk, phone/video call sex, mutual masturbation, needy!bruce, soft dom!reader, no y/n wc: 2.1k a/n: dedicating this one to @bat2nsignia, the biggest bruce freak i know 😛 ily, and i hope you like it!

Bruce's phone vibrates against the conference table while Lucius leads the latest in a series of investor meetings. Your name lights up the screen, and he knows he shouldn't check it. Lucius is counting on his input before Wayne Enterprises moves forward with any agreements, so he should be paying attention. But he's only human.

You: missing you

He types back quickly under the table.

Bruce: I miss you too. I should be home tomorrow night.

He sets the phone back down and tries to refocus, but immediately reaches for it when it buzzes again.

You: [Attachment: 1 photo]

He opens it casually, expecting a photo of whatever you've been up to—a meal, a new purchase, something mundane.

What he gets instead makes his breath catch.

You're curled up in his bed with the sheets pooled around your waist, wearing one of his dress shirts. The top buttons are undone, revealing enough skin for him to know there's nothing underneath.

Bruce: You're going to be the death of me. You: and what a way to go that would be ;) You: wanted you to see what you're missing You: how's your meeting going?

He adjusts himself under the table, grateful that every investor in the room is focused on the presentation.

Bruce: It was going fine. You: was?

He needs to stop responding. He has twenty people around him. This is wildly inappropriate.

And yet...

Bruce: Send me another.

The three dots appear immediately. You were waiting for him to ask.

You: what do you want to see? Bruce: You know what I want. You: i really don't... you'll have to be more specific

His jaw tightens. Of course you're going to make him spell it out.

Bruce: Less shirt. More you. You: that's better You: give me a minute

That minute feels like an eternity. Bruce has stopped registering what Lucius is saying altogether, his mind stuck on you: bare legs tangled in the sheets, your body warm and soft on his side of the bed.

His phone buzzes.

You: [Attachment: 1 photo]

The shirt is completely unbuttoned now, falling open to reveal your bare chest. Your free hand rests low on your stomach, fingertips grazing the waistband of your black lace underwear where it peeks out above the sheets. Bruce has to physically stop himself from making a sound.

Bruce: Fuck. You: that good? Bruce: Don’t be so pleased with yourself. You: can't help it <3 Bruce: Clearly. You: tell me what you’re thinking about right now

Bruce glances down at the increasingly uncomfortable fit of his pants.

Bruce: What do you think? You: i think i want you to say it Bruce: You. In our bed. No clothes. You: what else? Bruce: Your hand. Where mine should be. You: just where mine is?

He swallows. He's still painfully aware of where he is, even if that awareness has done very little to restrain him.

Bruce: Not just there. Everywhere.

The typing indicator appears, disappears, then appears again.

You: i wish you were here Bruce: Tomorrow night. I promise. You: that’s so far away though Bruce: I know. You: i can't stop thinking about you

His pulse quickens.

Bruce: Yeah? You: mhm. especially about the morning before you left... You: what you did to me before your flight

He remembers. He'd woken you up with his mouth between your legs and made you come twice before he'd even properly kissed you good morning. You'd barely been able to walk him to the car.

You: i've been trying to recreate it but it's not the same :(

Picturing you alone in bed, touching yourself and chasing the same release he’d given you, makes him shift in his seat again.

You: want to help? Bruce: I'm still in this meeting. You: so leave.

Bruce starts typing out a response, something about how he can’t simply walk out in the middle of—

You: [Attachment: 1 photo]

In this one, the shirt's gone entirely. The phone's angled down over your body as you lie back against the pillows with your free hand slipped between your legs. The black lace he glimpsed earlier is fully visible now, darkened enough at the center to make his mouth go dry.

“Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce’s head snaps up. Every person at the table is looking at him.

The investor seated across the room gestures to the figures displayed on the screen. "Your thoughts?"

Bruce clears his throat, schooling his expression into something neutral. "I trust Lucius's judgment on this. I agree with his assessment."

Lucius raises an eyebrow but says nothing. The investors appear satisfied and return their attention back to the presentation.

Bruce looks back down at his phone.

Bruce: You need to stop. You: do you really want me to stop?

He hesitates, but only for a second.

Bruce: No. You: then don’t tell me to stop You: tell me what you want instead Bruce: More. You: more what? Bruce: Everything. I want to see everything. You: ask nicely.

A breathless laugh nearly escapes him. You really have no intention of making this easy for him.

Bruce: Please show me.

Then, just to indulge you, he adds:

Bruce: I need to see you.

For a while, there's no response. Then his phone buzzes again.

You: [Attachment: 1 video]

He stares at the thumbnail. He could watch it on silent. No one would know. His thumb moves toward the play button—

You: don't you dare watch that on mute.

He freezes.

You: i want you to hear every second of it You: so i suggest you find somewhere private

Before he can respond, his phone begins to vibrate with a call and your name fills the screen beneath the FaceTime icon.

The responsible choice is obvious: decline the call, pocket his phone, and give Lucius the attention he promised. Instead, he's already standing.

"Excuse me," he says, moving toward the door. "I need to take this."

Lucius glances from the phone in Bruce’s hand to his face, but Bruce doesn't wait for him to comment.

The hallway outside the conference room is mercifully empty. He finds an unoccupied office several doors down, steps inside, and locks the door behind him. Only then does he accept the call.

You appear on the screen with flushed cheeks, and your whole expression brightens with a smile when you see him. Somehow, that affects Bruce more than any of the pictures.

"Hi," you say.

The sound of your voice only makes it worse, sharpening his longing into an ache that feels almost painful.

"Hi." His own voice comes out rougher than intended.

"Did you watch the video?"

"Not yet. Someone told me to find somewhere private first."

Your smile widens. "Smart man. Watch it now."

Bruce props his phone against the desk and opens the video. It lasts no more than fifteen seconds, but it's devastating. You're on your back with your hand between your legs, touching yourself slowly, almost teasingly. The quiet sighs and whimpering moans that slip from your lips go straight through him.

When the video ends, the call returns to full screen. You watch him expectantly. "Liked that?"

"You have no idea what you're doing to me."

"I have some idea." Your gaze moves deliberately down his body. "Are you hard?"

"Yes."

"Show me."

Bruce exhales through his nose. “This is reckless, even for you.”

"You locked the door, didn't you?"

He glances toward it. "Yes."

“Then I think we both know you’re going to show me.”

A beat passes. Then his hand moves to his belt, and the sharp breath you take makes every risk worthwhile.

"There you go," you murmur as your own hand slips beneath your panties.

Bruce unzips his pants, finally relieving some of the pressure that has been building since that first photograph. When he wraps his hand around himself, your soft moan comes through the speaker.

"Fuck," he groans as his head falls back against the wall. "I miss you."

"I miss you too." Your breathing has already begun to quicken. "Tell me what you’d be doing if you were here."

“I’d put you on your knees first.” His hand moves in steady strokes, eyes fixed on the screen as you touch yourself. "Watch you look up at me with those pretty eyes while you take me into your mouth. Hear the way you gag when I pull your hair and push deeper."

Your hand moves faster. “And?”

“Then I’d have you beneath me in that bed. Taste you until you couldn’t remember why sending those pictures seemed like a good idea.” His voice drops lower. “Your legs around my shoulders while you try to stay quiet even though we both know you can’t.”

“Bruce…”

"Then I'd be inside you, feeling you squeeze around me." His grip tightens. "Listening to the way you say my name when you're close."

A shaky breath leaves you as your hips jerk upward. “Keep talking, please.”

"I'd take my time with you." His voice breaks on a moan. "Spend the entire night making sure you remember exactly what I do to you."

"God, Bruce, I'm close." You're visibly unraveling now, right on the edge, thighs trembling around your wrist.

"I know, sweetheart. Let me see. Let me hear you."

"Only if you come with me," you gasp out. "Please, Bruce. Together."

His hand moves faster, matching your rhythm through the screen. “Together,” he promises, the word coming out strained.

"I wish you were here, wish I could feel you."

"You will. Soon." His breathing is ragged now, everything building to that breaking point. "Look at me."

Your eyes find the camera, glazed and desperate. That nearly finishes him on its own.

"Please—I can't—"

"Now, sweetheart. Come for me now."

You break at the same moment he does. Your breathless cry of his name blends with his rough groan of yours through the phone. He watches you arch and shudder, aching to feel you clenching around him instead of his hand, the frustration of the distance somehow making it even more intense.

For a long moment, there's just the sound of both of you breathing, trying to come back down.

“Well,” you say eventually, a satisfied smile spreading across your face. “I think that was significantly more interesting than your meeting.”

Bruce huffs out a laugh as he reaches for a tissue and begins putting himself back together. "You're trouble."

"You like me when I'm trouble."

"I do." He picks up the phone and looks at you properly. You're glowing, hair tangled across the pillow, completely beautiful. "I really do miss you."

Your expression softens. "I miss you too." You pull the sheet over yourself. “Do you really have to stay until tomorrow?”

Bruce glances at the time. The current meeting is nearly over, and everything on tomorrow’s schedule can be handled remotely. “I’m moving my flight up.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Bruce, I was only complaining. You don’t actually have to do that.”

“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair, then smooths it back into place. “Everything tomorrow can be handled over video. I want to be home tonight.”

A smile slowly spreads across your face. "I love you."

"I love you too."

Bruce looks toward the locked door. "I should get back before Lucius comes looking for me."

"Do you think he knows?"

"Lucius knows everything."

"Wonderful. Love that for us."

"Would you like me to apologize to him on your behalf?"

You laugh softly, settling back against the pillows, and the sound makes him wish he was already home.

"So, see you tonight?" you ask.

"See you tonight."

"And when you get here?"

His gaze darkens. "You already know."

"I want to hear you say it again."

"Goodbye."

"Bruce!"

He ends the call while you're still laughing.

It takes him another minute to compose himself. He straightens his shirt and tie, checking his reflection in the darkened office window until he once again resembles a somewhat respectable man.

When he returns to the conference room, Lucius pauses only briefly before continuing the presentation. Bruce settles into his chair and opens the documents in front of him.

Lucius finishes explaining the next set of projections before addressing him. "Everything handled?"

"Yes."

Lucius studies him for a moment. "Good."

Bruce knows that tone. He ignores it.

“I’m returning to Gotham tonight,” he says. “I’ll join tomorrow’s meetings by video.”

“Of course. I’ll make the arrangements.”

No smirk. No teasing comment. Somehow, Lucius’s professionalism is worse.

Bruce's phone vibrates one final time.

You: can't wait to see you, baby <3

He makes himself wait to respond, and by the time he does, he's seated inside the Wayne Enterprises jet.

Bruce: On my way.

navi | m.list | © 2026 patientofarkhamasylum. all rights reserved. tags: @vianawaits @arkhamknightmares @luviery @gemmawritess @cinnam0ngirlxo @batwngs @irisgrrl - comment here if you'd like to be added to the list!

[bat2nsignia]

literature masterpiece

[fancy-possum]

GALA HEADCANONS ◞ Bruce Wayne

how does your other half, Bruce Wayne, treat you during the galas you attend? well, like royalty obviously.

Bruce Wayne Masterlist ◞ follow for more. 2k event soon!

Bruce Wayne, who at every gala, the first thing Bruce does when you arrive is subtly check the back of your dress. He’ll step behind you under the pretense of adjusting your shawl or necklace, running his fingers lightly along the zipper or hem to make sure everything is secure. “Just making sure you’re comfortable,” he’ll murmur in your ear, but the way his hand lingers shows how much he loves taking care of you.

Bruce Wayne, who when walking down stairs or across marble floors, always positions himself slightly in front or to the side, pointing out any uneven step or slippery spot with a gentle touch to your elbow. “Careful here, love,” he’ll say softly, offering his arm so you can hold on. He never makes it obvious to others — it’s just for you, quiet and protective.

Bruce Wayne, who if your dress has a long train or flowing fabric, he’ll discreetly hold it for you when you sit or stand, making sure it doesn’t get caught or stepped on. He does it so smoothly that no one notices, but you always feel his careful fingers brushing the material, like he’s shielding you from even the smallest inconvenience.

Bruce Wayne, who during conversations with other guests, he keeps one hand on your lower back, thumb stroking gentle circles through your dress. It’s his way of staying connected, reassuring you he’s right there if you need an escape or just want to lean on him. When you get tired of small talk, he’ll smoothly change the subject or pull you away with a polite excuse.

Bruce Wayne, who if you’re wearing heels that start to hurt, he notices immediately. He’ll guide you to a quieter corner, kneel down discreetly, and massage your ankles or calves for a moment, completely unbothered by who might see. “You don’t have to suffer for beauty,” he’ll whisper, kissing your knee before standing back up.

Bruce Wayne, who when photographers ask for pictures, he always pulls you close, angling his body to shield you slightly from the flashes. He makes sure your dress is sitting perfectly, tucking a stray hair behind your ear or adjusting your necklace, treating you like the most precious thing in the room.

Bruce Wayne, who can tell when the gala gets too overwhelming — loud music, crowded rooms, flashing cameras — he senses it before you say anything. He’ll wrap an arm around your waist and guide you to a private balcony or side room, holding you close until you’re ready to go back. “We can leave anytime,” he’ll murmur. “You come first.”

Bruce Wayne, who at dinner, he makes sure your plate has everything you like and nothing you don’t. He’ll quietly switch glasses if the wine isn’t to your taste, or pass you the bread basket before you even reach for it. His attention is constant but never overbearing — just steady, thoughtful love.

Bruce Wayne, who when you’re dancing, he holds you like you’re made of glass — one hand on your waist, the other cradling your hand, guiding you effortlessly across the floor. He whispers compliments in your ear the whole time, telling you how beautiful you look, how proud he is to have you on his arm.

Bruce Wayne, who if your dress slips or a strap falls, he fixes it immediately, fingers gentle and quick, shielding you from view with his body. He never makes you feel embarrassed — just cared for. “I’ve got you,” he’ll say softly, kissing your shoulder once it’s fixed.

Bruce Wayne, who after the gala, when you're both exhausted in the car ride home, he pulls you into his lap, letting you rest your head on his chest. He'll manage your feet if your heels hurt, kiss your temples, and tell you how much he loved having you by his side. "You make every night better," he whispers.

Bruce Wayne, who even when you're not at galas, the habits carries over. he checks your outfit before you leave the house, makes sure you're warm enough, carries your bag without being asked. its never showy - just quiet, consistent love. you're always his priority.

Bruce Wayne, who on nights when you feel insecure about your dress or your appearance, he pulls you close and reminds you how stunning you are - not because of the clothes, but because you're you. "you could wear a paper bag and I'd still think you're the most beautiful woman in the room. no, the world."

Bruce Wayne, who keeps a small photo of you in his wallet. ones from a previous gala where you looked especially radiant. when he's stressed during the day, he looks at it and remembers why he fights so hard. you are his reason.

Bruce Wayne, who at the end of evert night, when the dress comes off and you're both in bed, he holds you like you're the only thing that mayors. "thank you for being mine," he'll whisper against your hair. "I don't deserve you. but I'll spend every day trying to."

a/n : can you tell this is so inspired by Tom Holland and Zendaya or am I crazy. also sorry for disapearing

[srenique]

⌑ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⌑ ⌇ @ 𝑠𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑞𝑢𝑒 | ‌ | ‌ | 𝑤𝑤𝑤.𝑝𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘.𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒

𝑮𝑰𝑹𝑳, 𝑻𝑨𝑲𝑬 𝑯𝑰𝑴 ???

WHERE :: your best friend hooked up with your boyfriend. so you hooked up with her ex.

SERVES : tatiana ( mdni! ), bsf goes low, reader takes it to hell, dick’s a willing and aware participant, he wants to get revenge too, riding, pussy eating, he’s a tits man, a you man, exhibition kink ( sorta ), heavy making out, humping, petty reader and we love to see it !! bsf cheated on dick with reader’s bf in this case, lipstick marking, hair tugging, fingering, making out hardcore, face riding, slightly buzzed but they’re lucid enough to give consent.

You thought your world would crash when your boyfriend sent a drunk picture of some girl in a denim skirt straddling his bare hips. Especially when you saw the butterfly tattoo on the girl's thigh that looked exactly like the one Vanessa got when you were both sixteen. You'd paid for the bitch's tattoo.

But nothing crashed.

You felt nothing. Killing two birds with one stone, your grandmother would call it. Was that what it was supposed to feel like? Maybe you should cry a little.

You tried. Didn't work. Hell, why should it? He cheated on you, that wasn't your problem, he couldn't keep it in his pants. It was more of a sign that he was a manwhore with no care for hygiene.

Usually in the movies, there'd be a crying ex girlfriend with the shining knight coming to wipe the tears and fuck the girl until she forgot about her dirtbag ex. You had no knight by you, so maybe that wasn’t your narrative.

You hadn’t rung up the girls from work for a vent session, hadn’t broken open the wine or the Ben and Jerry’s. Just carried on with the Friday tradition of unwinding with a couple of snacks while watching cheesy rom-coms about giggling, blushing girls and charismatic men with raging red flags.

“Run, girl,” You muttered when the male lead said some bullshit about ‘you don’t have to worry about her’.

About twenty missed calls from Carter sat on your phone. Fifty texts from Vanessa. You'd declined every single one, swiped on every text message. You were just watching Kill Bill now and munching on a bag of chips when your phone buzzed again. Your groan was muffled by the potato, fumbling for your phone. "Bitch, I'm not gonna— huh." You tilted your head to get a better look at the message.

Hey, it's Dick. Can we meet up to talk?

How the fuck did Vanessa cheat on this man?

You’d known Dick ever since he and Vanessa were in the early stages of dating around two years ago, and you hated to admit it, but he was one objectively sexy man. Who was sat there with a cappuccino in a local Blüdhaven coffee shop, looking the most tortured you’d ever seen him, over a girl who cheated, nonetheless.

You sipped your latte. “You look like shit, Dick.” Your voice was softer than intended. Maybe a portion of you felt bad. “What’re you thinking?”

He scrubbed his face. “I’m sorry, I— I didn’t mean to drag you out here to sit in silence, I’m just… confused. How could she— did I do something?”

You sat forward in your seat, raising an eyebrow, sighing. “Really?” You clicked your tongue noncommittally. “You’re gonna blame yourself for this? Dick, you got her expensive jewellery to ask her to be your girlfriend, you were pretty fucking perfect.” He’d done the research. Seen what colour jewellery she wore, if she preferred gold or silver, her birthstone, what cut, how long, and got it custom made. If he did anything wrong, you’d be surprised. “It’s her fault.”

He looked sceptical. He even let out a disbelieving scoff, like you were talking bullshit. “You don’t seem heartbroken. Like, at all.”

You shrugged, stirring your latte with a wooden stick. “If she can take him, she can have him. Carter couldn’t do anything without his mother’s approval anyway.”

His nose wrinkled. “Yikes. That sounds rough.”

"Why'd you offer to buy me coffee anyway?" His text had come out of nowhere, but he probably had his reasons. One or two at least.

His sigh was of defeat as he rubbed a sugar packet between his fingers, rubbing the back of his neck with another hand. “I just— you got caught up in my ex-girlfriend’s shit, and it felt unfair.”

You gestured to him. “You got caught up in my ex best friend and my ex-boyfriend’s shit, so arguably, I should be paying for this.”

“But I already paid.”

“So let’s go out for a drink sometime.” You shrugged. “I wanted to get wasted and forget about this anyway, might as well take you with me.”

His grin was blinding, the kind of thing Vanessa used to giggle about when she first met him. “A little too soon to go out for drinks, huh?”

“It’s a proposition.” You laughed, shrugging. “Drinks on me. Let’s go tomorrow.”

Dick had been used to fancy hotel bars, at least whenever Bruce had thrown parties with bars included. The ones where the bartenders wore suits and ties with top shelf liqueurs.

He felt a sort of thrill when you dragged him into a bar on the corner of 6th, one with dim, flickering warm lights that clashed with blue and purple ones. The bartender wore plaid, spoke in a thick Boston accent, had an unkempt five-o’clock shadow. The bar top was wooden and chipped, and on the makeshift dance floor were plenty of drunk people grinding on each other.

“Oh, this is amazing,” He couldn’t help but smile widely, turning to you. “There are places like this in Gotham?”

“Yes, Mr Trust Fund— Scott!” You flagged down the bartender. “Can we get a round of shot roulette?”

“Sure, sweetheart.” Scott flashed you a smile, wiping down a glass before heading to set up the shot roulette.

Dick turned to you, leaning on the bar slightly, tracing the wood grain with his finger. “So, you come here often?”

You perched yourself on a barstool, prompting him to do the same. Something that sounded like 50 Cent was playing on the speakers in the corners, bass thrumming in the back of your mind. “Oh, all the time. Best place in Gotham.” The shots were slid in front of you, and you both grabbed the glass and chucked it back, both of you humming. “Huh.”

“Kind of… fruity.” He mused, staring at the shot glass, putting it down. He glanced at you through his stupidly long and pretty lashes, clearing his throat. “How did you find out that… never mind.”

You chased the alcohol down with water. “I got a photo of a girl fucking Carter.” You scoffed lightly. “I saw a tattoo on her upper thigh that I’d paid for when we were in college.”

He ran a hand through his hair, huffing. “Fuck, shit, I’m so sorry— she just came clean to me. Maybe after you found out.”

“It’s not your fault.” You said lightly, waving your hand. “It’s theirs. They couldn’t keep it in their pants, Vanessa had a great, hot guy and she lost him, so…”

He couldn’t help his soft smile. “You’re gorgeous too, you know. Carter doesn’t know what he lost.” His eyes flicked down, to your lips, then to a barely working lightbulb like a moth would. But you caught it.

Your teeth snagged your bottom lip.

Vanessa made a huge mistake.

Dick’s hand was firmly on your jaw, leaned over the centre console of his Bentley so his lips could slot easily against yours. Your hand was carding into the floppy strands of his hair, swallowing each other’s heavy breaths. His cologne was deliciously clouding your senses, the hand not on your jaw reaching behind you to grab at your ass, squeezing, teasing your bottom lip with his warm tongue. His mouth separated from yours to burn down your neck, laving your pulse, pressure on your jaw gone in favour of tugging your shirt down over one shoulder to palm your tits over your bra.

“Your apartment is,” You paused to moan quietly, tugging his hair as a keep going, “literally right there. We can — fuck — get comfy.”

He nodded into your neck, brushing your skin with his lips one more time before looking you in the eye. “Good idea.”

You couldn’t remember how you actually got into his apartment, but you did remember stripping him of his clothes and pushing him down onto his bed, unclasping your bra. He hummed, biting his lip. “I have an idea.”

“I’m all ears.” You breathed, your breathing stuttering as you ground your panties-covered pussy over his boxers-covered cock.

His hand slid over the back of your neck, encouraging you closer. “Let’s send them a photo,” He murmured, pecking your lips, his nose rubbing against yours. “You know. Revenge.”

Your hand was already scrambling for your phone, switching to selfie mode just as he smashed his lips to yours, your thumb hitting the circular button and taking the photo. “Good?”

“Yeah, fuck, that’s hot,” He nodded, tugging you so he could kiss you, middle finger reaching down to rub at your entrance over your panties. “You’re soaked, shit, sweetheart,” He reached up and tugged, sliding down the lace covering your pussy with his pointer until they slipped off, lazily chucking your panties into the corner of his room. “C’mere.” He grabbed your hips and pulled you till your pussy was right above his mouth.

Wait what— fuck.

His mouth wrapped around your clit as two fingers pushed into your cunt, practically sucking his fingers in, dear God. Your head fell back, mouth dropping open as a surprised moan left you, hand shooting to grip his hair. He groaned, deep in his throat, other hand pressing on the small of your back to encourage you to grind your clit on his tongue that was circling and pressing on your clit.

“O—Oh, Dick—”

“Yeah, that’s right, give it to me, baby.” He moaned, yanking his fingers out, and just before you could protest at the loss of anything filling your aching pussy, he thrusted his tongue into you, flicking at your clit with his thumb, his nose bumping occasionally against you. The taste of you on his tongue made him want to sing your praises, but it came out muffled, the vibrations making your hips twitch and eyes roll back.

Repeated cries of “yes” punctuated by your broken moans fuelled his ego and his already painfully hard dick. With your walls fluttering around his tongue fucking into you, he’d say you were fairly close.

A lot of things were going through your head. Like how this was a stellar pussy eating. How Carter refused to let any part of his face touch your vagina. How Dick was so willing and drinking your arousal up like it was the gods’ nectar.

You were coming on his tongue soon enough, pulling at his hair to make him moan and lap at your cunt faster, slicking his lips and chin.

A minute later, he was still kitten licking you clean, and as much as the stimulation made you stroke his hair and whisper praise, you needed to get a move on. So you pulled yourself away from his mouth, pulling down his boxers while he whined and pawed at your hips to try and bring you back.

“M’ not done— fuuuuck,” His head dropped back into the pillows, giving way for the weight, as you sank down onto his waiting cock. Your warm walls wrapping around him, making his head spin before he snapped into reality. His hands took hold of your hips again, helping you move on him, thumbs kneading your skin as you dragged up and down his dick.

He hadn’t felt like this before. Your lips were on his neck, leaving kiss prints on his skin, from his chest to his jaw and around his lips. Raising your phone and clicking a photo of his fucked-out grin as you rode him, thumb hovering over send to Vanessa.

“You ok with this?” Your voice was uncharacteristically soft, circumstantially breathy, your nails raking down his abs and making him shiver.

He grabbed the phone, pressed send himself, propping himself up so he could take one of your tits into his mouth, sucking to stifle his shamelessly loud moans. Wasn’t working. “Mhm— ride my fucking dick, gorgeous,” He gasped between switching to your other tit, laving over your skin with his tongue. “Just like that, so perfect, honey.”

His mouth running away with him told you he was close, his thumb reaching to rub circles on your clit propelled you that much further, but you refused to come twice before he had even once, so you pulled his head away from your tits, bit his earlobe and sucked a mark behind his ear.

He shuddered and groaned your name, hot come spilling into you — morning after pill, here we come — and the twitch of his cock sent you straight after him, his mouth slamming sloppy into yours, gripping the back of his neck while his tongue slid over your lower lip and his lips following straight after.

You milked him for all he had, until you were both panting and he was staring up at you through his lashes like he wanted to fuck you on all fours. “Wanna go again?”

“We’ve got time.”

carter -> you carter : c'mon, baby, let's talk about it you know i love you she didn't mean anything i swear i can't live without you sweets you : she's busy. carter : doing what???? who is this ??? you : fucking me. it's dick, btw ;) carter : vanessa's ex? you piece of shit give the phone back to her [ blocked ]

vanessa -> dick vanessa : you're really gonna throw years away for that bitch ?you're mine i want you back let's talk about this i miss you so bad we can go to couples counselling, work on our problems together you weren't really fulfilling my needs, i had to look out for myself dick : for a guy who wasn't 'fulfilling your needs' nessie he sure was fulfilling mine vanessa : youre such a bitch to think you were my best friend fucking my EX ??? could you go any lower ?? dick : *you're vanessa : UGH

© 2026 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED : SRENIQUE. DO NOT MODIFY, REPOST, PLAGIARISE, TAKE DIRECT INSPIRATION FROM OR CLAIM MY WORK AS YOUR OWN WITHOUT PERMISSION OR GIVING CREDIT.

[1nsignia]

18+ mdni, dick grayson

—————————————————————————

you cannot tell me dick grayson doesnt have the craziest morning boner

he would wake up with you lying on your side, back pressed against his chest and sleeping soundly. all unaware from the large poking that was on your ass

poor man didn’t wanna wake you up because one, it was seven in the morning. and two, you were sleeping so peacefully he couldn’t bring himself to ruin your slumber

so instead, dick would just lazily grind his boner on your ass, pressing his lips on your shoulder to hold back any sounds and pant on your skin. and when you would shift and unknowingly press your ass more to his cock, he would shut his eyes and throw his head back to let out a quiet yet deep groan, his voice still laced with sleep

that’s it, his last fucking straw

“babe” dick carefully nudged you, desperation in his voice. but there was no answer from you. he trailed a path of kisses from your shoulders all the way under your jaw, only to hear a small “hm?” leave your sleepy lips “dick, it’s too early” you mumbled, eyes still closed and about to reach for dick’s head and press his face more into your neck. but your eyes slowly fluttered open from something poking and rubbing on your ass “dick? what are you—" “please, baby…” you could hear the slight desperation in his morning voice, his hips not stopping and still slowly rubbing on your ass. “woke up with the craziest boner… fuck, i need you” 

scratch ‘slight’, he was desperate desperate. begging from behind your back at what, seven in the morning?

you let out a breathless sigh from dick already nudging your panties down slowly, giving him a slow nod and already closing your eyes to fall back asleep. “just don’t wake me up, i need to be up soon” and as a confirmation, you spreaded your legs a bit more and pressed your ass more to his cock

god, that was all he needed to hear “i promise” dick whispered in your ear, thumb rubbing small circles on your cunt and feeling your arousal slowly form. “you were always too good for me, thank you baby” a small whimper left your lips. even when you were asleep— or at least trying to— his touch always pulled out reactions from you

he took his thumb off to pull his boxers down and line his hard and tip with your pussy, pre cum slightly glistening from the head. a relieved sigh left dick’s lips when he began to slowly insert his cock in, the familiar warm walls of your cunt greeting him with a welcome he so desperately needed. 

“thaaat’s it” he murmured on your neck, one hand shifting to slide under your shirt and fondle with your boob— which made you let out a small moan— while the other gripped on your hip. “fuck, just what i needed”

your lips slightly parted for a small moan to slip, your closed eyes now rolling to the back of your head as dick moved your bra strap from your shoulder to leave open mouthed kisses while sinking more of his length in you and once his cock was fully buried in you, dick stayed like that just to take your warmth in, groans humming on your skin and brushing his thumb on your nipple. a gasped moan left your lips, the sleep slowly fading from your body and your eyes fluttering open

"dick” you whined, squirming your ass as a sign for him to move. “i need you to move. please” he let out a chuckle from behind and you could practically feel a lopsided grin form on his lips. “thought you wanted to sle— ohhh fuck” dick moaned when he felt you bury his head more into the collar of your neck and your fingers sliding into his hair, his cock twitching in you as a response. you let out a small chuckle but it trailed into a moan when dick slowly rolled his hips to your ass “attagirl” he groaned, sending another lazy yet deep roll of his hips to your pussy and going crazy from how you were sucking him in. “just like that”

the depth of dick’s thrusts was making up for the pace— which was more than enough since he was already huge. and it did nothing but make the sleep fade from both you and him

“dick— oh god” you let out a breathless sigh from his tip nudging deep enough that it was hitting all the right angles, your back arching instinctively and pressing your ass more to his hips for more. 

and to add more with his lazy yet deep thrusts and groping, dick whispered all kinds of things to you in that morning voice you loved while fondling with your boob

“that’s it, gorgeous. take it for me”

“look at her go, fuuuuck. all for me” “cmon pretty girl, give it to me. make a mess”

another deep roll of dick’s thrusts and it made you clench all over his cock for your orgasm to come crashing, broken chants of his name leaving your fully gaped lips and your wide eyes almost seeing stars from how hard you came he let out a groan, the thrusts now sounding wet as he felt his own orgasm slowly approach. dick’s hand from your boobs trailed up to tilt your head up for his lips to meet yours in a slow, intimate kiss that were filled with pants one last roll of his hips made dick moan on your mouth, feeling his warm cum now fill you up as his cock still slowly dragged itself to fuck his cum in you. a pleasured sigh left yours into dick’s mouth as he kept murmuing small “thank you, oh thank you so much” repeatedly in your mouth

his cock finally stilled in your pussy, now soft and feeling the warmth of your pussy and his cum now buried to the brim in you. slowly, both of you pulled away from the kiss with a trail of saliva before it broke immediately

your gaze met with dick’s blue ones as both of you were catching your breaths. his hand shifted to cradle your cheek and his lips panted a smile, tucking a messy hair strand behind your ear

but right where he could kiss you again more softer and tell you what a good job you did, the alarm began to ring on the nightstand

there goes your sleep... and your sheets!

—————————————————————————

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@darkxwolfsstuff @imintoomanyfandoms14 @littlelightbearer @th3d1nOr3ad3r @psychopompsblog @wwolfsca @kaiiii1009 @century-eggg @tvhore @chickenchickenpie @fanofthebatfam @sillygayfreak @tskdeion @potatoheartsyou @faepoetry @theall-seeingone @rafesgreasycurtainbangs (tags are open)

[1nsignia]

@darkxwolfsstuff @littlelightbearer @th3d1nOr3ad3r @psychopompsblog @wwolfsca @kaiiii1009 @century-eggg @tvhore @chickenchickenpie @fanofthebatfam @sillygayfreak @tskdeion @potatoheartsyou @faepoetry @theall-seeingone @rafesgreasycurtainbangs (tags are open)

dick grayson taglist: @sxphr2 @dlthl @actionshotcanon @caseokeyboard

[namucolors]

⠀

⠀ ── ⠀ ⠀ GILDED PRETENSE ⠀

PARING: bruce wayne x ex wife!reader

Bruce Wayne is now fully focused on his role as CEO of Wayne Enterprises. With Gotham finally in safer hands, he has been able to step back from the life that once consumed him and devote himself to the company he was always meant to lead. However, persistent rumors about a divorce have made the board question whether he is stable enough to remain in his position, forcing him to ask his ex-wife for a very public favor.

RATING: 18+

WORD COUNT: 6,9k

GENERAL TAGS: divorced couple, ex-spouses to lovers, fake/pretend marriage trope, pining, mutual pining, needy!Bruce, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (DON'T), cunnilingus, fingering,​cowgirl, marking/biting, ​dirty talk, swearing, aftercare, alcohol and food consumption, emotional insecurity and discussion of past marriage neglect, mentions of Batman, happy ending assured, no use of y/n

fic recs.

Every time you walked through the doors of your office building on Miagani Island, you felt the eyes following you. You caught the occasional whisper, but after nearly ten years of this routine, you’d grown used to it. Eleven years ago, when you agreed to go to dinner with Bruce Wayne, you knew exactly what you were getting into. Everyone wanted to know the low-profile lawyer who had snagged Gotham’s most eligible bachelor. But over time, especially after the wedding, Gotham's public gradually lost interest in dissecting your life.

So, you went back to living discreetly. It didn't mean you never had to deal with curious glances or intrusive paparazzi, but it was manageable. Lately, though, things had been feeling just as intense as they were back when Vicki Vale leaked to all of Gotham that you and Bruce were dating.

You figured Bruce might be seeing someone. The thought was bitter, unfortunately, but it would explain why the Gotham media was suddenly tracking your steps again.

"What a way to start the day," you muttered, staring at your reflection in the elevator mirror.

It was going to be a long day. You had anxious clients breathing down your neck, and starting the morning thinking about your ex-husband moving on was definitely not the motivation you needed. You tried not to think about him, but you always failed. Every time you saw a headline about Batman on the news, your mind immediately drifted. Was he okay?

But those thoughts usually hit at more convenient times—especially during those sleepless nights when seeing the damn Bat-Signal lighting up the Gotham sky was enough to keep you awake. Now, your entire day was going to be haunted by the possibility of Bruce moving on. The mere thought made your stomach turn.

"Good morning!" your intern’s voice chirped loudly before the elevator doors could even finish sliding open.

She had a bright, energetic look that, in your opinion, did not belong on the average Gotham City resident. There had to be a very good reason for her to be this excited so early. If you were lucky, some major case had resolved itself while you were out. Unlikely, but a girl could dream.

"Good morning," you replied, heading toward your office with the overly enthusiastic girl trailing close behind. "Any particular reason for all this energy?"

As you neared your door, a familiar, sweet floral scent hit you. It had been a while since you’d received flowers. Bruce had always been an attentive boyfriend and an incredibly romantic husband; his habit of sending massive vases of flowers to your office was common knowledge among your coworkers. But, for obvious reasons, your receptionist hadn't seen a delivery boy in months. You were still surprised that no one outside of family and close friends knew about the divorce.

When you pushed the door open, there they were. An obscenely large bouquet of stargazing lilies. Your favorite.

Bruce always sent flowers, and you loved every kind. But out of all the arrangements he used to buy, lilies were strictly reserved for special occasions.

"They were delivered first thing this morning. It’s been a minute since the florist visited us," your intern said, smiling, clearly impressed by the grand romantic gesture. You approached your desk, searching for a card as if you didn't already know exactly who sent them. "Looks like he’s trying hard... I was actually starting to believe those rumors going around."

Strange.

"What rumors?" you asked.

"People are saying your marriage is on the rocks."

Little does she know, you thought.

If people were starting to notice your absence by Bruce's side at public events, it explained the sudden increase in lingering stares on the street.

Honestly, you were surprised it had taken people this long to suspect anything. You had been separated for nearly a year. The divorce had been finalized nine months ago, and you had asked only one thing of Bruce: to keep it entirely private. It wasn't the most logical decision, sure, but at the time, you were emotionally wrecked. Asking for a divorce was the hardest thing you’d ever done, and you couldn't handle the tabloids turning your life into a living hell again.

"You can't believe everything you read," you lied smoothly, just as you had for the past several months. It was almost comical how Bruce was still your perfect excuse to avoid social commitments.

“I have dinner with my husband.”

Meanwhile, your wedding ring was tucked away in your underwear drawer, and you hadn't seen your husband's face in months.

Ugh.

Bruce and husband in the same thought.

Your dismissive response sent your intern out of the room with a smile. You knew she was a gossip, so the flower story would circulate through the building and hit a tabloid column by afternoon. If people were already suspicious, a little harmless gossip wouldn't hurt. It was times like this that made you realize people would have to find out eventually, especially if you wanted to move on and leave the Wayne name in the past.

Maybe Bruce wanted to start dating again. He was a single man; nothing was stopping him. But what woman would even try to get close? To the rest of the world, Bruce Wayne was still very much married.

Right now, the lilies on your desk felt like they were mocking you.

You leaned in, inhaling their sweet, rich scent.

Tucked between the blooms was a simple white card. You recognized Bruce’s elegant, cursive handwriting immediately:

“Please call me. We need to talk. – B. Wayne”

On the back, in the same neat script, was his number. As if you didn't have it memorized. As if you could ever forget the moments you shared, no matter how desperately you tried.

When you first read the card two hours ago, you were positive you wouldn't dial his number. But now, your mind was starting to betray you. The flowers staring at you from the corner of the room weren't helping.

What if something had actually happened?

But if it were something serious with Dick or Alfred, he would have called you directly. And if he were physically hurt, Alfred had promised he would let you know.

He was leaving the ball in your court.

The uncertainty was driving you crazy, making it impossible to focus on your work. You had two major hearings for high-profile clients coming up, and yet the only thing occupying your brain was whether or not to call your goddamn ex. For now, you had to push it aside. You had a million things to do.

You spent the entire day completely spaced out. By the time you unlocked the door to your empty apartment, void of any husband with a giant bouquets of lilies, your only real option was to open a bottle of wine.

One thing led to another, and after three glasses, your thoughts were delightfully hazy. You found yourself on your couch with your laptop open, scrolling through the Gotham Gazette's society page.

GOTHAM GAZETTE | SOCIETY & GOSSIP Where Is Mrs. Wayne? Gotham Begins to Question the City's Most Private Marriage

Screw it.

You grabbed your phone and dialed Bruce’s number. He picked up on the second ring.

"Hello?" His voice sounded heavily out of breath. If you were interrupting something, you were going to throw yourself off a bridge.

"Can you hear me?" he asked when you didn't say anything right away.

"Yes, um... yes, I can." You swallowed hard. Why did he have to answer so fast? You barely had time to chicken out. "I got your flowers this morning... Look, I don't want to interrupt. If you can't talk right now, I can—I'll just hang—"

"No! Please don't hang up," Bruce cut in quickly, a brief silence hanging over the line. "I was just training with Dick. I just... I didn't expect you to call." Honestly, Bruce hadn't expected you to call at all.

"I can call back later."

"Absolutely not. Just give me a second." His voice was soft despite his heavy breathing. You heard the faint rustle of his phone being set down, followed by the soft fabric movement of a shirt being pulled on. Your ex-husband was probably sweaty and shirtless. Great things to picture when you're three glasses of wine deep.

"Thank you for calling, darling," the pet name slipped out, sounding so familiar yet so painfully foreign. It had been months since he, or anyone else, had called you that. "Did you like the flowers?"

"Yes, they're beautiful," you said, looking over at them. You’d put them in a proper vase the second you got home, safely out of reach of your curious cat.

"I'm glad. I... honestly, I don't even know how to talk to you right now." You didn't know either. You two used to be so good at this.

Before replying, you took a breath to make sure your voice didn't sound slurred from the wine. "Yeah, it's been a while since we talked. Is everything okay? Did something happen to you or Dick?"

"No, we're fine. Are you okay?"

"Yes," you lied. The line went quiet again, and you immediately regretted making the call.

On the other end, Bruce was starting to feel incredibly anxious and guilty for sending the flowers in the first place. The last thing he wanted was to make you uncomfortable. He would never do anything to hurt you. He desperately needed your help, but he was a coward. Even though Dick and Alfred had urged him to talk to you in person, he hadn't wanted to ambush you at your office, especially not with how fast rumors spread in Gotham. The last time you’d seen each other was on a gloomy afternoon when you came to collect the last of your things from the manor.

So, he sent flowers and left the choice to you. If you called, he’d explain. If you didn't, he wouldn't dare drag you into his mess and would find another way to handle it.

"I need to talk to you. In person, if you're comfortable with it. I don't think it's right to ask this over the phone."

Your mind immediately jumped to the worst-case scenario. Bruce was seeing someone else and wanted to take the divorce public. Great. Definitely not the kind of conversation you have over the phone.

Once again, the thought of Bruce with another woman made you feel sick. And with three glasses of wine in your system and a fourth currently being poured, that sickness was quickly morphing into…

Jealousy?

During your marriage, you had never been the jealous type. Despite what the media claimed, Bruce was never a womanizer, and he’d never given you a single reason to doubt him. It was deeply ironic that you were starting to feel possessive of him only after you’d divorced.

Well, you certainly didn't envy whatever hypothetical woman it was. Imagine being interested in a man whom everyone still believed belonged to someone else.

To you.

It was selfish, but the thought managed to quiet the green-eyed monster clawing at your chest.

"Can I pick you up for lunch tomorrow?" he asked.

You hesitated for a full minute, weighing the pros and cons. But you couldn't deny how much you missed him. A simple lunch wouldn't hurt.

"Okay," you finally whispered. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

The next morning dragged on at a snail's pace. Your firm was swamped with cases, and the interns and clients had endless questions. The slight headache from last night's wine combined with your usual work stress was still lingering by lunchtime. You made a mental note to avoid drinking a bottle of wine mid-week in the future. That would be an easy promise to keep if you didn't have to hear about your ex-husband every five minutes, which, in Gotham, was practically impossible.

Speaking of your ex, he was currently leaning against the hood of his incredibly conspicuous sports car, parked illegally in a tow zone right in front of your office building.

Some things never changed. He always waited for you like this. Whenever you had lunch together, he always insisted on driving himself, even though calling his chauffeur would have been much more practical. Lunch had always been your time.

Another thing that hadn't changed was his looks. His jawline was still sharp and perfectly defined, his eyes held that same intense, brooding gaze, and his dark hair was impeccably styled without a single strand out of place. Gotham's gloomy, grey backdrop always did a spectacular job of highlighting his beauty; even just standing there, leaning against his car, he was unfairly handsome. He wore a dark, three-piece suit that hugged his broad shoulders and chest perfectly.

As you approached, Bruce straightened up, a soft, almost shy smile touching his lips. The moment you got close enough, his scent hit you like a wave,that rich, woody cologne. You couldn't even pretend you hadn't smelled it in months, considering you had kept about five of his old shirts to sleep in during your first few months apart. In fact, you’d slept in one last night. But nothing compared to the real thing, emanating from his warm body right in front of you.

There was no way you were getting through this lunch unscathed.

The warm weight of his hand settled on your lower back, guiding you toward the passenger side as he opened the door for you, just like he always did. He walked around the front of the Aston Martin and slipped into the driver's seat. The air inside the car was thick with tension, but Bruce broke the silence gently.

"Can we go to our usual spot?"

"Yes," you replied, your voice a little shaky, already thrown off by how familiar and comfortable this felt.

Bruce started the engine, and you tried your best not to stare at him. But what else were you supposed to look at? Your eyes scanned the dashboard before settling on his hands gripping the steering wheel. That was when you noticed the gold band still resting on his left ring finger.

It threw you completely.

Your own ring was buried deep in your drawer, far out of sight. It had taken you months to finally slide it off. The fact that he was still wearing his did something to you. The jealousy quieted down instantly; if he was still wearing his wedding ring, he probably wasn't seeing anyone. Or maybe he just wore it to avoid questions. Either way, you were still jealous of your own ex-husband.

"Are you okay?" he asked when the silence stretched too long.

You didn't know what to say. Yes, I'm fine. Aside from missing you terribly and realizing I probably wanted to hide our divorce because, deep down, I was still holding onto some selfish hope that we’d fix this. But other than that, great.

You forced a smile. "Yes, I'm fine. I got a cat now."

The traffic light turned green just as Bruce let out a quiet, amused huff. He wasn't much of a cat person, but his soft laugh made your heart flutter. "That's very unlike you."

"I'm trying to change."

"Me too."

Getting better for his next girlfriend.

The restaurant wasn't far from your office, so the drive didn't last much longer. The moment Bruce parked, a valet appeared to take the keys. Once again, his hand settled on the small of your back, guiding you inside. The hostess, who recognized you immediately, led you to the exact same table where you and Bruce had shared years of laughter, romance, and good memories.

"Do you want the usual, sweetheart?" Bruce’s question was so soft it caught you off guard.

"Yes, honey." The old pet name slipped out before you could stop it.

Bruce's eyes flared, and his lips curved into that smug, arrogant grin that could light up an entire room. Bastard.

"Honey, huh?" Bruce teased, leaning in slightly after the waitress took your orders. "I was expecting a bit more resistance."

"Bruce, get to the point."

He rested his elbows on the table, bringing himself closer. Up close, you could see every detail of his face. He hadn't changed, but there was something different in his expression. He still had those faint tired lines around his eyes that suited him so well, but it was a different kind of exhaustion. It wasn't the heavy, dark toll that Batman took on him. He actually looked... lighter.

Gotham’s best detective was watching you with undivided attention, too. Your hair looked a little lighter, and the cut was different. You looked breathtakingly beautiful, and it had been distracting him since the moment you stepped out of your office building.

Keeping his eyes on you, trying to commit every detail of your face to memory, Bruce began to speak in a quiet, low voice. "A few months ago, I asked the board to let me step back in as CEO so Lucius could focus on other projects." You knew exactly what kind of "projects" he meant.

"So I'm back in the office, going to meetings, attending the galas I always should have been attending." How did he even have time for this? Gotham was safer than it had been in years, but how was he balancing this with Batman? No major rogues had caused trouble in months, which usually meant Batman was working overtime.

"But some of the board members think I'm too unstable for the position. They're talking about voting me out if they don't see some stability in my personal life. Especially now, with the construction of the new charity hospital."

"Why do they think you're unstable?"

"Because of you, darling," he said simply. "I will always respect your decision to keep our divorce private until you tell me otherwise. But we haven't been seen together in a long time, and people are starting to suspect a crisis. I really hate to ask you this, but—"

Before he could finish, you cut him off. "Do you want to go public with the divorce?"

"No, that's not what I want," Bruce said quickly, reaching across the table to gently brush his fingers against yours. "I hate asking this of you. You must be so tired of being associated with my name, and I have absolutely no right to ask you for anything. But... would you be willing to pretend to be my wife a little longer?"

You let out a sudden, genuine laugh.

"I know it's ridiculous. Please don't laugh at me." Even though you were mocking him, the sound of your laugh was too good to ignore. A soft, relieved smile broke across his face. "I know it might be time to make it public if that's what you want. I'll make the announcement tomorrow if you say the word." He swallowed hard.

"I don't want to, Bruce," you replied, calming down.

You knew you were being selfish. You had asked for the divorce because you were miserable, but that didn't mean you had stopped loving him. Quite the opposite. You just couldn't stand watching the man you loved slowly kill himself for a city that didn't care. It was destroying you, and Bruce loved you too much to keep you trapped in a life that made you suffer.

Playing along with this little fantasy for a few hours wouldn't cure the heartbreak, but it would be enough to ease the ache of missing him.

"I'll help you."

"Thank you, darling."

You shared a soft, lingering smile.

As the food arrived, Bruce began telling you about the charity gala he was hosting in two weeks to raise funds for the Martha Wayne Memorial Hospital. The project wasn't new, but Bruce had never had the time to truly dedicate himself to it before. He explained the details with an excitement you hadn't seen in him in years.

He told you the gala would be held at a luxury estate hotel just outside the city, and that a custom dress would be sent to your apartment.

In a few days, you would be playing the role of Mrs. Bruce Wayne again.

Those two weeks flew by. You and Bruce spoke on the phone a few times, supposedly to go over the details of the event, but the conversations quickly drifted to other things. During one of those late-night calls, Bruce casually mentioned that he hadn't put on the cowl in months. Dick, Jason, and Barbara were handling the streets now. Bruce was only helping with investigations, tech upgrades, and training.

You didn't know how to process that information. It was bittersweet. It was amazing news because it meant Bruce was finally safe, but at the same time, a painful question lingered: Why couldn't he have made this choice when you were still there?

Bruce was asking himself the same thing. Why did he have to lose the love of his life to finally wake up? He felt like an absolute idiot.

But his months of isolation had actually done him some good. He was taking care of himself, keeping a normal routine, and fully committing to his role as CEO. In his free time, he boxed with Dick, played golf with business partners, and spent actual quality time with Alfred. The only thing missing was you.

He was trying to build a life without Batman. He didn't want to get his hopes up about getting you back, but if he could just have you in his life, even as a friend, he would be content.

You were finally nearing the hotel where the gala was being held. Bruce had insisted on sending his driver to pick you up, even though you’d argued that you could easily drive the hour-long trip yourself. It was so easy to fall back into the routine of being his wife. Even from a distance, he always made sure you were taken care of.

The Bentley pulled up to the magnificent hotel entrance. You walked into the stunning lobby, heading straight to the front desk to retrieve your key.

"Good afternoon, I have a reservation under my name." You smiled at the receptionist.

The girl offered a warm, professional smile the moment she saw the name. "Of course, Mrs. Wayne. We've been expecting you." She handed you a gold keycard.

You thanked her and headed to the elevator. A few moments later, you were walking down a quiet, elegantly decorated hallway. When you unlocked the door to the suite, you had to stop and take a breath. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a gorgeous skyline view. There was a massive living room, a private bar, and a spacious bedroom dominated by a king-sized bed.

Wow.

The bathroom featured a massive soaking tub. The temptation of a hot bath with the complimentary bath oils was too good to pass up, so you immediately started running the water. You didn't bother fully exploring the rest of the suite; you just stripped off your clothes and slid into the warm water.

The bath was so relaxing that you didn't hear the main suite door open or the quiet footsteps moving around the bedroom. Assuming you were completely alone, you eventually stood up, wrapped yourself in the plush hotel bathrobe, and opened the door, only to gasp in shock as you ran directly into Bruce, who was wearing nothing but his underwear, clearly preparing to take a shower himself.

"Oh my God!" you gasped, stepping back. "How did you get in here?"

"This is my room too, sweetheart." Right. Of course his team wouldn't book separate rooms for a married couple.

That was when the reality of your mutual lack of clothing set in. A flush immediately rushed to your cheeks. Your eyes involuntarily drifted down his muscular chest, mapping the familiar, heavy lines of his body before you forced yourself to look away. He was watching you with a look of pure, unadulterated longing.

You quickly pulled the lapels of your robe tighter, tying the belt into a secure knot. Bruce let out a low, amused chuckle. It was probably a good idea you tied it tight before he lost his mind and did it for you.

"Um... I was just taking a bath," you stammered, completely flustered.

"Yes, I can see that, darling." He had that smug, teasing look on his face. "I was planning on doing the same."

He took a step toward the bathroom, but you both tried to dodge in the same direction, resulting in you bumping right into his chest. His large hands immediately shot out to catch your waist, steadying you.

You were entirely too close. Bruce’s gaze dropped slowly from your eyes to your lips. You bit your bottom lip, trying to catch your breath. His gaze was intense, heavy, and completely hypnotizing. After months of empty space, his lips were only inches away from yours.

Despite the hot bath, a shiver ran down your spine. Your heart was beating so hard you were certain he could feel it pressing against his chest.

With a monumental effort of self-control, Bruce managed to break the spell. If he stayed this close for another second, he was going to ruin everything and kiss you. He cleared his throat, but his fingers lingered on your waist for a fraction of a second, squeezing gently before letting go.

"Your dress is in the closet. You should find everything you need to get ready in there."

"Thank you, Bruce."

He slipped into the bathroom, and the sound of the shower soon filled the room.

The black dress hanging in the closet was breathtaking. You slipped it on, and it hugged your curves perfectly, the built-in corset cinching your waist. You stared at your reflection, admiring how the fabric draped over your hips before eventually taking it off so you could blow-dry your hair and do your makeup.

Just as you were finishing, the bathroom door clicked open, releasing a thick cloud of warm steam. Bruce stepped out, damp and gorgeous. His dark hair was pushed back, water droplets still tracing the ridges of his chest. The white towel slung low on his hips did absolutely nothing to hide the heavy, impressive ridge of his erection.

Your eyes slowly traveled up to meet his. He held your gaze for a second, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his lips, before he quietly disappeared into the closet.

It was going to be a very long night.

The grand ballroom was glowing under the light of massive crystal chandeliers. Gotham's elite mingled with glasses of champagne, and Bruce didn't leave your side for a single second. Together, you greeted the board members. You laughed at their jokes, accepted their compliments, and played the part of the doting wife flawlessly. Years of being Mrs. Wayne had trained you well.

To the rest of the world, you were still the perfect, enviable couple.

Bruce's hand remained firmly anchored on your waist, occasionally squeezing your hip just to remind you he was there. During a quiet moment when he thought you might be overwhelmed by all the prying questions, he leaned in and murmured a soft thank-you. To everyone watching, he was the picture of a devoted, hopelessly in love husband.

The champagne was doing its job, and you were feeling delightfully relaxed. Bruce, who had matched you glass for glass, seemed calmer too.

"Would you do me the honor of this dance?"

The sheer formality of his question made you smile. You arched an eyebrow. "You don't have to ask, Bruce. We probably *should* be dancing. They think we're married, remember?"

"I know," he murmured. His eyes searched yours, that familiar little crease appearing between his brows—the one that only showed up when he was genuinely nervous. "But I'm not asking for the board, or for the cameras. I want to dance with you."

The noise of the ballroom seemed to fade into static. In that moment, all you could see was Bruce. This was the man you had fallen in love with, not the vigilante, not the billionaire. Just Bruce. The gentle, romantic man who had spent the entire night trying not to show how nervous he was just to be near you.

"I'd love to," you whispered.

A beautiful smile broke across his face. He took your left hand, raising it to his lips to press a soft kiss against your knuckles. Your heart skipped a beat.

He led you to the dance floor, his hand sliding smoothly to your waist while yours rested on his broad shoulder. Having your fingers laced with his felt so incredibly right.

"Still remember how?" you teased, looking up at him.

Bruce let out a soft laugh. "Of course I do."

Years ago, when you were first dating, you discovered Bruce couldn't dance to save his life. But before the wedding, he had secretly taken private lessons just to surprise you on your big day. Despite the divorce, that memory remained one of the sweetest moments of your life.

"Even with the lessons, you stepped on my feet so many times during our first dance I thought you were doing it on purpose."

"Never on purpose."

"Mm, tell me more."

He held your gaze, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper near your ear. "I think I just wanted an excuse to hold you close for a little longer."

You were supposed to be here to convince the board that Bruce was stable and to keep the press at bay. But it felt like you were slipping right back into a relationship that had ended long before the actual divorce. And you were enjoying it far more than you should.

"Careful, Bruce," you murmured, keeping a playful smile on your face. "People might think you're flirting."

"I thought that was the whole point of tonight," he whispered, leaning in so close you could feel the warm, champagne-scented breath against your cheek. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling your bodies together until there wasn't an inch of space between you.

"To show everyone how completely, hopelessly in love with you I still am," he finished.

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking your head to hide how wildly your heart was racing. "You are definitely flirting."

"And you are stunning."

A faint blush crept up your cheeks, and you looked away, pretending to watch the other couples. "You don't look too bad yourself, Wayne."

He smirked, pleased with your answer, his thumb caressing your hip. "Mm, who's flirting now?"

"That wasn't a flirt, Bruce. It was a simple compliment."

"Oh? Please, enlighten me on the difference."

"A flirt has an intention behind it."

"Ah. Well, I definitely have an intention."

"Then you need to be more direct, sweetheart. Lay your cards on the table."

You were definitely flirting now.

"More direct, you say?"

You let out a quiet, teased hum, nodding in agreement. You knew exactly what he wanted, but he was going to have to beg for it.

He chuckled, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "I was wondering if we could take this happy couple act back to our room, darling. I know you remember how good it is. I want to make sure the board really believes our performance."

"Is the board going to be in our room?"

"No," he murmured, his voice sending a delicious shiver straight down to your thighs. "But I'm positive I can make you scream loud enough for them to hear you from here."

Your breath hitched, your panties instantly growing damp at his words.

"That's me being direct, sweetheart."

"I think we should go upstairs, Bruce."

That single sentence shattered whatever was left of Bruce's self-control. He grabbed your wrist, guiding you out of the ballroom with hurried steps toward the lobby and the elevators.

Bruce pressed the elevator button with an almost childish impatience, as if the repetitive motion would force the elevator to descend faster.

The moment the steel doors opened to the empty cabin, he pulled you inside. Before the doors even clicked shut, he was all over you. The kiss was hot, desperate, and filled with a agonizing slowness, the heavy weight of months of built-up longing.

Your hands tangled in his dark hair, pulling him closer. Bruce let out a needy, ruined groan against your lips, pressing you back against the wall.

"God, I missed you so much," he panted, pulling back just enough to breathe, his dark eyes searching yours.

With a heavy, deliberate movement, he ground his hips against yours. A needy sigh escaped your lips as you felt the thick, rock-hard length of his erection pressing against you through his suit. He wanted you to know exactly what you did to him.

The elevator stopped. The hallway was completely deserted. You pushed him back against your room door, your hands sliding over his damp chest, pushing his jacket off his shoulders. Your lips traced his jaw down to the sensitive spot on his neck. Bruce let out a shaky sigh, completely surrendering to your touch.

Your hand slid down his waist, tracing his firm thigh before cupping him through his trousers. Bruce gasped, his entire body locking up under your touch.

"Do you want me to beg for it out here, sweetheart? Do you want me to beg to bury myself inside your wet little cunt, hm?" he whimpered, his voice incredibly thick, his forehead resting against yours as his eyes practically pleaded. "Because I swear to God, I'm already on my knees."

With a quick swipe of the keycard, the door clicked open.

Bruce guided you back until the edge of the mattress hit the back of your knees. You sat down, and he immediately dropped to his knees before you.

There was no rush. He took off your heels, pressing devoued kisses along your calves as he slowly bunched up the fabric of your dress. When your panties were discarded, leaving you bare under the moonlight, Bruce looked up. He didn't move; he just waited, his eyes shining with a quiet, desperate need, begging for your permission. You swallowed hard and nodded.

His first lick was agonizingly slow, tracing up your seam before centering directly on your clit. Bruce touched you like you were holy. You arched off the bed, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling his head closer.

"Do you like this? Do you like having me down here like this?" he mumbled against your wet skin.

"Fuck, Bruce... it's so good," you gasped, your head tossing back.

He alternated between heavy, sucking wet kisses on your clit and sliding two fingers deep inside you. The sensation was overwhelming. Your hips rolled against his face, completely out of your control. Bruce rubbed his hard length against the sheets to ease the ache of his untouched erection, completely dedicated to your pleasure.

Feeling your body tense, he picked up the pace, his tongue working over you while his fingers stretched you out. You hit your climax hard, crying out as you came directly against his mouth, your body shivering.

Bruce pulled back slowly, his face wet with your slick, a dazed, incredibly satisfied smile on his lips.

"I missed eating you out so much, baby," he breathed.

He kept his fingers inside you, feeling the tight, desperate pulses of your aftershocks, enjoying the wet, needy sounds your body was making. His erection looked like it was going to tear through his trousers.

You pulled yourself up to kneel on the bed, bringing yourself to his height. Your fingers began undoing his shirt buttons, one by one, kissing every inch of exposed skin. His broad chest, his sensitive nipples... every touch drew ragged, needy whimpers from his chest. When you finally unzipped his pants and freed his length, Bruce let out a long, broken sigh of relief.

A few seconds later, the rest of your clothes were discarded on the floor. You were both completely bare, vulnerable, and absolutely desperate.

You pushed him down, straddling his thick thighs. Bruce held his breath, his large hands anchoring on your waist, his eyes dark and blown-wide as he stared up at your body. He tilted his head back, giving you total control.

When you slowly slid down his length, burying him inside you, Bruce arched his hips with a long, drawn-out groan.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his hands holding your thighs firmly but gently. "Take it all, sweetheart. I'm yours... I'm all yours."

You started to move slowly, setting the pace. Seeing Bruce Wayne completely undone beneath you, whimpering with eyes wet with pleasure, was the most intoxicating thing you had ever experienced.

"Please, faster... don't stop," he pleaded, his chest heaving.

"What do you want, Bruce?" you teased, slowing your pace on purpose.

"You can use me, darling," he gasped, his eyes rolling back slightly. "Please, fuck, I'm yours."

The surrender in his voice lit a fire in you. You slammed down on him, riding him hard, your nails digging into his broad shoulders. Bruce groaned loudly, completely lost to the feeling. His hand came up to squeeze your breast while the other held your hip, helping you drive the pace.

The wet, slapping sound of your bodies and his loud groans filled the quiet room. He met every downward stroke, creating a perfect, heavy friction. Bruce buried his face in your neck, biting and leaving dark, bruising marks on your skin.

"I'm gonna come..." he whimpered against your ear, his voice completely wrecked.

Your climax hit you first, your tight walls clamping down on his length, and Bruce let out a low, primal roar as he came deep inside you, filling you with thick, hot waves. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he lay there, still trembling beneath you, his hands clutching your hips as if you were his lifeline.

"Fuck...", he muttered under his breath, looking down at where your bodies were still joined.

"Oh my God," you panted, slowly sliding off him. The hot slick immediately began to drip down your inner thighs.

Still shaking, Bruce immediately got out of bed and went to the bathroom, returning a few seconds later with a warm, damp cloth. He knelt between your legs, gently and meticulously wiping you clean with an almost shy tenderness.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his blue eyes filled with soft concern.

You let out a weak laugh, still trying to catch your breath. "I just had sex with my ex-husband. What do you think, Wayne?"

"I hope that means yes." Bruce smiled warmly, climbing onto the bed beside you. You immediately rested your head against his bare chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart.

"Since you left... I promised myself I wouldn't ask you to come back. Because that's what you asked of me."

"Bruce..."

"But I'm doing everything I can to be a better man. I was a terrible partner to you in the end. You didn't deserve that. I let Batman consume my entire life, and I only realized how much it was destroying you when you actually walked away. I don't know if I deserve your forgiveness, and I know I have no right to ask you to be mine again. But I miss you so much it physically hurts. I feel like a piece of my chest was ripped out. I'm trying to fill my life with other things, but it's completely empty without you."

Bruce’s voice was low, slightly rushed, his heart hammering against your ear. But his eyes looked lighter, relieved to finally confess the heavy truth.

And you felt the exact same way. You had felt that emptiness long before you actually left, back when Batman had swallowed your husband whole.

"I know how you feel, Bruce," you whispered.

Bruce pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. His hand slid to your chin, gently tilting your face up until your eyes met. He leaned down, and your lips finally found his in a soft, familiar kiss.

"And I still love you so much. I don't think I'll ever stop. But... our last year of marriage really hurt me. And I think I needed space to figure things out too."

"I know it's not right to ask you to be my wife again right now. But I need you in my life. I love you so much it hurts."

"It shouldn't hurt, Bruce."

"I know, but I need you." His voice sounded thick, almost tearful. "I'm so sorry for making you suffer. I never wanted to hurt you, sweetheart."

"It's okay, Bruce. It's in the past. I think... we can start seeing each other again. Slowly."

For a long moment, he just lay there, silently stroking your hair, letting your words sink in. Then, a small, genuine smile broke across his face.

"Slowly?"

You nodded. "No rush. No impossible promises. Just... one step at a time."

"Okay," Bruce whispered, pulling you closer against his chest. "I'll wait as long as it takes."

[cherryvvave]

˚˖ ❀ WOUNDS TO PATCH UP

☕️ you patch up batman’s wounds. || this can be read as after alfred’s death, kinda hurt/comfort with fluff? if that makes sense, drug usage for medical purposes, headcanon format, reader doesn’t know batman’s identity, … || ⋆˚࿔ main masterlist

Batman loves it when you patch him up.

Or at least, that’s what you think since he always comes to you.

You don’t know his real identity and even though you are dying to know, you won’t try to find it.

But you will patch him up no matter what.

Ever since the night he ended up in your fire escape, lying there like a wounded animal after getting a stab wound, he came to you whenever he needed to be tended.

You, without even realizing, have become his private nurse.

Whenever he ended up in your flat, you were ready to care for him.

He was not a burden for you. How could he be? He was the savior of Gotham, your hometown. That was the least you could do.

But you were curious… Did he not have somebody to care for him? Was he so lonely that he trusted a total stranger?

So, one night, you decided to ask. “Don’t you have another person for these?”

There was a beat of silence. You couldn’t see his face because of his cowl, but his lips parted— maybe because he was not expecting to be asked this.

“I— Sorry for bothering you—“

“No,” you cut him off immediately. That was not what you were saying. At all. “I’m glad to help you. I was just curious.”

He leaned back to the couch again. You were stitching a knife wound on his thigh. He was half naked right before you.

“I had someone.” He mumbled. The drugs you gave him were making him numb. He usually did not want anything to numb him, but tonight, he took it.

“Did they leave you?”

“You could say that.”

You kept stitching in silence after that. When you were finished, you gave him time to get dressed again.

His moves were slow. He seemed tired. You didn’t want him to leave like that. He was under the influence of drugs and he was hurt and tired.

“You can stay.” You said. “I won’t come here until you go. So you can take your cowl off.”

He was considering the offer. He had every reason to stay. He trusted you, you trusted him. He could stay. You wanted him to stay.

Batman didn’t say yes or no but he went back to sitting. You smiled at him and saw a small reflection of your smile appear on his lips.

You brought him a pillow and sheets, readied the couch for him to sleep.

“I can… wash your clothes—“ You tried to offer but before you could form the sentence, he held your hands in his gloved ones.

“That’s not necessary.” He gently squeezed your hands. “Thank you.” And brought them to his lips to press a kiss.

Your heart almost gave up.

You licked your lips, squeezing his hands back. The moment was so intimate, so precious that you didn’t want to leave him.

“Good night, Batman.” You pressed a kiss on his cheek and as your face burned with a shy feeling that came from deep inside you, you left him there in your living room.

That night, you had the Batman sleeping on your couch. That night, you kissed his cheek.

That night altered your small crush into an even bigger one.

[bat2nsignia]

another banger

[1nsignia]

fluff, jason todd

—————————————————————————

jason todd never indulged in gossip “you’re fucking with me” “honest to god”

why would he? it was immature and ill-mannered to talk about someone’s life! their decisions are their decisions

“she slept with him. in his office” “yup”

... at least that's what he liked to believe in

jason gave you the most baffled look you’ve ever seen on his face. it made you snort and wave a hand at his face. “hello? earth to jason” immediately, jason blinked and snapped out of it. both of you were sitting on the couch, your legs sprawled on his lap and his hands idly tracing your knee.

“wait wait wait—" he slightly shifted his body to face you, the traces on your knee stopping as his large, warm hand just rested flat on it. “let me get this straight. you’re telling me that nancy—" “uh huh” “the same one who tried to get your promotion months ago--" “that’s her” “was caught sleeping with your boss at his office—" “not caught, per se.” “whatever” jason waved it off and continued. “and to top it off, she’s married to drew for— how long?” “8 years” you hummed, scooting closer to him and biting your bottom lip to hold back a laugh from the look on his face as he was processing this new information you gave him. and when it did, he just sighed and shook his head, his fingers now resuming the slow and lazy circles he traced on your knee. 

“sweetheart, your office environment is crazy” you could still hear how he was still slightly bewildered from the bombshell you just dropped on him. he was also confused as to why HR wasn't involved already

“hey, it pays the bills” you joked, lifting a hand to run through jason’s soft hair in that slow and gentle manner that always had him melt into your touch. “plus, at least there’s something to keep me entertained while i work in boredom” “you know you can leave your job and i can take care of everything, right?” jason reminded you— for what felt like the millionth time—but you just smiled softly and nodded. “yeah i know, but how else am i gonna come bearing news to you?” “…touché. i still need to know why carol and jesse aren’t talking to each other”

now that you couldn’t hold your laugh for. the wide smile on your face and your laugh softened jason’s eyes, a smile of his own appearing. his hand slipped beneath your knee to pull you close, the other hand cupping your face as he pulled you into a kiss

you could practically feel the smile on his face turn into a grin, and it made your smile grow as you kissed him back. it was a kiss of quiet contentment— slow, familiar and overflowing with the kind of affection that only came from loving someone for a long time

his hand remained cradling your cheek, his thumb lazily brushing across your skin with a small hum slipping out from your fingers combing through his hair

slowly, both of you broke the kiss, foreheads leaning on one another with nothing but pure love and adoration for one another

“so how was your night?” you asked, now laying your head on his chest. he just hummed, shifting his arm to drape over your shoulders and keep you close. “it was fine” a beat “…so bruce was basically being annoying like always and—"

okay maybe jason indulged in some gossip. keyword—some

—————————————————————————

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©1nsignia— please do not steal, repost or reuse my work

[1nsignia]

@darkxwolfsstuff @littlelightbearer @th3d1nOr3ad3r @psychopompsblog @wwolfsca @kaiiii1009 @century-eggg @tvhore @chickenchickenpie @fanofthebatfam @sillygayfreak @tskdeion @potatoheartsyou @faepoetry @theall-seeingone (tags are open)

jason todd taglist: @profoundgreenturtle @raritygold @radheadphones @vayabenson @kisses717 @jude-inej @celestialend

(sorry for the re-tag... i forgot a line)

[gr0und-zer00]

Perfect time to tease

⋆˚꩜｡ Bruce Wayne x wife!reader

- Smut (18+) -> Is the nightgown just some lazy lingerie? Or is little actually more? - CW: smut, mirror sex, semi-public, in a changing room, Alfred cameo in the end, not proofread, reader has boobs, inspo explanation for the lazy choice at the beginning - Requested by anon - I rushed this so I'm so sorry if it isn't good :((

Zero here, you may think this is where the fic starts but I need to first say this is based on some lazy ass lingerie I saw when I was shopping: sheer, and NO shape, it just drapes over and hangs over your boobs.

Like it literally looks like someone cut a rectangle of fabric, glued the ends together and hot glued two spaghetti straps at the top. I HATED it but was also curious.

And since Bruce is a boobs guy and I'm CONVINCED of this, he therefore loves this so enjoy beautiful readers.

The past few days were filled with your complaints about having only a few bras, just a general lack overall, and even asking for panties because you still have underwear from when you were in your teens.

Bruce was happy to take you to Victoria secret, after all they do have some cute bras but he stayed critical in his judgement even when peering through the shelves and hangers.

“This threading is too flimsy” Or “This won’t give you the right balance of support and comfort.”

Were among some things he told you, and while you appreciated his help in pointing out the obvious, you came in here for their more…spicy lingeries.

Bruce didn’t question anything. He was a good husband like that. He sat in the pink waiting room, looking down at the floor and at his hands, fidgeting like a prepubescent boy that was strung along by his mom.

It was getting to a point though…you started coming out in the skimpiest pieces he’d ever seen. You had come out and asked him to look at the stringiest lingerie, teasing him viciously by pretending you’re not teasing him at all.

But he was able to soldier through his arousal during that.

This time you had given up trying to make him horny, you resorted to trying on some of the nightgowns you had found. Still without your bra on you put on a sheer nightgown, a babydoll one that draped over your breasts and you cringed slightly at the indents of your own nipples poking at the sheer fabric.

With a shrug you open the door of the very pink establishment, only slightly to peek your head out and when you see no one else roaming the outside of the changing rooms, you step out.

“This one kinda sucks, doesn’t even have cups or anything!” You complain, staring down at the lazily thought out pyjama-lingerie love-child that you tried on. You thought it looked like a sheer curtain and even turned away without hearing out Bruce to look back at the changing room mirror.

Though when you lift your gaze to the reflective surface, you nearly jump as your husband looms behind you, staring at your chest through the mirror. 

His bottom lip was briefly caught between his teeth and then released with a sheen of spit as he couldn’t help himself but reach behind him to feel out the doorknob and slowly close it, while also locking it shut.

“Just because it seems lazy, it definitely doesn’t make me feel lazy” he breathes, now looking down at your breasts, it’s almost automatic that Bruce drifts his hands up grazing his palms over the surface and then pressing his hands firmly, groaning at the pebbling of your nipples and giving them a firm squeeze. “They look extra beautiful like this,” he groans.

You aren’t exactly sure how it escalated, but Bruce was really testing your flexibility now in a changing room. He still kept that obscure bundle of fabric on your body, in fact he ensured it stayed on by wrapping an arm around your waist.

You're still facing the mirror, however, now Bruce was behind you, hiking one of your legs up so your knee bent at his forearm, dangling in the air but also as support for your other leg as you lean against the adjacent, bright pink wall. 

Regardless of the intensity that built up so quickly, you had to joke with him, your voice already strained slightly in trying to keep yourself quiet, “Fuck Bruce! I didn’t know your taste in lingerie was this bad!”

He grunts, but you don’t miss the smirk adorning his face as he leans down to plant his lips on the region between your back and shoulder, “sometimes—shit..less is more..”

Your own laugh echoed in the enclosed space, only to be interrupted by the punch of his fat head into your pussy, and this time you reach a hand back to fist at Bruce’s hair, as if scolding him for the particularly rough thrust.

Plap after plap after plap rang from your shared actions, and your panties pushed to the side were already soaked, dripping in built up arousal from anticipating Bruce’s rip away from decorum whilst you slowly teased with just bras at first. You failed to realise that the loss of decorum includes Bruce not caring about how his pelvis slapping against your ass was louder than any moan you could let out right now. 

Maybe your husband can read your thoughts as he reaches a greedy hand around that had been planted on your waist, now rubbing firm circles on your clit, abused by the aftershocks of every snap he pumps out of his hips.

His ring and middle finger get to work in tandem with his cock slamming in and out, uncoordinated but it feels oddly intentional, simply because of how he’s able to expertly navigate where your most sensitive points are.

“That’s it, huh? You know how I know I hit the right spot?” He asks, but he proceeds without waiting for your response, meeting your gaze in the mirror, “you clench around me like you don’t want me to pull out. You want me to pull out?” When he asked that, he subconsciously coaxed a declining shake of your head out, pumping even deeper, which you thought was impossible. 

The knot in your lower tummy tightened, building up with Bruce’s humping and his clear adoration of the obscure article of clothing—especially how your breasts look bouncing against it.

The fabric is starting to bunch over your breasts, not quite revealing the delicious skin, but enough for Bruce to properly see the effects of his fingers playing at your pussy.

Gummy walls pulse around that firm spear of his cock, and you tug him in. You don’t even control your own body's instincts in pulling, and tugging and dragging Bruce in closer to you all through your sopping pussy.

That paired with how your back arched against him, caused an involuntary—and certainly evident—gush of pre-cum to twitch out of his cock, coating and seeping into your pussy further.

So when your orgasm hits you, a silent moan escapes with your mouth hanging open, and Bruce’s ever-giving fingers sped up the rubbing against your engorged clit, trying to not let it slip off the spot where you feel the stimulation the most despite the delicious mess of your pussy juices spreading over his fingers.

At home you stare at the copious black and pink bags flooding the living room, and you pinch the bridge of your nose, huffing a breath of exasperation.

This has to be a form of post nut clarity. Bruce’s generosity seemed way more sexy while you were recovering from an orgasm, now it feels like…a lot of money spent.

Next to you Alfred stands, “Madam, I must assure you, this washing along with the laundry of everyone else will take an afternoon to complete.”

“What do you consider as an afternoon?”

“By these standards, whenever the sun is still up.”

“The sun sets at 7 now, Alfred.”

“Yes…it is unfortunate that I’ll be occupied with the laundry for that long. Thank master Bruce for prolonging this on my behalf.”

dividers by @cursed-carmine

[bat2nsignia]

drooling

[twentytomidnight]

Land of Discontent (4/5)

Ra's Al Ghul/Reader, one-sided Bruce Wayne/Reader, 6.1K

a/n: everyone say thank you to @bat1nsignia for doing this trade with me hehe

cw: makeout/suggestive content, choking, sexual tension, f!reader

part one part two part three masterlist ao3

PREVIEW:

You go past the point of no return. Ra's Al Ghul/Reader

When you return back from a long-needed, far-overdue weekend clouded by the inebriation of a heady weekend with Zina and Greta, you a nursing a headache that you take deliberate pains not to show.

With each step that you further descend into the encroaching vault of Wayne Enterprises, you feel yourself shedding the second skin exposed like a nerve when you are out of work.

And each stride that plunges you further into the labyrinth returns the familiar suit of armor that maintains your composure, rends you cool and calm.

You are no longer the you of civilian life: you are the person who carries the sword for the machinations of a business that expands boundaries of land, breadth of the city—your business is no longer your own to dally in.

And so you have returned to the fold as you make purposeful conclusion of your initial journey into the elevator carriage, standing ramrod-straight as you prepare to rejoin the workforce.

There are matters to be done, and events of the past week that you would best prefer to forget should you be given the chance. You permit yourself sharp exhalation of breath through your nose, given the privacy you maintain in this small enclosure.

From the depths of your messenger bag, your phone rings; with immediacy spared you, you search in the abyssal folds without looking, producing it in the field of your vision so that you may see who has contacted you. Greta—though it lacks the slew of emojis that usually come paired with any missive from her.

Mr. Fox wants to see you in his office. Didn’t seem stressed but you should head over now.

Mr. Fox on the twentieth floor, a few stops before your own. The red LED letters emblazoned in the top corner of the carriage demarcate your journey from eighteenth to nineteenth, and you sigh. No rest for the wicked—or those with impetus to be wicked.

You reach out for the “stop elevator” button and adjust to the lurch that your cab makes with the shift of gravity. The doors hiss open with jettison of quiet air, and you step out into the belly of the beast.

You like Mr. Fox. He’s a straightforward man who understands the merit that a hard worker can provide. His office reflects that; rather than adorned with the pompous demeanor that a prouder man might have, bearings trophies and accolades earned by nepotism or bribery, there is no such thing here. Only a simple yet expensive desk that bears pictures commemorating important memories of him and his family.

You remember the day that he brought the picture gilded in gold of he and his family celebrating Jace’s college graduation and the beaming pride expressed on his face.

But there’s no smile on his face today; and you’ve become an excellent interpreter in many avenues of this job. While there is no outward stress, there is a necessity for something that he needs from you. He’s going to ask you for a favor.

And so you resign yourself to whatever will be demanded, like the good worker bee that you are, though he has yet to articulate it. Even though it is clear in the manner that his hands search across the table to organize something. There is a need to perpetuate something in order out of the unexpected turmoil to his schedule that he is imposing upon you.

“Mr. Fox, I was told that you wanted to see me,” You announce as you close the door behind him, just the way that he likes.

Mr. Fox, per the least, appears apologetic to some degree, though this is quickly smoothed over into managerial quality. Like the best of them, he puts up necessary exterior when the situation is required of him.

“Yes,” He says your name with familiarity behooving him, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to clear your schedule today.”

And this is something that sends swift careening catastrophe through careful mooring of your best-laid plans. Yet, you keep it discreetly under lock and key while internally you wage war upon the cruel avarice of the fates.

“What am I required for, Mr. Fox?” You ask, and the question is articulated in manner that makes it seem like you are not considering homicide. He grimaces, and then lays final nail in your coffin.

“Mr. Wayne and the Emir Al Ghul,” He begins—you feel adrenaline-induced chill roil down the length of your spine, snake down the marrow of your veins at this preamble, “Are going to tour the warehouses by Blackgate Penitentiary to assess the property for the construction we’re planning.”

“Yes, I assumed that they would,” You continue, though there is unspoken question and answer that are yet to be exchanged between the two of you. Why you? Why back into the fire must you go?

To his credit, Mr. Fox keeps maintenance of outward calm as he provides the axe to fall upon your neck.

“I was supposed to leave with them in an hour, but unfortunately there are other fires that I have to put out here.” His eyes search for your understanding which you are wont to provide—he continues. “And, because you’re so well-versed in the situation given the help you provided with the conference earlier—”

The conference. Where you faced down the Emir and walked away a mess of nerves. And now the two of you are expected to confer to secondary location, with most inconvenient third of all time.

Bruce: who shared the intimacy of inebriation with you no more than few days ago, who has remained perilously present in the foreground of your mind with far more real estate than you’d care to admit aloud—

“—And, because you’ve toured Blackgate before, you can help with the Emir,” Mr. Fox continues; at this, you cannot help but allow a momentary quirk of your eyebrow up your forehead at this. He waves a dismissive hand.

“The Emir may be fluent in English, but I’ve spent enough time with translators and dignitaries from different countries to know when some words may be—”—He searches for most reconciliatory way of wording this—“—Lost in translation. And unfortunately, as Faisal is still overseas—”

This summons other topic that has been brimming at the surface. “Is Faisal due back to Gotham soon? I had heard that the international merger went well.”

Mr. Fox gives you a look that indicates that you are skirting your duties, but he provides no verbal reprimand. After all, this is only between the two of you, and he is inconveniencing you.

“We don’t know when Mr. Nejem will be coming back,” Lucius admits with a weariness that truly underscores a degree of the severity that is happening. “There are issues with his documentation for reasons we cannot ascertain.”

You resist the frown that makes urge to cross your face. Surely it couldn’t be—

Mr. Fox again waves this away as well. “He’s being hosted in fine housing we can provide in the meantime. But we don’t know when he’ll return. Which means that you are our next best bet—”

And this means that you have a rendezvous at Blackgate with unwanted, unexpected company.

Blackgate Penitentiary has since been relocated to some other locale that sports greater distance from Arkham Asylum. What this means is that Wayne Enterprises amply benefits from the open acreage. And, the inmates themselves don’t have to worry about any run-ins with the more deplorables from the neighboring estate.

And it means that as you exit from the limousine that has shielded you from the gloomy, overcast atmosphere of the burgeoning sky barring you from glimmer of sunshine—you have excellent purview of the looming estate far in the distance.

Dark, Stygian, besmirching the otherwise beautiful landscape—though the empty warehouses that Blackgate has left behind are no better improvement—Arkham is poised in the far-off distance with encroaching gates that are little more than pretty dressing for the sprawling grounds. You’re usually never this close; most Gothamites know better than to play around with their lives.

But duty calls. It reminds you of its presence with verbal introduction from behind, a low husk of a voice that interrupts your internal dialogue.

“We won’t be going so close,” Bruce says as he emerges from the limo, closing the door behind him with one-handed ease. “We’re only here to tour these specific grounds, after all.”

“And how impressive they are,” Comes arch voice from the other side of the vehicle—as you watch the third person who kept you company in the tight confines of the car. Watching you as you attempted to look busy alongside Bruce in the leather seats.

Desperately trying to ignore the way that his eyes draped along the length of your legs as you finished what menial task you could to better salvage your ruined schedule. And failing altogether as you found yourself drawing the slant of your eyes up to meet him, unable to resist the heat that seemed to pull you on invisible tether to meet him.

Ra’s Al Ghul—he walks with such kingly, regal poise as he rounds the perimeter of the vehicle, his security detail following behind in loping manner.

And his eyes spare momentary glance to the supposed praised grounds that he approaches: after all, why relegate them any attention when he can focus upon you instead? When he can drink in what detail is offered to him in the grandeur of the outside?

You turn from him back to Bruce, who is looking at the blueprints that he should have already committed to memory—but the bruise that is taking slow-rooted healing on the edge of his jaw says otherwise. It would be ill-fitted to give this any attention, especially considering that the two of you are before the Emir: but it is so large, it is so prominent.

“Mr. Wayne,” You comment coolly, producing a bandage—how it evokes memories of that past incident that you know he recalls in the cant of his eyes—“—For the incident with the, ah, water cooler.”

Recognition flashes in his eyes at the excuse that you provide for him to leap upon, a familiar, knowing smile at your conspiratorial gains approaches his face.

“Oh, yes—”—He nods ebulliently, playing along—“—Can’t help being clumsy.”

And then this is where he goes off the carefully-executed script that you’ve laid out for him, holding up the many clipboards and blueprints that you’ve carefully arranged in the spread of his arms.

“Would you mind helping me put it on?” He asks, and there’s something very rigorously earnest in the cant of his voice. As though he’s trying to convince not only you, but the Emir at his learned helplessness.

He doesn’t look at Ra’s Al Ghul—he doesn’t have to. The brilliance of that handsome smile is reserved only for you. The wickedness in his voice as he speaks is for your company.

“My hands are full.” He elaborates, as though this is enough for the unnecessary gauntlet that he has forced you into. You blanche for words in brief moment as you are caught in the throes of his machinations. But you cannot deny your employer in front of his business partner.

“As you wish, Mr. Wayne.” You reply with mechanical accuracy. If your movement is robotic as you close in the distance that he awaits with tilted chin—well, you are grateful that no one comments on it.

As you apply the bandage to his face, you feel the way that his jaw sets in motion against the pads of your fingers, the scald of his skin against yours, the heft of his breathing. You are poignantly overaware of everything in this wretched instant, as you tend to your employer.

“Such good hired help you have, Bruce.” The Emir comments in dry manner, as though he is amused rather than angered at this blatant manipulation. And then, in Arabic, he directs to you: “<Do you not see his overtures to lay claim to you, my dear?>”

You resist the urge to intake sharp breath that will betray the intention of his words. Bruce has his eyes upon you as you smooth out any deviation in the bandage.

“What was that, Emir?” Bruce asks, his voice light and jovial. You think quickly to avoid a faux pas that you are determined to avoid here.

“The Emir only thinks that you should be more careful, Mr. Wayne.” You reply with graceful ease, as though you have not been scrambling to keep this situation from boiling over.

You step away from him, from the press of his body so close to yours and force bracing grimace. Now, you feel courageous enough to look to the Emir who has only held you in the luxury of his stare.

“Now, if we’re ready?” You ask, pressing your hands to the front of you. Bruce takes the torch from you on your behalf.

“Of course. Let’s go ahead and give him the tour.” He says. Then, with this stilted preface, the four of you descend into the exploration of disused land.

You’re familiar with Blackgate: anyone who has grown to maturity in Gotham knows everything about it, learned to rote repetition given the civic history classes you must all take. You recite knowledge that you know as well as the complex schedules and spreadsheets that you can write in your sleep.

Your voice is of stable composition, at a volume that you projects professionalism as the four of you pace the main fortress. Before you all, it yawns wide, built on ancient brick-and-mortar with little adjustments to the outside. It is a relic that holds looming, ominous atmosphere.

“Originally a Civil War Union Fort, the grounds were eventually repurposed in the late eighteenth century to be repurposed for the necessity of housing criminals.” You explain, gesturing to the vestigial organs of the institution where these can best be spotted.

Where the building has been hollowed and refurbished—repurposed turrets, patrol stalls, sharpshooter nests—“—Before it was relocated, it held no small number of criminals that both have circulated through this locale and Arkham.”

The Emir appears neutrally evaluative as the four of you pace the grounds, looking at this ignoble structure.

“Hmmm.” He says, and then there is something sleek in the way that his eyes subject you to visual analysis. “Thanks to the work of the Batman, is it not?”

You are aware of the way that Bruce stiffens in your periphery. The name of the vigilante always inspires some type of reaction in every Gothamite. But you are not allowed to show it.

Your reply is dictated in even meter. “Some of them, yes. The others have been apprehended by the GCPD as well.”

Your retinue continues along but you know that there is question waiting in the wings to be spoken. And so it is, with genteel curiosity; the Emir inquires, “Do you sport high opinion of them?”

You blink at this—you were not expecting an inquisition of civic services. “The GCPD, your grace?”

“No, my dear—”—And there is something enigmatic that makes presence in his stare—“—The Batman.”

Bruce has taken apace away from the two of you. But you watch the broadening of those shoulders as you look from him back to the Emir, who relegates the following inquiry to Arabic.

“<Do you find him impressive?>” He drawls, lithe as he moves, pursuing your reply. “<Do you think him worthy protector of this city?>”

It is not your place to answer this question that he puts you in particularly difficult spot in, especially when it excludes Bruce. You answer the question in English—and only the one that was inquired of you in English.

“I think he’s a complex figure, your grace.” You apply delicately, interlocking your hands together as you pace around the perimeter of the building. You can feel the intensity of Ra’s Al Ghul’s eyes on the nape of your neck.

“I can hardly remember a time when he was not here in the city.” You answer—Bruce clears his throat. It is an inappropriate topic, but the two of you are captured in the amber of humoring these questions.

“Has it been better since his arrival, do you think?” The Emir asks—and you are aware that is stepping into impropriety. This is far beyond any matters that your group has been assembled here for; how best to exit this, you wonder.

“I think that is a difficult question that I am not paid enough to answer, your grace.” You answer with careful deliberation after momentary pause.

His chuckle is immediate, low, serpentine—amusement given by the artful dodge that you have produced his way.

“How very diplomatic of you. Very well—”—Ra’s Al Ghul raises hand in imperious matter, those green eyes ever-searching—“—I will let the matter pass.”

“Thank you, your grace.” You reply, drawing up next to Bruce who has waited for your approach.

You cannot deny that you feel your shoulders relax in some compensatory form, though you miss the way that Bruce catches this in noted observation. Nor the way that the Emir does as well; you are too busy searching for something in your bag.

“Yes—”—Bruce picks up slack, his voice that polished playboy mien—“—Please save the heavy-hitting questions for me, Ra’s.”

“Trust me, Mr. Wayne—”—And the enigmatic quality that sends a thrill of adrenaline through you returns—“—I shall have my own for you as well.”

You think it wise to consider pursuing the continuation of the parroted tour guide, now that the group has reached the end of this building. You gesture to the islet that spreads out in the gloomy distance, wreathed in fog.

“Beyond us is the boundary of the penitentiary,” You hold your hand out, palm-up, “Where the grounds for Arkham Asylum lie.”

You are closer now, treading carefully into breaking the promise that Bruce made to you. Looking at it from this token, closer proximity—you feel a sense of dread return as you look at the mansion.

“Are you familiar with the history of the Asylum, my dear?” The Emir asks. It is clear that this prologue to something else, but you are made to answer, and he to ask. You turn so that the four of you may observe that foreboding shape in the distance.

“There isn’t a single child in Gotham who isn’t educated on the history of it, your grace.” You reply, though you do not add on the personal experiences that have thus shaped your memory of it. It might be considered in too great of poor taste.

“Then you are familiar with the tragedy of its founder,” Ra’s Al Ghul’s voice is closer in that soporific quality, so you turn to see him nearing, “That of Amadeus Arkham?”

“Yes—I am.” You answer: this is another sordid tale that is well-committed to young Gothamite stories, a fable to haunt you in your deepest, fearful dreams. “It was an unfortunate bookend to a complex institution to Gotham.”

This seems most tactful way to explain it. But it appears that your company does not wish for the tactful so much as he does your sincerity.

His voice is dedicated to voicing the entertainment he finds out of this as he speaks in your shared language.

“<You are always so well-kept, even in the face of such barbarity like this charnel house.>” You turn back to him, away from Bruce, at the smirk that he bears.

“<Does it frighten you so?>” There is no denying the mirth he takes in asking this.

“<I am no more afraid of the Asylum itself than I am of these grounds, your grace.>” You answer, which you find best response. And it is the most truthful that you can afford in front of Bruce, who appears to be bearing irritation at the way that you two exclude him from the conversation.

But it is out of your hands. The Emir proceeds further in Arabic.

“<And what of the stories within?>” He presses the matter, and your heart rises the column of your throat as you consider this thought. “<Are you afraid of ghost stories?>”

This is the most honesty that you can provide. “<I am far more afraid of the corporeal instead, your grace.>”

He smiles at this answer, but provides no further follow-up. And the warehouse that you are to tour approaches. Bruce is the one who has the keys—thankfully, you think with relief as he searches his pockets for them.

He unlocks it to the smell of disuse that is not overwhelming, but is present. This was no place of learning or higher vocation: it is a gutted prison that you pace into.

Vaguely, you are aware of the Emir ordering his guard to remain outside and watch the door; but you are too busy taking in the details of this room. Of this empty space that will hypothetically be refurbished into streamlined laboratories, well-manufactured factory lines. Something of purpose after so much time in disrepair.

“It’s not much to look at,” Bruce rubs the back of his neck as the three of you take studious evaluation of the grounds, “But it’ll be better once we get a crew in here to clean it up.”

“This building used to hold the Arkham transfers,” You provide as you look at scrawled graffiti that litters the distant wall opposite you, “So it may be in greater disrepair than the other buildings. But this should be no obstacle given enough time.”

You do not expect to hear the Emir chuckle, but you do. How it echoes in such reverb against the expansive walls.

“Your assistant is so well-educated in the history of your beautiful city.” Ra’s Al Ghul says, though you can practically hear the irony that drips from his statement at this descriptor.

“You should keep careful eye on her,” He continues in such deliberate, level manner, “Lest she be poached by others.”

Another statement that toes the line of insult and compliment, though neither of you are able to advocate against it without dabbling in further conflict. You cannot counter this statement; you look to Bruce and hope that he will handle this with the tact that he can exercise as CEO.

“I try my best, Ra’s.” Bruce replies casually—and so the two of you continue to further admire the detail that this hollowed-out building may offer. It is quiet, and the distant call of loons and mourning doves carry through the arterial space; this is why you flinch a little as Bruce says your name.

You cannot decipher the purpose of that odd smile on his face until he continues— “—Just to follow up with you, I’m available Tuesday and Friday for that dinner we talked about earlier.”

You cannot express the shock that plainly registers through the rigidity of your body, the chill that sinks up your arms and length of your spine.

Something in you rears internally at this macho display, at the insinuation that this creates before his business partner, your superior: but Bruce is expecting a response from you. And, it is clear from sidelong glance to your periphery, that the Emir is as well.

You cannot cringe. You cannot say no. You cannot ignore the audience watching you both. You keep your voice sotto voce, working to avoid the means that heat is gathering tight under the sinew of your face.

“I am available Friday if you are.” You reply, to which Bruce beams.

“I look forward to it,” Bruce says. There is a beep from his phone that prompts him to search his pocket for the source of the notification. And sole witness to this hamfisted attempt is not without his own marked observation to share with you.

“<How desperate he is to stake a claim on unconquered land—>”—Ra’s Al Ghul comments in dry fashion as Bruce unlocks his phone— “<—How very American of your employer.>”

You would laugh if you had the energy to do so. “<That is not necessary, especially when we are conquering lands together, are we not?>”

“<Yes, and how we divide the spoils are up to our leisure.>” Ra’s Al Ghul says, though whatever else he means for you to hear is withheld. You see a look akin to thunderous concern drawn in the line of Bruce’s face, as he reads whatever has so captured his attention on his phone.

“Mr. Wayne?” You ask in cautious tone. Bruce’s eyes dart up to you in determined keel. The intensity is not borne at you, but there is no disguising it.

When he speaks, there is a lack of that propensity towards humor that he usually assumes; something determined and taut is in the implied directive he gives you.

“I’m sorry, I need to handle this.” Bruce says, and you feel your stomach plummet into a deep pit, your body draw still and motionless—“—If you don’t mind me stepping outside.”

You could scream if you had the social capability to do so, as Bruce offers you the most apologetic grimace that he can muster: and then departs in the direction of the door, your only means of escape.

Already he has withdrawn to the privileges that his riches and status afford him, dialing back the number on the phone and waiting to be heard. To be listened to, to be obeyed. You can only watch as he disappears into the distant doorframe.

And then you are left in solitary company with the Emir. You feel as though you must circulate regulatory breath before you can even turn to look at him, though you already know that he approaches like snake in the grass, making approach that is his to make.

“<You know, you are far more beautiful outside here,>” Ra’s Al Ghul purrs, “<Than when you are kept in that gilded eyesore Bruce traps you in.>”

You cannot deny the warmth of sensation that gathers in the depths of your body, in the clotting of your throat—in your hand that sports a tremble that you hide behind the defense of your body. And when you look him in the eye, he has drawn so close in such muted step you must will yourself to smother reaction.

“<It’s a willing entrapment, your grace.>” You reply casually, trying to keep any irregularity out of your voice—you know that he is waiting to see how you will react to this challenge levied your way. “<I enjoy the lifestyle that it affords me.>"

He watches you with such hawkish, studious focus that you can only wonder what he has gleaned from you, that you have not in the duration of your life. His voice carries that polished cadence that you have strongest urge to lose yourself in.

“<Have you not considered that you were meant for life of leisure?>” He asks, and when he nears—you are reminded of the vast difference in height that the two of you bear between each other. How he uses it so well, to dominate in your sights.

“<Of idolatry?>” He is taunting now. You take resuscitative step back, pretending as though you are interested in exploring more of the nuances of this former grotesquery.

“<I am far too ambitious to wish to sacrifice my work ethic for hedonism, your grace.>” You return, unwilling to confirm what you already know—that he is following after you, pursuant in the savanna of this encounter.

“<What fire you show outside of the tower—>”—He comments, drawing sidelong to you; he shows such capability, such alacrity for someone given the distinguishment of his age. You cannot help but wonder where else he may exercise such avenues of prowess—but this is too distracting.

“<—Free to be cherished.>” He holds your eyes. “<To be savored.>”

You make both verbal and physical evasive maneuver, keeping pace that you may allow yourself to be chased after.

“<I am the same as I was in my office, your grace. You see the same me.>”

He does not believe this, and neither do you; but he alone bears ability to express this in derisive laugh.

“<You may disguise it all you wish—but I have seen the real you. bedecked in the comforts outside of this work.>” His voice carries such authority that you cannot help but pause at this, at the intimacies that the two of you have shared. That he wields in usage of conversation so freely.

He leans in with knowing smile, eyes retaining that piercing quality. “<I know what it is that you need.>”

You should not proceed. But your mouth has different prerogative than your good, common sense. “<You will have to enlighten me, your grace.>”

“<I believe,>” Ra’s Al Ghul says, his hand drawing against the edge of your jaw—and how fitting it feels, to be touched by him, that you cannot resist leaning in. And how his shoulders plateau at this.

“<—You are in need of purpose. Of…corrective hand.” He informs you, and there is something that builds in pulsing heat in the junction of your legs at this, at the way that he so casually tells you. How his thumb ghosts up the apple of your cheek as he looks at you with the possessiveness the stalking tiger does of grazing, unsuspecting deer.

“<And if you will not be told—>”—He has such genteel smile, though his words belie nefarious intention that you wish to see the end of—“<—Then perhaps wiser minds may persuade you.>”

You stare up at him, unwilling to concede so easily, though something in you wants to know. Though you are back up against literal and figurative wall.

“<You wish to be my new lord, your grace?>” His hand clenches in greater manner against your face, making dilation of pupil that indicates how greatly he is interested in such prospect.

“<You already say my title so well—”—His thumb makes journey under the slope of your chin, giving him opportunity to tilt your head up to him—“<—I cannot help but wonder what you would say in the heat of my bed.>”

You have nothing that you can possibly respond with, your mind woefully blank, your mouth open and emotionless as you think of everything that you are throwing to the wind with this. Everything that you want, that you know he can satisfy.

“<You are shaking.>” He murmurs. Though he finds some entertainment in this, there is a degree of comfort in the way that he admires the detail of your face.

You must respond now. Or else you will be forever lost. “<I am frightened of what you want from me, your grace.>”

“<Yes, but fear may be softened to acceptance.>” He says—and he is so close, the words he articulates on spoken on the terrain of your mouth. “<To lust.>”

When he kisses you, it is with such ferocity that you expected—but you surprise yourself by responding in kind. His hands are expert in their navigation, sliding down the small of your back and pulling you flush against him so that you might gain access to the musculature of his body. Older he might be, but there is no denying the coil of sheer exertion he bears.

And his tongue as it searches your mouth, as it laves against yours—it is relentless. It is expert in the way that he uses it to taste you, to explore the nuance of your teeth.

He catches your bottom lip in between his teeth and you can’t help but whimper, clenching your fingers against his shoulders where you have held on for dear life. He makes a low growl that only awakens something deeply needful in between your legs.

You are barely aware that you have been pushed up against the wall until the air is expelled from you and you pull back for necessary oxygen. This does little to distract your suitor.

Nor the pursuit of his mouth as he makes way to what exposed real estate of your neck is given and makes cruel bite with his teeth. His hands knead at the swell of your breast, taking what fill of your body he can.

“Oh—”—You moan as lithe fingers unbutton your nicely made collar, pull your shirt askance. His mouth latches on your collarbone and sucks. You feel your eyes close as you collapse against the wall, only held up by the strength of his arms.

You feel weak, as though you are floating, the only thing anchoring you his mouth that works against you, that sucks dire bruise into your skin.

“God—”—you manage to breathe, though this is short-lived as his hand makes grasp around the width of your neck. And the pressure that he applies, the press of his thumb against the divot of your neck, the way that he watches you with such ravenous intent to consume you whole—

The moan, broken, wanton, that escapes you, is unmistakable. As is the smile that he makes as he observes you, before closing the distance once more to claim your mouth.

Still his hand maintains careful pressure, threading the line of pain and pleasure as he keeps you against the lap of his tongue. But you’ve never needed anything more.

You are only given momentary reprieve when he pulls away to catch your earlobe between his teeth. And then for the first time since he has kissed you, he speaks. It is little more than carnivorous growl, all dressings laid bare in the heat of desire.

“<I may be patient, but there are limits to what I may bear.>” He warns you, and you gasp again as his hand clenches tighter around your throat. “<See me tonight in my room.>”

“<Your grace—>” You try to stammer out as Ra’s draws your earlobe into the heat of his mouth. And you are thoroughly distracted by this, until he returns to the forefront of your vision.

“<It is Ra’s.>” He tells you, before pressing lingering kiss against your mouth. It is all that you can do to kiss him back.

When he releases you, returning propriety of your body to yourself, his hands leaving such scorching afterimage on you, he surveys you with a sense of deep satisfaction. He has won this battle—but you think you are not without your own victory, disheveled though you may be.

“<Now put yourself together, my dear,>” Ra’s Al Ghul instructs—and you obey—“— So that Bruce knows none the wiser.>”

Bruce. He could be a million miles away, yet you know he is so close, outside—unaware of the eons that have passed while he was away. Your eyes dart to the far-off door where he has yet to reappear, yet could at any moment. You fluster to make yourself presentable as Ra’s Al Ghul watches.

And when Bruce returns seconds later, none would know the difference. Though you and the Emir exchange heady glance between each other that you know you must parse carefully—and keep distance that you know must be well-maintained.

You do not know what will happen if you find yourself in proximity of his hands again—and you know that you won’t be able to resist.

When you return to your apartment, with all its niceties borne of your hard-earned work, all you can do is approach your bathroom. Admire the marks of a man who wants you as his. Hear words that have bidden you order.

See me tonight in my room. You look back to the distant skyline where the sky grows darker in order to adopt the tapestry of stars that have yet to descend. You could stay here. You could chalk this up to dalliance, see Bruce for that dinner he wishes to see you at.

You look back to the marks of Ra’s Al Ghul’s teeth that lie on the unmarred surface of your body. Disrupted by his claiming touch. A touch that you want to explore more of—and your fingers ghost over stake claimed.

“<Free to be cherished. Free to be savored.>” And a mouth, and a hand, and a body that were eager to demonstrate it to you: to give you preview of what awaited.

You are already dressed, your bag restocked when the phone rings. You walk over in composed fashion, checking the calf-length trench coat that you wear to ensure it disguises your appearance. And you remain unsurprised when your doorman tells you that your chauffeur is ready to pick up.

You knew they would be. Just as you know what you are ready to do. You avoid the arc of your gaze in the mirror, afraid of what you will see, taking care to button your coat up to the neck.

And then you make steady-legged exit, careful to lock the door behind you as you leave to see Ra’s Al Ghul.

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CHAPTER FIVE. NOW. NOOOOOOW. ILL MAKE ANOTHER TRADE WITH YOU. DAMN IT SOL