. 󠄀 ֹ 󠄀 𓏲 ˚ . ᯇ SUNDAY NIGHTS.
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: sunday nights are his favorite—silk nightgown, freshly lotioned skin, her weight warm in his lap. bruce doesn’t just watch; he studies, memorizes, obsesses. what begins with quiet teasing turns into slow grinding, whispered confessions, and his unyielding hands guiding her every movement. he's gotham's shadow, but here, beneath her, he lets himself unravel.
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: smut, domestic intimacy, obsession hidden under quiet devotion, dry-humping escalation, soft filth, slow indulgence, Bruce being undone by softness, control laced with vulnerability.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bruce wayne x wife!reader
𝐭𝐰: 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 +18, explicit sexual content, clothed sex/dry humping, fingering, size kink/praise kink undertones, possessive Bruce, jealousy mention, very little dirty talk (low, controlled, commanding), grinding against clothing until soaked, teasing restraint, hand in panties (eventual), open-mouthed kissing/neck worship, reader on top, Bruce controlling rhythm, low growling/rasping, overstimulation potential, post-sex tenderness, Bruce refusing distance, intensity bordering on obsession.
Sunday nights had gradually become Bruce Wayne’s most coveted reprieve, though he would never admit it aloud with the same candor his wife did. The world might have seen him as Gotham’s most untouchable man — untouchable by business rivals, untouchable by crime, untouchable by anything save his own relentless sense of duty — but Sunday nights had a way of peeling him back to something startlingly ordinary. There was nothing extravagant to them, nothing that belonged in the pages of gossip columns. Just his wife, a couch or their bed, some ridiculous film she insisted on subjecting him to, and the quiet, indulgent knowledge that no boardroom, no vigilante alter ego, no crime wave could intrude. It was, in its simplicity, perfection. Or as close as Bruce allowed himself to believe in.
Of course, “perfection” occasionally came with conditions. Some Sundays, his wife declared the evening a sacred “self-care night.” That meant a long and suspiciously luxurious shower during which she disappeared into clouds of steam as though she were preparing to emerge an entirely new woman, followed by an elaborate ritual of lotions, oils, serums, and practices Bruce couldn’t begin to name. He’d lean back on their bed, one eyebrow arched, watching her glide from dresser to mirror with a surgeon’s precision, wondering with sincere curiosity why this wasn’t recognized as a professional sport. It seemed to him just as demanding as any training regimen he’d ever undertaken — only far more aromatic.
Tonight happened to be one of those evenings. Bruce had already gone through his own routine, the kind that took him scarcely ten minutes: a scalding shower to rinse off Gotham’s grit, a clean shave he’d perfected in seconds flat, and pajama pants pulled on with the absentminded efficiency of a soldier out of uniform. He’d poured himself a neat glass of whiskey, sifted through the last of his email correspondence, and unfolded his evening paper. By the time he was adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, his wife finally emerged from the bathroom.
“You’re the reason there are droughts,” he muttered dryly without looking up, turning a page.
“What?” she asked distractedly, a towel still in her hands as she worked it through her damp hair.
“Nothing, love.” His mouth twitched as he finally lifted his gaze, timing it precisely to catch her in the process of pulling on the silk nightgown he’d bought her months ago. A gift he claimed had been chosen on a whim, though he remembered vividly the way her eyes had flickered over the fabric in a boutique window before she moved on without a word. Bruce remembered things. Always.
She padded across the bedroom with bare, unhurried steps, placing herself at the dresser and twisting open one of her many little jars. She propped her leg onto the polished wood and began smoothing lotion into her skin. The movement was unhurried, methodical. Almost ritualistic. Bruce found himself captivated despite the countless times he’d witnessed the routine. There was something oddly grounding in it — the meticulousness, the care she poured into herself. He wondered, not for the first time, how such a thing felt. To treat your body as something precious, not merely as an instrument of war and endurance.
She sealed the jar with a gentle twist, set it aside with the kind of care he usually reserved for disarming a bomb, and then gathered her hair up into a messy bun. A few strands tumbled free, framing her face in a way that wasn’t careless but rather beautifully human. She slid her wedding ring back on her finger, paused, smiled softly at it, as if reacquainting herself with the promise it held, before finally climbing into bed.
Bruce folded his paper deliberately — the corners aligned, the pages creased with precise symmetry — before he set it aside. Then he pulled her into him without hesitation. She was warm, silk and skin pressed against him, and for a moment the world stilled.
“You’re so warm,” she murmured, smiling into his chest as she burrowed closer.
His eyes softened, though his voice remained gruff. “So are you. And smooth.” His hand traced a slow path along her arm, his brow furrowing as though he’d discovered something puzzling. “Weirdly smooth. What are you?” The last words tumbled out almost unconsciously, a murmur of genuine confusion.
She laughed, that bright, unguarded laugh that cracked through all his practiced stoicism, and shook her head.
Bruce’s frown only deepened, his hands wandering lower, brushing over her thigh with quiet curiosity, as though she were some mystery worth solving. “This is strange,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. His thumb pressed lightly against the curve of her calf, testing the satin softness there. It baffled him — not in any way that demanded answers, but in the way only Bruce Wayne could be baffled: silently, intensely, as though he had stumbled onto a riddle Gotham itself couldn’t provide.
And yet, as his hands settled against her, the truth was simpler than any puzzle. She was his. His warmth. His stillness. His Sunday night.
“How do you get so smooth?” he asked at last, the words rumbling low against her temple, as though it truly confounded him.
“Well, usually I shave, but today…” She tilted her head back a little, watching him with a mischievous spark, “I went and got waxed.” Her lips brushed over his cheek as she spoke, soft and unhurried, a featherlight kiss that lingered just long enough to tease.
Bruce’s brow lifted, his hands slowing against her thighs. “Waxed. Everywhere?” His voice carried a trace of suspicion that only he could make sound like a cross-examination.
“Yes, Bruce,” she grinned, unbothered by the weight of his scrutiny. “Everywhere. The guy who waxed me was really nice. And gentle.”
It was immediate — the way his expression hardened, the faint narrowing of his eyes, the shift of his jaw that was subtle to anyone else but glaring to her. He looked as though he was already cataloguing every waxing studio in Gotham and preparing an interrogation.
She laughed, quickly backtracking before he could rise from the bed with murderous intent. “I’m joking. Don’t harm anyone. I got waxed by a girl. Female. Very female.”
Bruce exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, his body easing back though his eyes lingered on hers with that stern, warning kind of glare. “Don’t joke like that,” he said flatly, his tone carrying the sharp edge of someone who wasn’t entirely joking himself. “That was not funny.”
“It was very funny,” she corrected him with a defiant little smile, her amusement never dimming. She shifted her weight and slid forward, settling onto his lap, straddling him with ease. His body responded instinctively, his back pressing into the headboard just enough to give her space, his hands finding their natural place on her thighs, gliding up and down with a reverence he would never name aloud.
She leaned in, closing the distance, pressing her mouth against his in a kiss that began soft but deepened the moment he returned it. Bruce’s lips claimed hers with quiet urgency, his large hands sliding higher, over her hips, tracing her waist before anchoring against the small of her back. He drew her into him as though he could never quite get her close enough. Her arms looped around his neck, her body melting easily into the breadth of his chest.
He broke from her lips only to trail lower, down the line of her jaw, scattering slow, open-mouthed kisses that grew warmer as they reached the delicate skin of her throat. He lingered there, savoring, tasting, his mouth dragging over her pulse point with unhurried indulgence.
And then he hummed against her skin, his voice muffled but curious. “Why do you taste sweet?”
She tilted her head back to grant him more access, smiling lazily. “New lotion of mine. Do you like it?”
“I love it.” The words left him in a murmur, almost reverent, against her neck. He kissed her again, longer this time, drawing in her sweetness as though it steadied him. One hand slid higher up her spine, pressing her firmly to him, while the other drifted lower to her thigh, his thumb brushing absently, distractedly, against her skin as though he couldn’t decide where to worship first.
There was something disarming about it — about him. For all of Gotham’s fears and headlines, for all the weight he carried, Bruce Wayne, in this room, on this bed, was simply a man undone by the scent of his wife’s lotion, the feel of her skin, the taste of her neck. And though he might never say it, not in words, she knew with absolute certainty: this was the only sweetness he’d ever allow himself to crave.
She broke the kiss only long enough to bury her face into the strong line of Bruce’s neck, inhaling that clean, smoky scent of him that never seemed to fade no matter how recently he’d showered. His arms immediately cinched tighter around her, protective and possessive all at once, as though her body belonged nowhere else but in his embrace. She smiled against his throat, though, because her stillness was never innocence; she was already plotting mischief. With calculated slowness, she rolled her hips down, the silk of her nightgown slipping further up her thighs as her heat pressed directly against the hardness he was straining beneath his pajama pants.
The change in him was instant. Bruce’s grip shifted, pulling her closer still, his body responding instinctively. His hips lifted, rolling upwards with restrained force, dragging the full length of his arousal against her clothed core. The pressure drew a soft, breathless sigh from her lips, a sound he swallowed hungrily as she ground down again. His large hands descended to her hips, the weight of them unyielding, guiding her, commanding the pace of her movements as though even her mischief could only unfold under his control.
She lifted her head then, cupping his chiseled jaw in both hands, her fingers pressing into the rough line of stubble as she pulled his mouth back to hers. The kiss was sloppy, unpolished, most of it being her panting and sighing into him, but Bruce let her set it that way. He let her pull him into it, into something raw and unrestrained. And then, with a low growl vibrating from deep in his chest, he devoured her mouth in return. Bruce Wayne kissed like a man who had been denied too long, like someone who carried hunger in every corner of his soul but only allowed it to escape here, with her. His lips moved over hers with a dark, consuming intensity, taking and giving in equal measure until there was nothing left to do but cling to him.
One hand slid from her hip, skimming the curve of her waist before pressing firmly between her shoulder blades, forcing her chest flush against his. He wanted no space, no distance, nothing to separate them. The other hand remained low, directing her movements with slow, relentless precision, dragging her against the rigid outline beneath his pajama pants until each grind made her breath catch. Every roll of his hips beneath her was deliberate, controlled, and yet brimming with a tension that threatened to snap.
The hand at her back eventually drifted lower, tracing her spine with languid command before wrapping around her side, slipping over her stomach, and continuing down. His fingers disappeared beneath the hem of her silk gown, knuckles brushing against her heated skin as he explored his way lower. He didn’t rush; Bruce Wayne never rushed when it came to her. Instead, he savored the anticipation, the way her body tensed with expectation beneath his touch. And then his hand settled firmly between her thighs, cupping her through the delicate lace of her panties, his palm pressing hard enough to make her gasp.
Bruce’s mouth hovered just beside her ear, his voice low, gravel rough, a whisper that was equal parts promise and command. “Tell me…” he murmured, his thumb stroking lazily over her lace-covered heat, “…was this part of your little self-care routine too?”
“No,” she breathed, the word soft, almost teasing, before it turned into a breathy laugh that made something low and pleased stir in his chest. “Doing it myself in the shower, with my own fingers… that’s part of my self-care routine. But tonight…” She tilted her head just enough to press a sly, intimate smile against his lips. “…I felt like being nice. Letting you do it.”
Bruce’s chest rose and fell in a slow, heavy exhale. The words tumbled from him almost unintentionally, raw in their simplicity. “God… I love you.” His lips descended to hers again, deep, insistent, devouring in that familiar way that made her knees weaken. His thick, sure fingers slipped beneath the delicate lace, seeking her, finding her clit almost instantly, and the response was immediate — her hips pressed down, bucking against him, whimpering softly into the heat of his mouth.
Her lips parted against his as he slid two fingers inside her, curling them with the precise rhythm he knew would draw out her pleasure. He could feel every quiver, every twitch, as though her body had memorized him as thoroughly as he had memorized her. “Bruce,” she moaned, breathless, warm, utterly his.
He pressed his forehead to hers for a moment, catching her gaze with his own, intense and unrelenting. Then, lowering his mouth to her bottom lip, he pecked her gently, teasing, grounding them both. “Feel good?” he asked, voice low, rough around the edges but carrying a devotion that was wholly his. She nodded without hesitation, rolling her hips further down to take him deeper, wrapping herself around him in both surrender and trust.
He watched her, captivated by the way she responded, by the slight shivers that ran through her, by the delicate, shuddering moans she tried to bite back. Everything else — the city, the chaos, the endless responsibilities — disappeared. It was only her, only them, the heat between them pressing against the world he always carried on his shoulders.
Bruce’s thumb brushed over her sensitive flesh with deliberate patience, teasing in a rhythm meant to drive her wild without letting her finish too quickly, prolonging the tension until she was practically trembling beneath him. His other hand moved to her waist, anchoring her, keeping her steady even as her body fought for every bit of release he had so carefully coaxed out.
And in that stolen, sacred Sunday-night intimacy, he thought, not for the first time: God, Sunday nights are the best.
— all rights reserved © 𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐑𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓 all fanfics belong to me, do not copy, translate nor repost on any other platform as yours. Do not feed my work to ai whatsoever.
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