A Day Off | Oneshot | Bruce Wayne x Reader ✦
Synopsis. You convinced your husband to finally take a break for a weekend. With no one for miles, you decide it's time to catch up on some long overdue r&r, and maybe a little something extra on the side...?
Pairing. Bruce Wayne x Reader
Content. MDNI, mature love, silver fox!Bruce Wayne, middle-aged!aged reader, workaholic Bruce, cottage get away, established relationship, he's a yearner
Content Warnings. Roaming hands, making out, marking, he's an eater, fingering, grinding, eye contact, watching you, pinv
꩜ A/N. I finally figured out how to do photos!! I'm a sucker for majority of these tropes involved, so hopefully I did them justice.
main masterlist | DCU masterlist
The inner lodging’s tepid air skimmed the surface of your skin indolently. Through the recurrent rasp of the ceiling fan overhead, you could faintly pick apart the ambiance with your trained ear; the intrinsic sounds that came with the antiqued cabin, crickets chirping, the creaking of worn wood beneath your socked feet.
You had started the latter half of the evening with a much-needed insence-infused soak — nothing fancy, just enough to wash down the day’s grime and weight. Cloaked in quality silks, you navigated the halls of the cozy nook with unobtrusive steps. Though you had visited countless Wayne properties, this covert woodland getaway was an acreage of his you had yet to familiarize yourself with. Ever the humble soul, you kept your wandering minimal.
If you could recall, he had briefly touched upon retreating to the cabin’s master bedroom before your bath. With now loose muscles and an easygoing pace, you ambled your way through the wooden corridors towards the room in question. The trip felt short despite the ample square footage that encompassed the cabin — perhaps you’d grown accustomed to large spaces by this point in your relationship? His lifestyle soon became something of your own.
Met with a grand oak portico, you grasp the silver knob with deft fingers and offer the lock a twist. The entrance snaps open, whining lowly as you step inside and search the room for his figure. Nestled in the dimly lit corners of the lodge, your partner is a striking figure, his presence both intriguing and calming.
A pair of silver-rimmed glasses perch delicately on the bridge of his nose, illuminating the deep blue of his eyes as they sift through the inked lines of an arbitrary document spread before him. You take a moment to appreciate the scene — the robe he wears, a rich shade that complements your ash-gray silk attire, fits him impeccably, accentuating the contours of his frame. There’s a certain elegance in his relaxed demeanor; he appears grounded, his shoulders eased as much as he allows himself to be in this tranquil sanctuary. The gentle flicker of candlelight reflects off the glossy pages of the document, enhancing the atmosphere of quiet focus and understated intimacy that envelops the space.
“Lost in thought?”
He doesn't bother to look up. He doesn't have to. His senses are much too finely attuned to mind, so he can already tell from the intensity of your gaze just how badly you're staring.
“Bruce…”
The name slips from your lips reverently, a molten quality to the timbre of your voice. It’s unintended, breath-snatching — you just acknowledge he’s there before you. Breathing, in-the-flesh, well and situated in a calm you haven't seen grace his features in months. He hadn't a moment's peace back in Gotham. You suggested a small break — a suggestion you're still shocked to see having come to fruition.
“Hm?”
Thick dark lashes flutter in recognition. You’re still finding the words, much too caught up in the moment to speak. Almost too discerningly, he just sits there, waiting. As if giving you the moment to clear your mind, allow your feet to hit solid ground. When your mind eventually does circle back to reality, you blink vapidly, clearing away the brain fog, making your way towards his lectern.
“I’m just happy we came here…”
Rounding the edge of his desk, you rest the plush of your palm over his shoulders warmly — nothing too overbearing. His work came before anything; at least, you had assumed breaking him from his focus was rude. Without thought, he uses his unoccupied palm to cradle yours in riposte.
“As am I, ... The nature is a much-needed change.”
This garners a soft smile from you. With steady shifts, you lean over his periphery to curiously peek at his task.
“And these documents, ...?”
The words are delicate. Said in a way that didn't mean to pry but rather innocently question. You understood some things just weren't meant to be disclosed.
“Contracts and Agreements. On the enterprise side of things…”
His elucidation hints that the compositions before you were nothing more than standard industry paperwork. You can only be discreetly grateful that it had nothing to do with vigilante dealings. Not that you didn't trust him — throughout this trip, he had promised you wholeheartedly to put down the cowl and detached his mind from the ‘Bat’. Unless the stakes were dire, not a single mention of crime-fighting duties was to be brought up during your weekend escape. While you weren't necessarily strict on the matter, he was sincere in keeping his oath to you.
“We travel all the way here to decompress and you're busying yourself?”
By no means were you nagging or berating. It just seemed redundant to come all the way here and make nothing of it. Your hand squeezes his gently — a faint protest, but still, a protest nontheless. He squeezes back and surrenders with a guilt-ridden sigh. You had a point; one which he was willing to drop his ballpoint pen for.
“It’s a habit for me… I'm sorry.”
With a slow shake of your head, full of unspoken thoughts, you draw nearer, your body grazing the cool, polished surface of his mahogany desk. The chill of the wood contrasts sharply with the warmth of your skin as you position yourself, allowing the curve of your hips to settle comfortably against the edge. Reaching out, you take his jaw gently in your hand, your fingers brushing against his stubble as you lean in closer.
“There’s no need for an apology.”
With an intent gaze, you direct your attention to his hand, your eyes narrowing slightly in determination, as if conveying a message that words alone could never express. The atmosphere thickens with an electric tension, urging the moment to unfold further.
“It’s hard to let go of that state of mind so easily, ... just telling you to relax isn't going to get you anywhere.”
With a simmering interest, he raises a thick brow and turns to face you comfortably. Your words pique his focus, his fingers placing his pen down to encircle your waist instead.
“So? You plan to teach me? Show me, …?”
Though your statement was rhetorical, you nod in confirmation of his query gently. A valued smirk partially graces his lips, his body setting into motion. He’s now torn away from his desk, standing before you, large, warm palms cupped against your hips. An underlying tension is sparked, but it’s not anything you both haven't experienced before.
“Please, ...Do enlighten me on how to relax. You know I’m a lost cause in that aspect.”
There, beneath the gruff baritone of his voice, you catch the slightest hint of mischief. You can't help but restrain the smile blooming across your lips.
“At least you're aware.”
The energy between you two crackles, lighting up noticeably in the way his grip grows tighter, your cheeks burning from mirth. You enjoy the playful silence between every mutual quip thrown at each other in earnest.
“You wound me.”
He doesn't mean it, tone dripped in sarcasm. You scoff and veer your gaze.
“Do I?”
Between your words, he ducks his head and chuckles in endearment. You never understood how even the simplest of actions and words rendered him hopeless to your whim. Time and time again, he would remind you of the sheer power you held in your palm. No, it was never physical. It was the mere fact that you had him utterly wrapped around your finger, whipped for your every breath. You could only thank whatever deity existed out there that you were decent enough to never take advantage of his devotion. It was quite the opposite in your case.
“Deeply so. Everything you do… I feel so strongly. You don't even know the half of it.”
Strong hands find and frame your neck, holding you like something ephemeral. The callouses of his fingers scuff the thin toasty skin — courtesy of your earlier rinse — and you swear you feel his palm press forward in desperation, seeking the newly discovered warmth.
“Let’s focus on us. I want you to get something out of this…”
You press your forehead to his and he presses back. You had convinced him ages ago, but the added intimacy is more than appreciated.
“I want to focus on you...”
He retorts smoothly, his voice dipping an octave, softer than before. You were the only thing that offered him sanction — stillness. The serenity that came from your presence was something he often sought; after heated debates, lengthy missions, toilsome mysteries, there you were to ease the tides crashing in his boisterous mind almost instantly. He came to you, addicted, needing you like a drug.
“Bed?”
You question softly, running a hand through the salt-and-peppered locks of his hair.
“Is that an invitation or a request?”
You don't quite catch it at first. His rumbling words register in your late evening wired brain — with widening eyes, you latch your gaze together, clearing your throat instantly.
“You know what I mean Bruce, ...”
He taps the side of your cheek and whispers. You can practically hear the smirk in his voice as he speaks.
“Elaborate.”
This was the kind of setting for a couple's getaway, wasn't it? Dimmed lighting, scented candles, and nobody around for miles. You knew he wanted something — you couldn't blame him for the sudden urge. Perhaps even the second you approached him, you kindled that dormant demand he always had to stick closer than close.
Bruce Wayne, removed from the role of playboy billionaire or caped crusader, was a thorough man, through and through.
When he chose not to don the mask of either persona, a remarkable transformation occurred within him; he became noticeably mellowed and controlled, his true self emerging more clearly. In the early days of your relationship, you found yourself grappling with doubts about whether he had ever truly experienced any form of sexual attraction. Not that you believed he needed to — intimate gratification aside, you were much more than happy to stay his lover for the rest of your life without the pleasantries. It was hard to believe that such a depth of yearning existed within someone so enigmatic and composed.
As time wore on, however, you began to uncover layers of his personality that you hadn’t anticipated. It turned out that his desires were not absent; rather, they manifested in a manner as sudden and unpredictable as his very nature. At moments, he would surprise you with flashes of longing and passion that felt almost foreign against the backdrop of his otherwise serene demeanor. Each revelation was like peeling back the layers of an intricate puzzle, and with each layer, you discovered just how deep his needs ran — complex and often at odds with the image he presented to the world. Sometimes, to you.
“I didn't think I needed to…”
Clicking his teeth, he rhythmically taps on your jaw, withholding the smirk that threatened to meet his lips.
“You want to sleep?”
‘Cuddle’ was more accurate, but yes. Of course, you wanted to be with him. In any shape or form possible.
“Why wouldn't I? Don't you want to?”
Pinching your brows together weakly, you tilt your head to the side. The expression you wore screamed of clouded confusion. Did he not want this? Was it a mistake to ask?
“I’d enjoy that… but it’s defeating the purpose of coming here,” he mutters slowly.
There were the kids, the constant drop-ins by league members, and Alfred’s company. You two never had a space for yourself. You found the truth in his words almost too instantly.
“We’re alone.”
He adds. You sigh and eventually nod, showing him that you understood fully just how deep his desperation ran.
“I need you here and now. Uninterrupted by everyone…. Everything.”
A gulp wracks down your throat. He catches the way your gullet bobs and lets out a steadying breath.
“Let me have you… please…”
He was never the kind to beg or grovel. He meant this — the creases in his eyes, a fervid husk coating his tongue, the way he ducked his head and stared at you. Needing. Practically yearning for reciprocation. But Bruce was never a man who you believed needed to plead. Not for you. Not this.
What a tease you were. He scoffed inwardly, throwing his head to the side with a wolfish smirk. As if the words registered were the most ridiculous thing he’d heard in his life.
“Are you seriously questioning that now?”
A smile finally breaks through. Warm. Inviting. His lips brush against your jaw — fleeting, unbelievably warm, somewhat chapped. The pink of his tongue briefly darts out to wet them, mouth trailing along your skin delicately.
Now wasn't the time to speak. If you so much as uttered a word, it’d ruin everything. Your lips seal themselves tight, allowing for his own to inch and brush closer to your mouth.
He kisses you. Body all in. Chest pushed forward, arms encaging you. The crafty movement of his tongue is trained and skillful. It starts with a subtle prodding. You feel the moist warmth against the round of your bottom lip and follow through. Mouth now parted.
He curses under his breath. You don't quite catch it. It’s frustrating — his brows furrowed, jaw clenched as he pushes against you and locks his lips on yours like he needs it to breathe. Something told you he's needed this for a while. Naturally, he allows his touch to wander and caress. The rough pads of his fingers mess with your robe, rumpling the pressed silk. A sleeve dips here and material loosens there.
In seconds, the cool air brushes against your exposed shoulders. He soothes over the chill with his rough palms, pushing you down slow and easy. You feel as your hair sinks and unfurls over the ornate wood below. Your legs wrap around him — he’s bonded to you, your legs hitched over his hips.
Grunts and breath fill your ears as he closes his eyes and gives you everything he’d been holding back for however long it’s been. Lips everywhere, melting aimlessly along your neck with no clear path. Your breath quickly catches, his mouth sucking a deep bruise into your collarbone. You mutter his name like a curse. He licks over the nicked skin and sinks further. Lower. Head dipping beneath your waist, navel, and then eventually your robe.
Shivers wrack up your spine as his voice rumbles against your inner thigh. His heated breath dusts over the curve reverently, hands slipping down to grip onto your thighs and tether you into place. Everything stills for you, jaw clenched, eyes unsure of whether to follow or clamp down shut.
His voice ghosts over the heat building hastily beneath your legs. You craved something. Any pressure, friction, touch. Even something featherlight would do if it were him. Carefully, he moves in, his nose fitting perfectly over the plush mound in front of him. He inhales, as if this moment could be any more shameful and self-indulgent.
He offers a gentle lick. His tongue pressed roughly into the dampish cotton — it conforms to the tension and clings against your moistening slit. This earns a strangled hiccup; you feel the ends of his mouth curve upwards against your sensitive skin.
“Have I neglected you that much?”
The question is indubitably rhetorical. He mutters it more to himself rather than to you — not that you’d have much success understanding a single word given your state. You can tell the thought presses heavily on his conscious mind, deep blue eyes sharpening with focus. He leans back and observes. Watches, with those all-knowing eyes of his. It’s embarrassing; his gaze rakes over your glistening skin, crystalline droplets of slick forming like honeyed dew.
His finger curls. You catch the way the silver band on his finger catches in the low lighting like a warning. Bringing his knuckle downward, he tenderly goads the firm bone through your heated core and offers a mind-numbing drag of his joint. Up, mashed against your hardened nub, tugged down methodically, where you needed it most. Your shared rings. A symbol, typically so endearing, rackets at your senses — the icy metal a stark contrast to your natural warmth.
“And you're already this wet.”
Rather than ashamed, he sounds almost proud. Pleased even. If you didn't love him so much, you’d scoff. Unfurling his finger, he nudges his digit through the gummy tissue — the intrusion isn't something you’d welcome in some time. The obvious restraint of your body against the thick finger tells that much. You clear your throat, ready to apologize. Like always, he lifts his head and meets you face to face, ready to silence your doubts.
“Don’t worry. We haven't done this often lately.”
Not breaking eye contact, he feeds his finger into you and kneads the pads against the velveteen flesh benignly. You keen and grip the aged ledge of his desk, body strung up tight. His eyes don’t tear away, greedily taking in each tiny reaction with stalkerish precision. You simply wished he didn't watch so much, but oh well.
“Don’t feel the need to explain yourself… You have nothing to apologize for.”
The words trickle from his throat, the ghost of a breath escaping his lips as he drives his finger up and out. Your teeth clench. He responds in kind, leaning down to offer care and attention to your quivering nub. The tip of his tongue swirls around the hardened spot with the need to please, pushing, pressing, prodding. You can’t exactly tell, but the feeling of two fingers pressing into you eventually registers in your head at some point.
Things were settling into place. The tension in your body seeps from your muscles, limbs unwinding, limp like a ragdoll, loosely rolling out over the desk’s surface. Besides the occasional twitch, Bruce can tell your body is slowly remembering how to accept him in full. With an abrasive suck and shortened, rash thrust, he finally has you coming undone. There’s a long effortless glide of his fingers out of you, mortifyingly soaked in your arousal. You clench. He revels in the feeling against his now drenched stubble.
“Still as sensitive as ever,...?”
He raises his brow and sits up, properly meeting your face once more to brag. Once you collect some semblance of reason, you take the time to huff and meet his eye indignantly. Though he knows it’s all in good fun.
He chuckles in earnest, palm never leaving your throbbing core for a second. Seems he would only succinctly offer you respite. He gradually digs the heel of his palm into you.
You couldn't care less about what he said. Steadily, you roll your hips, thighs, and lower back working overtime to meet his hand in earnest. You’d enjoy yourself — he loved it when you did after all. As expected, he watched you use him with a dark glower beneath his irises. The distinctive pinpoint of his pupils slowly dilates, affixing obsessively over the way your body moved. You were working him up on purpose. He could tell. You didn't care.
He keeps in place, allowing you to amaturely rut until your eventual undoing. You squeeze and squeeze until you have nothing left. Left over the desk, chest panting, legs gone weak, mind bendable.
He asks. He always does. You have to force the strength left in your body to work, neck tipping over to meet his gaze from above half-heartedly. You can tell he's trying his damnest. It’s almost comical, the way he slowly retracts his palm and looks down at you like a man on the brink of insanity. In some sense he was.
But at this point, he wasn't joking. You receive no chuckle, no smile, not even a snarky remark. Just the burning intensity of his gaze. The realization clicks; you turn and kindly part your legs.
“Yeah… Yes. I’m… I’ll be alright now.”
Neither of you could help it. You weren't any better off than he was. He swallows a thick ball of pressure and makes do with the confirmation. Starting with his sleep pants. Next your robe. Eventually his boxers. His body hangs over yours, the air between you too muggy to withstand. Dragging steady fingers through his tousled locks, you guide him closer, his head cradled against your throat.
You feel as if something dies in his throat. Oftentimes, he wasn't too sure. The last thing he would do is hurt you — it was endearing as well as pathetic as it was. You place an encouraging peck on his temple.
“Don’t keep me waiting after all this time…”
Then, a gentle smile. Sure enough, you undid him on the spot. There’s that familiar weight, raw skin patting against the plush of your navel. He always found it intrusive — the way his body contrasted heavily with yours; like even touching you was some grand crime committed against humanity. In moments like these, you had to encourage. A hand on his shoulder blade, an unplanned kiss landing against his jaw.
Finally, the hesitant kiss of his tip sets alight the dormant nerves in your body. You hold on and grip. A silent signal. A subtle ‘I’m ready for this, aren't you?’. He sighs shakily. A simple press forward, and you both crumble together in an instant.
He rasps, careful not to dent the wood underneath his flat palm. Even without finishing, you could tell what he meant. Even then, he felt even more difficult to take this time around. You guys needed to do this more often — you take mental note of that and tuck it away in the back of your mind for safekeeping.
“Slow— Bruce, I need it—”
He grunts and just nods, distracting both of you with sloppy kisses to your neck.
The pitch of his voice is strained, gruff against your pulse as he drags his teeth and tongue down and all over you, marking wherever he can. It was an unreasonable pairing objectively. The usual — he was impossible thick, and you were impossibly narrow. With the lost time, everything was back to square one.
He whispers against your lips like a prayer, hands devoted to working out knots in your legs, thighs, hips. After another unthinkably difficult coaxing of himself into you, he finally gasps and bottoms out. Completely. If he was struggling, you were a hundred times worse off. You could barely feel your legs anymore. Knees buckled under the pressure, you arch off the desk and whimper between hurried breaths. He silences your nerves with his lips, keeping wholly still.
The sensuality of it all, mingled breath, lips supple against each other, everything languid — you feel as you unbend and let loose under his touch. Before he can even ask, your legs are wrapping around his waist and pulling him forward.
Cushioned plaps of skin against skin echo through the room. Like always, Bruce works his legs and hips with devout effort, his lower stomach coated with a thin sheen of slick, happy trail deliciously mussed. His eyes dart to everything, like he’s not sure what to focus on. Maybe the way your body jostled and bounced softly in tandem with his calculated thrusts, sweet sounds echoing like saccharine hymns against his ears as you writhed and whimpered underneath him prettily. Perhaps the sticky meeting of skin just below you both, tuffs of salt and pepper curls swabbed with accumulations of arousal, thin bridges of milky string appearing as he drew his hips back, disappearing as he drove into you, then appearing again as he repeated the cycle over and over.
And over and over. He wasn't showing any signs of stopping. Not until you properly came undone before him, under him, around him. He needed that if he wanted to so much as live with himself after this. You’d comply. But not after a few more irresistibly lengthy drags against that soft spongy spot inside you that was beckoning for more. Which he of course, grants without fail.
He can tell you're close — voice gone, moans fully-throated, belly pulsing against the bulge he formed from within, legs losing their strength. His hands slip to your thighs and press down, parting them wide. Urgently, he drives into you, enough to work up a sweat. You’d scream if not for the tightness constricting against your throat.
“Bruce, ...Please… Bruce—”
At this point, his name simply devolves into a mindless numbing chatter on your tongue. Another “Please—” escapes your lips, which he shuts down with a kiss. Then another. Perhaps you manage another pleading “Bruce—”, but he ultimately suffocates you with his tongue, shushing you silently with rough drags of his lips.
Right now, the focus is on his hips, maddening in their force and pace. He collects you, hugs you close, keeping you all in one hold, relentless as he chases your nearing high. You feel as if everything steadily builds, then breaks. There’s a painful pulse, a harsh jerk, and your legs quake and twitch unstoppably as you feel a flood of warmth rush down through your core, body erupting with a white hot flash of sensitivity and bliss.
As promised, he holds and gathers you together in one piece, riding out your high; keeping up, holding back, pounding earnestly. You last unfathomably long, gasping, bleary-eyed gaze wide, chin quivering as you jolt and twitch, unraveling because of him. Slowly, he begins to carefully ease in and out, massaging the meat of your thighs. You can tell he’s focusing, timing everything right — eyes squeezed shut. There’s a shuddering grunt that vertebrates in his chest; even if he tried, he was no match for you. He succumbs to the tantalizing grip and warmth, spilling into you with jerky spurts and a tightening of his grip. Enough to mark.
Sitting in the mind-numbing aftermath of it all, he rolls and grinds deeper rather than pulling out. You shudder and clench, to which he pushes forward and finally stills.
He prys his eyes open and rests his forehead against yours. You come back to earth and respond huskily.
He clicks his teeth and pinches your hip lightly.
“That’s not what I meant… I mean this. Being inside you. Keeping myself from something this good—”
To emphasize his point, he angles his hip bones against yours and plunges outrageously deep. The air in your lungs is knocked out of you, stomach battling between sucking him in or pushing him out in resistance to the unnaturally bottomless reach of his length.
“I’m talking outright ridiculous… what was I thinking?”
Did he expect you to respond? You were too busy trying to accommodate the churning heat in your stomach. Easing your breath, you manage an airy whine.
A knowing smirk blooms over his lips. He leans in close and kisses you senseless, attempting to comfort through the obtrusion digging into you. Something convinced you he was solely attempting to soothe the pressure — you swore you could feel him in your throat.
“M’Guessing words are useless now?”
Giving in, you comply with his ministrations and melt into a puddle beneath him, nails biting into the pale skin of his back. He barely registers. A garbled noise pushes itself from your chest — a laugh rumbles in his throat, finding the way you could barely function downright adorable.
He wanted nothing more than to shut his mouth and enjoy this. Picking you up, he lifts you off into bed and lays you down with purpose.
“Let’s make use of our time together,...”
He utters the words like a promise, hips beginning to buck into you once he assured you were comfortable and pressed plush into the fluffed pillows of your shared cabin bed. You’d clearly awoken an insatiable need in him that he had yet to let go of back home. You could tell you were in for a long night. Or perhaps at this point, a very strenuous weekend getaway.
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