⏾ cw: 18+ (MINORS DNI), opposites attract, eventual smut, you can’t tell me this man isn’t ocd, your professor is hot 🥵
⏾ content: Your professor calls you out in front of the entire class. Your world comes to a screeching halt.
⏾Hi! I haven’t written a fanfiction in a really long time so I’m sorry if this is not the greatest piece of work. I’m going to probably turn this into a series as well so stick around if you’d like! Thank you so much to @ellesthots for inspiring me to write this and being so encouraging and so dang sweet!
“Y/N L/N. See me after class today, and yes, I see you pretending not to see me.” Professor Wayne’s voice abruptly interrupts your thoughts, snapping you out of the dissociative episode you were in.
You can’t help but scowl at his callout. You did not appreciate being called out in front of your fellow classmates. Especially after the ever so slight smirk on his face upon seeing you scowl. Only for a split second of course. Almost immediately, he returns to lecturing as if nothing had happened. His face and body language was perfectly composed, it seemed like everything he did was deliberate, no matter how small the action. Somehow, he always remained in complete control of the room. Which wasn’t hard because not only is he a genius on multiple subjects, but he also happens to be incredibly attractive.
‘What is his deal?’ You think to yourself, internally cursing yourself for letting him catch you off guard like that.
You sigh softly, knowing exactly what his deal was. Not only were you incredibly late for almost two weeks straight, but you had a handful of unexcused absences. Missing five of his classes was bound to get you dropped at one point or another, you just wished you had communicated more. Perhaps then you wouldn’t be in the predicament you were in right now.
The rest of class is spent with an insurmountable amount of anxiety about the meeting with Professor Wayne after class. Your mind was racing with possible scenarios of how it would go; in one he absolutely shits on the entirety of your submitted work, and in another he just sits and stares while you cry and beg him to not drop you (he drops you).
Finally, he excuses everyone and you find yourself practically sprinting out of his class to get the meeting over with. Of course, by the time you get to his office he is already there. Perfectly composed at his desk, presumably looking over your school profile on his computer. You wonder if he is secretly the shadows or something. You go to knock politely, but he speaks before your hand reaches the door.
“Come in Y/N.” His voice was smooth and low; unreadable as always.
You nervously walk in, not saying a word. Professor Wayne was always unnerving to you. How could someone be so passionate about what they teach while being one of the most intimidating people you had ever met? Not because of who he was or how much he was worth. But mainly because of the way that he seemed to see through others so clearly while remaining incredibly aloof. You have never really been able to get a read on him, so you had no clue how he felt about you, or anyone else for that matter.
He points to the chair directly across his desk and simply states, “Sit.”
You adjust yourself uncomfortably in the small chair across from him, internally cursing yourself for choosing to wear a skirt today. You stare at him awkwardly, noticing his piercing blue eyes for the first time. You watch him type something and then meet your gaze, making you blush ever so slightly.
“I’ve noticed you’ve missed several lectures now.” He fully turns towards you, placing his now folded hands neatly on his desk. His tone is sharp, but not harsh. Just straightforward. You expect him to ask why, so you open your mouth to finally speak, but he continues. “Is everything alright?”
You swallow softly and nod, slightly shocked at the question, but then shake your head. “It’s been…a really tough few weeks. Just some family stuff.” You say, trying your hardest to not unravel in front of him and embarrass yourself by crying. “I know that that’s no excuse Professor, I know that I’m falling behind. I just didn’t want to give up so easily…especially because I’ve really enjoyed being in your class.” You look down at your hands ashamedly, 100% certain that he’d fail you.
Bruce looks at you, his expression unreadable. “You’re not one to give up so easily.”
You look up at him. Was that a… compliment? “You think so?”
“If I didn’t, then I wouldn’t have told you to come in today.”
You stare at him, unsure what to say. You didn’t realize that he was actually paying attention to you or the assignments you submitted.
“I’m offering you a chance to earn your grade back through extra credit. A research paper.” He stares through you, leaning back in his chair slightly. “A research paper on the psychological and social effects of constant exposure to violent content, specifically on social media.”
You look at him with an intrigued gaze, “So. Desensitization?”
“That is one part, yes.” He grabs a thick file next to him and places it in front of you. “The most important part though, is how this desensitization is affecting our ability to sympathize with others. Specifically when it comes to self proclaimed victims. The ones caught in the middle.” He pushes the file towards you and continues. “Especially when these ‘victims’ are committing acts of violence openly in the name of ‘real change’. Think of how the public reacted in the past year to Edward Norton. Some were angry, yes, but he gained quite a large following within a very short amount of time from the first video he broadcasted. Do you remember how people mainly reacted to his videos and livestreams?”
You look at him with slight shock, impressed at how well versed he was on a subject so fresh. You open the file and look at him again. “With anger?” You could barely remember the last year, especially with the terrorist attack committed by the ‘Riddler’ and his followers. Everyone in Gotham was heavily impacted by his ‘real change’. He had made thousands homeless, killed hundreds, and forced everyone to start over.
“Close.” He says with a slightly amused look in his eye. “Amusement. People like to say that they’re empathetic, but if you give them a phone screen to hide behind and one person's confession? Then it becomes entertainment.”
“Thats…heavy.” You say.
“That’s exactly the point.” He pauses before continuing. “I expect your work to be 100% your own. No regurgitating my lectures, and no citations that are already in this file. I don’t want to read about something I have already researched myself. ”
You look at him, feeling defeated. The file was huge! How could you ever find evidence that he hadn’t?
He ignores your look of defeat and continues on. “Not only will your work be 100% your own research, but you will also meet with me weekly. If I’m going to invest my time into this then I expect you to show me that you’re fully committed to this. We’ll meet for progress check-ins, research reliability, and any other needs that arise.” Professor Wayne stares through you expectantly, awaiting your response.
“I’ll do it.” You say quietly, not wanting to come off as ungrateful. “I’ll work hard and I won’t let you down sir. Thank you. Really.”
For the first time maybe ever, you see his expression soften ever so slightly. “Good. I look forward to seeing what you find. This is going to take more than a little bit of effort to redeem your grade.”
As you left, you could feel your knees buckle as you turned slightly to look at him again. He was still looking at you. With the same damn smirk from earlier. Maybe he wasn’t just talking about grades.
Hi! When are you going to post the 4th chapter of prof Bruce?
I have been working on the 4th chapter for a couple of weeks now because I was not very happy with the last chapter ): but!!! I hope to be done by the end of this week fr fr. It makes me happy that you guys want more though! Thank you for your support 🫶🏻🫶🏻
I’ll be honest, my motivation to finish this fic has completely diminished 😭🥲 I may post what I started on the fourth chapter if anyone is interested in that but ahhh no matter how many times I try I can not get back into it!! I’m sorry yall 😔
divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto
word count: 8.3k
synopsis: You accepted you would never be his first choice and after five years you decided enough was enough and decide to divorce Bruce.
warning: Divorce, miscommunication, Bruce being emotionally constipated
a/n: Okay, I was not planning to turn this into two parts, but it just kept getting bigger and bigger. I still have about 8,000 more words to edit — if not more.
Also, this is definitely plot heavy, so if this feels a little soap-opera-ish, please blame my recent addiction to those short C and K-dramas. That’s where all the inspiration came from.
The marriage had been decided long before either of you had learned what love was supposed to feel like.
Your parents called it practical—an alliance between old names, old money, and old expectations. You had been young enough to believe that perhaps something warm could grow from something arranged. In the beginning, as kids, you and Bruce were inseparable, and that alone had convinced both families the match was right.
Then Thomas and Martha died.
After that, Bruce became someone else. He was still polite, still impeccable in his manners, but the warmth he once showed you cooled into something distant and untouchable. You told yourself grief needed time.
Time, however, did not soften him. Not even after you were married.
Wayne Manor was vast, echoing, and unbearably quiet. You learned his routines quickly: late mornings, later nights, long absences disguised as board meetings and galas. When he was present, he treated you with the courtesy one reserves for a a business partner. You were his wife in title, in public, in carefully curated photographs. In private, you felt as if you were another obligation that he needed to fulfill.
At night, he came to you.
And damn him for that.
Bruce Wayne touched you with a fiery passion that felt almost cruel, because the only access you ever had to him was through his body while he kept every part of himself that truly mattered locked away. He knew every inch of your skin, every place that made your breath falter and your resolve weaken. He knew exactly how to draw those soft, needy sounds from your lips, how to make you arch into his touch and forget—if only for a moment—how alone you truly were.
Afterward, he would disentangle himself, murmuring something noncommittal—or sometimes saying nothing at all—before retreating behind the cold walls he had built around his heart, leaving you alone in a bed that felt far too large for one person.
In the last three years of marriage you two barely ever slept in the same bed.
Tonight was no different.
The sheets were still warm when he rolled away from you. You lay there, staring at the canopy above the bed, listening to the subtle rustle of fabric as he stood. The air felt colder without his body beside yours. Like always you waited—foolishly—for him to say something. Anything.
Instead, you heard the soft click of cufflinks being gathered from the bedside table.
You drew the blanket up to your chest, the silk cool against overheated skin, and pushed yourself up slightly. Your throat tightened. You had rehearsed this moment in your head more times than you cared to admit. In every version, your pride stayed intact, your voice steady, your heart locked safely away.
But now that the moment had come, the words felt like a knot lodged in your throat, refusing to be undone.
You cleared your throat.
“Bruce… we need to talk,” you said at last. You watched his head turn slightly toward you. “I think we should get a divorce.”
Bruce stilled.
His fingers, halfway through fastening his shirt, slowed—then stopped altogether. For a moment, he didn’t turn around. His back remained to you, broad and rigid, the multitude of faint scars along his skin catching the low lamplight. You wondered, not for the first time, how many parts of him you would never truly know.
Finally, he spoke.
“…A divorce.”
He said the word slowly, as though testing its weight.
“Yes,” you replied quietly.
Your gaze remained fixed on the rumpled sheets, on the faint crease where his body had been moments ago. You didn’t trust yourself to look at him—not when you’d worked so hard to keep your voice steady, to sound composed instead of heartbroken.
“This arrangement—whatever it was meant to be—is nearing three years,” you continued, forcing yourself into the role you had at work. She was someone who could survive this. You imagined you were sitting across from him in a boardroom instead of in his bed. “Both sides of the agreement have been fulfilled. Our businesses share mutual benefit, and I’ll make sure any remaining terms are honoured after we separate. As for personal assets, I’ll transfer any Wayne stock I hold back to you. There’s nothing I want. The proceedings should be smooth.”
It sounded clinical when you said it that way. Like a business transaction instead of the quiet unraveling of a marriage.
Bruce was silent for a beat too long.
“And what does your family think of this?” he asked at last.
You lifted one shoulder in a small, detached shrug. “We are no longer children,” you said evenly. “I’ll handle them.”
Then, after a brief pause, you added, “I’ve already had my lawyer draft the papers.”
That finally made him turn fully toward you.
“They’re ready,” you continued, your fingers curling into the blanket as if it were an anchor. “Sign them when you have a chance.”
Something dark and unreadable crossed his expression. Not anger—not quite. It was more as though a realization struck him. His jaw flexed once.
“You’ve been planning this,” he said.
“Yes.”
There was no apology in your voice, despite the quiet admission.
Bruce studied you then—truly studied you—as though trying to reconcile the woman before him with the silent presence who had moved through Wayne Manor for years without complaint. His wife in name. His obligation in practice.
“And if I don’t sign?” he asked quietly.
You finally lifted your eyes to his.
“I see no reason you wouldn’t,” you said evenly. “We’ve been bound long enough to understand the politics involved. The expectations. The image expected of us.” Your voice remained steady, even as something fragile drew tight beneath your ribs. “We can continue to honour the terms our parents agreed upon—sharing company resources and maintaining professional relationships—without being tethered to each other.”
You drew a slow, careful breath.
“At least this way,” you continued, “we’ll both be free. Free to see whoever we want,” you added factually. “Without pretending this is something it isn’t.”
Bruce’s gaze sharpened at that.
For the first time that night, something cracked through his composure. You weren’t sure whether it was anger or jealousy—neither made sense, not when he had made it painfully clear he had no interest in you. And yet Bruce had always been possessive of the things he considered his. You supposed that even if you were unwanted, you were still, in some quiet, inescapable way, his.
“Is that what this is about?” he asked. “Someone else?”
You didn’t answer immediately.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket, knuckles paling. For a fleeting, treacherous moment, you wanted to scream the truth at him—that there had never been anyone else. That there had only ever been him. That you had loved him quietly and completely since the two of you had been children.
You swallowed it down and met his gaze steadily.
“If you’re implying I’ve been disloyal in our marriage, Mr. Wayne,” you said coolly, “then you’re mistaken. But a divorce,” you continued, your voice carefully controlled, “would certainly make things easier for you.”
You hated the faint ache that followed the words. Hated how it lodged in your chest like a bruise you kept pressing, testing to see if it still hurt. You forced yourself to breathe through it, to keep the bitterness from seeping into your tone.
Bruce’s brows furrowed, and for a laughable moment, he almost looked confused.
Images surfaced in your mind of all the glossy tabloid photos you’d seen of him with unfamiliar women on his arm. Once, they had felt like an insult. A personal humiliation dressed up as celebrity gossip. Over time, you had learned to numb yourself to them.
They were proof of something you had taken far too long to accept.
Bruce Wayne had never truly been yours.
Not in the ways that mattered.
And if this marriage had been a performance sustained by obligation and expectation—then the kindest thing you could do now was end it. Free both of you from the sham you had tried so desperately to believe in.
You lifted your chin slightly, resolve settling despite your aching heart.
“Letting each other go,” you said quietly, “is the only honest thing left for us.”
His jaw tightened.
Without looking at you, Bruce finished buttoning the remainder of his shirt, movements smooth and decisive. When he finally spoke, his voice was cool and detached as it always was when he spoke to you.
“Very well. We can discuss the details in the morning.”
The finality of it struck harder than anger ever could have.
“I gave Alfred the papers,” you said, forcing composure into your voice. “You can review them with your lawyer. See if anything needs adjusting.”
He paused at the door.
For the briefest moment, his hand rested on the handle, fingers stilled, as though he might turn back. Hope—dangerous and unwelcome—flared in your chest.
Then he nodded once before striding out.
The soft click of the door closing behind him echoed through the room, impossibly loud in the sudden silence.
Only then did your composure falter.
A shaky breath tore from your chest as your shoulders sagged, the tension you’d been holding dissolving all at once. You pressed a hand to your mouth, swallowing back the sob that threatened to escape, blinking hard against the sting gathering behind your eyes.
You should have felt relief.
This was what you had asked for. What you had planned.
But all you felt was the ache. Deep. Persistent. Settled beneath your ribs like something bruised and broken.
His agreement hurt more than his coldness ever had.
You curled inward beneath the blankets, the bed suddenly too large, too empty, and wondered when you had mistaken hope for foolishness—and how much of yourself you had lost in the process.
The second the bedroom door closed behind him, Bruce stopped.
His hand came up to brace against the wall, fingers splaying against the cool wood as a slow, controlled breath left his chest—nothing like the fracture splintering through him beneath the surface. For a moment, he simply stood there with his head bowed, the echo of your voice still ringing in his ears.
A divorce.
He had not expected this.
Bruce knew the marriage the two of you shared was not warm. From its very bones, it was meant to be a business arrangement—an old practice among families like yours and his. Alliances forged not from affection, but from legacy and stability.
Still, he had never imagined that you were unhappy enough to want out entirely. To sever ties so cleanly.
He had never mistreated you. Not intentionally. He had given you freedom—space when you asked for it, privacy when you wanted it. He had been loyal. He had ensured you lacked nothing, had seen to your comfort, your security, your needs.
Wasn’t that what a husband was supposed to do?
And yet—
There were things he had never given you.
Truth, for one.
You didn’t know about Batman. You didn’t know about the bruises hidden beneath tailored suits, or the blood scrubbed from his hands in the dead of night. You didn’t know about the darkness that followed him like a second shadow. He had never wanted you to.
That was how he protected you.
Or so he had told himself.
Bruce closed his eyes, despite what he told himself and how much he tried to distance himself from you. He had loved you long before the marriage ever existed.
You had grown up together. And even back then—when he was too young to understand what the warmth in his chest meant whenever he looked at you—Bruce had loved you.
After his parents died, when the world turned dark and he learned just how cruel and unforgiving it could be, you were the single light that remained in his shadowed life. You were his constant. Proof that not everything he loved had been ripped away.
But grief hollowed him out. Anger took root in places love could no longer reach. He didn’t know how to show you what you meant to him without letting that rage bleed through, so he did the only thing he believed would keep you safe.
He kept his distance.
When you both turned eighteen, you left for college.
You—brilliant as ever—were accepted into Princeton on merit alone. Bruce followed you but he walked a different path, his admission secured not by intellect but by the Wayne name and the weight of its money. He could have earned his place the way you did—he knew that—but at the time, he simply hadn’t cared enough to try.
That summer, between semesters, your parents pressed the issue.
The marriage.
You had both been young. Far too young. But grief and expectation had a way of cornering people into compliance, leaving little room for refusal. You married quietly and quickly, promises spoken like obligations rather than vows, your futures decided in hushed rooms by people who believed they knew best.
For a brief few months afterward, something almost hopeful emerged. The warmth you once shared began, slowly, to return. You chased away the shadows that surrounded him, and Bruce started to feel—just faintly—like the boy he had once been, before loss had hardened him. There were moments when he laughed without effort, when the weight on his chest eased enough to let him breathe.
Then Joe Chill’s hearing for release was announced.
And everything unraveled.
The anger Bruce had kept buried finally clawed its way to the surface, sharp and uncontrollable, and it turned on the one person standing closest to him. On you. The words he hurled were cruel—unforgivable things he didn’t truly mean but could not stop himself from saying. Rage drowned out reason, grief warped into something vicious.
You struck him across the face.
The sound echoed through the room, louder than the gunshots that haunted his dreams.
It snapped him out of it instantly. The fury drained from him all at once, replaced by horror as he saw what he had done. The tears slipping down your face felt like shards of ice driving straight through his heart.
He had hurt you.
The one person he had tried so desperately to protect.
And he had hurt you.
The truth of it had struck him with devastating clarity—just how far he’d fallen, how perilously close he was becoming to the very kind of men he despised. Men who let anger rot them from the inside out. Men who destroyed the people they claimed to love.
That realization was why he disappeared.
Five years.
He let the world believe Bruce Wayne was dead.
When he returned—scarred and remade by violence and discipline—the marriage still existed on paper. You had never divorced him. The bond remained, a legal echo of a life neither of you had truly lived. And when you stood before him again, there were no accusations. No demands. Just a quiet cold acceptance that hurt more than hatred ever could.
For three years, you stayed.
Until tonight.
Bruce dragged a hand down his face, breath heavy, chest tight as he looked back on the weight of every choice he’d made.
He had thought what the two of you shared was enough—that providing for you, giving you everything you could ever want or need, and keeping his distance was somehow kinder than letting his love reach you and risk corrupting you with the darkness he lived in.
But for the first time since the gunshots in that alley, Bruce Wayne realized he could lose you—just not in the way he had always feared. You had slipped through his fingers without him even noticing.
His fingers curled into a tight fist, knuckles whitening for a brief moment before he forced them to relax. Bruce drew in a slow, steadying breath and straightened, his shoulders settling back into place as the familiar mask slid on.
Tomorrow, he would deal with your request.
Tomorrow, he would be the Bruce Wayne Gotham believed he was again.
But tonight, the city needed Batman.
And Batman could not afford to feel.
He turned away from the bedroom door and moved through the quiet halls of the manor, his footsteps soundless against marble flooring. With every step downward, he put more distance between himself and the ache in his chest, further from the woman he was losing.
The platform lowered. Batman rose to meet him.
In the Batcave, the world was simpler. Pain had purpose here. Rage could be sharpened into something useful. The suit waited offering Bruce the chance to take off his true mask and be the man he believed he needed to be.
As he suited up, Bruce locked the thought of you away into a mental compartment he had perfected over years of survival.
Batman would give him the distraction he needed. The city’s violence and its endless demand for justice asked nothing of his heart.
And as the Batmobile roared to life, Bruce told himself this was better.
It was a lie.
Batman moved through Gotham with a brutality that hadn’t surfaced in years. Strikes landed harder. Interrogations ended quicker. His patience wore thin, stretched to the edge of fracture. Thugs noticed. So did the GCPD. Whispers spread through alleyways and across rooftops alike: the Bat was angry tonight.
He barely registered it himself.
Pain had found an outlet—and Gotham was paying the price.
“My, my,” a familiar voice purred from the shadows, silk and amusement woven through every syllable. “Someone’s in a mood.”
Bruce stiffened, then exhaled slowly through his nose. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
“Not tonight, Selina.”
She stepped fully into view atop the adjacent rooftop, black leather catching the glow of a flickering streetlight. “What’s got your tail all twisted up?” Selina drawled, her head tilting as she studied him with open curiosity.
His jaw tightened beneath the cowl.
His silence was answer enough. Selina’s gaze lingered, sharp and perceptive, tracing the rigid line of his shoulders, the coiled violence he hadn’t quite burned off yet.
“Ah,” she murmured, a knowing note creeping into her voice. “That bad.”
He finally turned to face her, his cape shifting with the movement.
“Drop it.”
She smirked, utterly unoffended. “You know I never do.”
A beat passed. Then another.
“You’re usually better at pretending to be emotionless,” she continued, her tone light, though her eyes were anything but. “Tonight? You look like you’re one bad thought away from breaking someone’s jaw because they looked at you wrong.”
His fingers flexed at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. “I’m handling it.”
Selina arched a brow. “Sure you are.”
She stepped closer, her boots soundless against the rooftop. “Whatever it is, it’s eating you alive. And last I checked, that never ends well—for anyone.”
Bruce’s gaze hardened, cutting back toward the city that demanded so much of his attention—except tonight, it seemed intent on giving him space he didn’t want.
“It’s none of your concern.”
Selina rolled her eyes, any trace of coyness evaporating in an instant.
“Oh, spare me the bullshit, Bruce,” she snapped. “What’s going on?”
He hesitated.
The pause was small—barely perceptible—but to someone who knew him as well as Selina did, it might as well have been a confession. His jaw flexed, the words catching somewhere behind his teeth before he finally forced them free.
“…She wants a divorce.”
Selina’s expression stilled. Surprise flickered across her face before settling into something more softer. He didn’t look at her when he said it. Couldn’t.
“Well,” she said slowly, exhaling through her nose, “that explains the excessive force.”
He shot her a sharp look.
“I’m serious,” she added, her tone hardening, humour falling away. “…I didn’t think she’d be the one to pull the plug.”
Neither had he.
“She’s already had the papers drawn up,” Bruce continued, voice low. “Gave them to Alfred.”
Selina blinked. “Damn.”
She crossed her arms, studying him in a way that made his skin prickle beneath the armour. It was too uncomfortably perceptive. “And how do you feel about that?”
“I’ll handle it,” he replied automatically.
She snorted. “You always do. Or rather—you bury it under a mask and hope it stops hurting.” Her gaze softened, just a fraction. “Do you want the divorce?”
Selina already knew the answer to that, after knowing You and Bruce for years she had a good insight on the marriage you two had.
Bruce turned his attention back to Gotham, to the endless sprawl of lights stretching out before him—the city he was trying to fix. Some days, he wasn’t sure if he was failing at that too.
Selina sighed at his silence, already knowing what his answer was. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “That’s what I thought.”
She stepped closer, her voice lowering. “You know, for someone who prides himself on control, you’re awfully bad at fighting the battles that actually matter.”
Bruce’s hands curled into fists again, the truth pressing uncomfortably close. Because for once, the enemy wasn’t something he could punch. And he had no idea how to stop himself from losing.
“I’m not going to keep her tied down if she’s not happy,” he murmured, the words dragged from him like a concession he wasn’t ready to make.
Selina scoffed, the sound sharp against the night air. “God, you’re impossible.”
She stepped closer, boots silent, eyes hard now.
“Sometimes you’re a real idiot, Bruce,” she said bluntly. “And take it from a woman—if you love her, you don’t just let her go and call it noble.”
His jaw tightened. “You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand just fine,” Selina shot back. “You think giving her space is protecting her. But from where I’m standing? All she sees is a man who never chose her.”
The words hit harder than any punch.
“She loves you, Bruce,” Selina continued, her voice lower now, edged with something almost gentle. “But love doesn’t survive neglect. It survives effort.”
He looked at her then, something raw flickering beneath the cowl. “I don’t know how to do that without dragging her into my mess.”
Selina’s expression softened—just a fraction. “You don’t have to give her your mask or your war,” she said quietly. “You just have to give her you.”
A beat passed, and Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Batman is who I am,” he said quietly. “This shouldn’t be her burden. She deserves more than my darkness.”
“Fight for her,” Selina urged. “Because if you don’t, someone else will—and you’ll be left wondering when exactly you convinced yourself that letting her walk away was the right thing to do.”
With that, she turned and disappeared into the night, leaving Bruce alone to mull over his thoughts.
You didn’t see Bruce at breakfast the next morning.
The absence was expected—yet it still left a hollow weight in your chest as you took your seat at the long dining table alone. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, spilling pale gold across untouched china and silverware that gleamed far too brightly for the mood you were in.
When you asked Alfred, he hesitated. “Master Wayne had an urgent meeting to attend to,” he said gently.
You swallowed and nodded in acknowledgment. There was no point pressing him; Alfred had always been loyal to Bruce’s silences. Your appetite had vanished entirely, the thought of food turning heavy in your stomach. After a moment, you rose from the table and excused yourself.
Work, at least, would keep your mind occupied.
As Mrs. Wayne—and after his disappearance—you had taken on operations at Wayne Enterprises rather than returning to your family’s firm. Bruce had never shown much interest in the day-to-day management of the company, and so the responsibility had quietly fallen to you. Over the years, you had become the steady spine of the enterprise: overseeing logistics, restructuring departments, smoothing fractures before they ever reached the board.
And now, you knew that role was nearing its end.
With the divorce, it made sense logically, to return to your family’s business. You would no longer be Mrs. Wayne. Titles mattered in rooms like those, even when people pretended they didn’t.
Still, you wouldn’t leave recklessly.
If everything proceeded smoothly, the divorce would be finalized within a month—two at most. That gave you just enough time to ensure a seamless transition. To find someone competent, steady, and capable of holding the company together once you were gone.
Wayne Enterprises deserved better than being left scrambling.
And Bruce—whether he realized it or not—deserved someone who wouldn’t allow his legacy to crumble simply because you were no longer there to hold the reins.
You dressed carefully, smoothing your hands over your clothes as you slid your composure into place the same way you always had, and left the manor with your head held high.
Whatever came next, you would meet it prepared.
Because if this marriage was ending, then it would end cleanly—without collateral damage, without regret, and without giving anyone reason to doubt the woman you had proven yourself to be.
A car waited out front, its dark exterior gleaming beneath the morning light. Your assistant stood by the open door, tablet clutched a little too tightly in her hands. One look at her expression had you pausing mid-step.
“What’s wrong?” you asked.
She hesitated, then exhaled. “I… I thought you should know—Julie is at Wayne Enterprises.” Her mouth tightened as she added, rolling her eyes, “She came to see Bruce.”
Your body went still.
Julie.
The name alone was enough to tighten your chest. She had been a childhood classmate—more Bruce’s friend than yours. In truth, the two of you had never really gotten along, though age had taught you both the subtle art of diplomacy. Even back then, she had always been chasing after Bruce. It was unmistakable that she was in love with him.
The last you’d heard, she’d started a modelling career and moved to Metropolis, tangled in an on-again, off-again relationship with Lex Luthor.
You supposed she was finally back for Bruce.
If not for the arrangement—if not for the contracts and the expectations of parents who treated marriage like a merger—you had always been certain Bruce would have chosen her. You had realized it back in university.
The memory surfaced from years ago.
It had been a late evening, your class had run longer than expected. The corridors were nearly empty as you walked through them, the sound of your footsteps echoing softly.
You slowed, instinct prickling, and peered around the corner to see Julie stepping closer to him, rising onto her toes as she leaned in to kiss him.
The sight made your stomach drop. Heat rushed to your face as humiliation flooded through you. You turned away at once, retreating down the corridor before either of them could notice you, before you had to confront what you’d just seen.
Bruce had never known you saw.
You had never told him.
But from that moment on, you realized the truth. That despite the arrangement, Bruce had never truly been yours.
You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself, then gave a small nod.
“Thank you for telling me,” you said evenly.
Your assistant watched you closely, concern flickering across her face, but you offered her no reaction.
You stepped into the car, the door closing with a soft thud.
Whatever Julie’s presence meant—whatever history was resurfacing—you refused to let it derail you now. You had already chosen to leave him. And if Bruce Wayne was moving on before the ink on the papers had even dried…then you would find a way to move on too.
You arrived just as Bruce appeared to be leaving the building—Julie at his side.
For a fleeting second, your fists balled at your sides before you forced them to relax, smoothing the reaction away as you lifted your chin and stepped out of the car.
Bruce froze the moment he saw you.
“Y/N!”
Julie’s voice was bright. “Hey! Long time no see!” she said warmly, stepping forward for the customary cheek kisses before retreating back to Bruce’s side. “Bruce and I were just going to grab lunch and catch up. You want to come?”
You ignored the knot tightening in your throat and shaped your mouth into something that resembled a smile, shaking your head once. “Unfortunately, I have a lot of work to get done,” you said evenly. “I’m sure we can catch up another time.”
Your gaze slid past her—unavoidable now—and landed on the man who would soon no longer be your husband.
“Bruce,” you said calmly, “I trust you’ve had a chance to review the papers and get them signed?”
Julie’s smile faltered, confusion flickering across her face as her gaze moved between the two of you.
Bruce hesitated. “Not yet,” he replied. “It’s been a busy morning.”
Your eyes slid back to Julie.
“I can see that,” you murmured, tension threading its way into your voice despite your efforts to keep it even.
“What papers?” Julie asked.
You raised a brow, something cold and brittle settling neatly into place. “Bruce hasn’t told you?”
“Y/N…” Bruce warned quietly.
You didn’t look at him.
“We’re getting a divorce.”
Julie blinked.
“Oh.”
The single syllable hung there—surprised, yet almost hopeful. Julie’s gaze darted to Bruce and then back to you, something unmistakably hungry flickering across her face.
“I—I didn’t know,” she said, her voice deceptively softer now. Her hand fell to Bruce’s arm, almost as if to comfort him.
“That’s understandable,” you replied evenly. Your gaze flicked briefly to Bruce, whose expression had gone entirely to stone. “It was a recent decision.”
Bruce stepped forward at last. “This isn’t the place for this.”
You met his gaze without flinching, then inclined your head with a forced smile. “You’re right. It isn’t.” Turning back to Julie, you offered a polite nod, “Enjoy your lunch.”
There was no accusation in your tone. No bitterness. You refused to let them see the pain beneath your composure. You stepped past them both, heels clicking against the pavement as you headed toward the building.
“God, she’s such a fake bitch,” your assistant muttered under her breath.
You fought the smile that threatened to break through, but a small twitch at the corner of your lips betrayed you anyway.
Behind you, you could feel Bruce’s gaze boring into your back as he watched you disappear into the building.
And when the doors slid shut behind you—sealing you away from the sight of them together—you told yourself one thing with unwavering certainty:
You would not beg for what should have been freely given.
Not love.
Not loyalty.
Not him.
You entered your office to find your usual breakfast waiting for you—coffee and a pastry from your favourite place on 23rd. You sighed softly in contentment as you took a sip. Perfect, like always.
If there was one thing you were certain of, it was this: when you left, you were taking your assistant with you. She went above and beyond for you.
You sighed when you finally got home, the sound slipping out of you before you could stop it. Your head throbbed from staring at a screen for most of the day, numbers and contracts blurring together long after you’d shut your laptop. You’ve been determined to lock in one final deal for the company before you left. The Eden Project had been years in the making, and for the first time, it felt close enough to touch.
You just needed Nexus on board.
Lex Luthor, unfortunately, was being a pain in your ass—and deliberately so. He was circling the deal like a vulture, trying to steal it out from under you. If the project went through, it would mean that abandoned or underused properties owned by Nexus—land poisoned by decades of Gotham’s chemical runoff—would be transferred to Wayne Enterprises. From there, the Eden Project could finally begin: restoring the soil and waterways, rebuilding what had been left to rot, constructing affordable housing, and establishing a new clean water plant.
To you, it felt like the first honest step toward undoing the damage Gotham had been choking on for decades.
Lex Luthor, however, saw those same polluted dumps as cheap acquisitions—perfect places to bury private facilities and questionable labs behind closed doors. You couldn’t fathom how Julie could stand dating a man like him. He rubbed you the wrong way every time your paths crossed. Too arrogant for his own good.
You were halfway through pulling off your heels when you noticed him.
Bruce stood at the top of the banister, half-lit by the low glow of a wall sconce, his posture rigid—as though he’d been waiting there for some time. The sight of him made something in your chest tighten despite your efforts to keep yourself steady.
“You’re home late,” he said, his gaze sweeping over you, unreadable.
“I had a lot of work to get done,” you replied, rubbing at the arch of your foot before straightening. “I want the Eden Project locked in before my departure.”
“It’s too dangerous to be out in Gotham at this hour,” he said, his tone firm, his gaze tracking you as you started up the stairs.
You exhaled slowly, exhaustion threading through you. “Gotham is always dangerous,” you replied without turning back. “And like I said, I had work to finish.”
You moved to pass him.
His hand closed around your arm.
The contact stopped you cold.
You looked up at him, surprise flickering across your face before hardening into something guarded. His grip wasn’t rough—but it was firm, unyielding, as though he were anchoring himself as much as he was trying to keep you there.
“Is there something you needed?” you asked quietly.
“Why?” he said.
The single word stopped you.
You raised a brow, feigning calm ignorance even though you knew exactly what he meant. “Why what?”
“The divorce,” he clarified.
You studied him for a moment—really studied him. The tension carved into his shoulders. The way his gaze searched your face, as though he were looking for an answer that might absolve him of his own shortcomings.
You exhaled softly.
“We both know this was a business transaction between our families and nothing more,” you said evenly. “I thought I could handle that. I truly did. But this—” you gestured faintly between the two of you “—isn’t what I want.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. In his mind, the meaning was clear: him. He wasn’t what you wanted.
“So I see,” he said quietly. “And was I such a bad husband that you decided to end it?”
You lifted a brow, the question landing somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion.
“Do you think you’ve been a good one?”
The words weren’t cruel. They were simply honest.
Bruce didn’t answer right away. His mouth opened, then closed again, the silence stretching thin as he searched for something—anything—that might justify him.
“You were never unkind,” you said, your voice softening despite yourself. “But I see no reason to keep us trapped in a loveless marriage. I’m setting us both free, Bruce.”
You hesitated, the truth pressing at your chest before you let it out.
“So you can be with someone you truly want to be with.”
You turned to leave.
You barely made it a step.
He strode forward, and a sharp gasp tore from you as you stumbled back, your back meeting the wall. His arms came down on either side of you, bracketing you in as he leaned close.
His presence stole the air from your chest. You looked up at him in startled disbelief, his body caging you in without ever touching—yet close enough that you could feel the heat of him.
Your fingers twitched, aching to grip his shirt, but you forced them still.
He leaned down, close enough that your traitorous heart stumbled. Your pulse roared in your ears as his lips brushed the sensitive skin of your neck, then drifted toward your ear.
“And who said I don’t want you?” he murmured.
It took everything in you to press your palms against his chest and push him back—gently, but firmly. You turned your face away, your gaze dropping to the floor as you swallowed hard against the tightness in your throat. You couldn’t look at him. Not when your resolve felt so fragile.
“You want my body, Bruce,” you said softly. “And I need more than that.”
You straightened, drawing your composure back around you like armour.
“Sign the papers, Bruce,” you finished quietly. “So we can start the proceedings.”
Before he could respond—before he could reach for you again—you slipped past him, moving away with a steadiness you did not entirely feel.
Your footsteps echoed softly down the hall, each one carrying you farther from him, farther from the life you had endured and the love you had never been allowed to keep. You didn’t look back.
Bruce remained where he was, frozen in place, watching you go.
Every instinct in him screamed to call your name. To pull you back and promise you everything he had deprived you of for so long.
But he couldn’t.
Because giving you more would mean giving you the truth.
Of who he was.
Of the darkness he carried.
Of the violence that shaped his nights and the war he waged in secret.
And he would be damned before he let that darkness swallow you whole.
Yet even knowing that… he selfishly found he could not bring himself to let you go.
You ignored the paparazzi photos of Bruce and Julie’s lunch from the day before. You refused to stare long enough for envy to take root, for that familiar ache to whisper that you had never been enough. You refused to spiral into self-pity.
Instead, you buried yourself in work—in the Eden Project. You were so close now, you just needed to seal the deal with Nexus and kick Luthor’s arrogant ass to the curb.
You’d planned to spend the entire day sealed away in your office, insulated by schedules, reports, and decisions that didn’t ask anything of your heart. It was almost working—until the door opened.
You looked up.
Bruce stepped inside.
You paused, confusion flickering across your face. In three years, you could count on one hand the number of times he’d set foot in your office.
Your assistant peeked in behind him, mouthing a silent apology. You waved her off. If Bruce wanted to see you, there wasn’t much she could do about it.
“Lucius tells me you have him looking for your replacement,” Bruce said, shutting the door behind him.
He ignored the two chairs set neatly across from your desk and instead moved closer, his presence filling the room in a way that made your spine straighten instinctively.
You leaned back in your chair, wary as you watched him sit on the edge of your desk in front of you as though it belonged to him.
“I do,” you said simply.
“Why?” he asked. “Is it the pay?”
You blinked, genuinely taken aback. “Bruce… have you even looked at the papers?” you asked. “We’re getting a divorce. Once it goes through, all my shares revert to you. I won’t be a Wayne anymore.” You gestured faintly, as if the logic should be obvious. “It would be a conflict of interest for me to stay here while returning to my family’s name.”
“Keep the shares,” he said immediately. “You’ve been the backbone of this company for years. A name change doesn’t erase that. We’re not replacing you.”
You sighed, rubbing at your temple as frustration edged in. “Bruce,” you said patiently, “it’s not proper.”
Something shifted in him then.
In one swift motion, he surged forward—one hand bracing against the arm of your chair, the other gripping the backrest as he caged you in, an echo of the night before. You hated how his mere proximity made your breath hitch. His dark eyes locked onto yours making you painfully aware of the shallow rise and fall of your own breathing.
“You’re not leaving, Y/N,” he said quietly, as though the decision had already been made. “I’ve already told Lucius to stop the search.”
Your eyes narrowed.
You leaned forward in anger, closing the already dangerously close distance until your faces were inches apart. “You can’t do that, Bruce. Once the divorce is finalized, I’m leaving.”
His jaw tightened. “What do you want?” he demanded. “We can renegotiate your contract. I’ll give you a raise. A larger stake in the company. Another office—hell, name any price.”
For a fleeting moment, the desperation beneath his usually controlled exterior slipped through.
You shook your head slowly, something sad and resolute settling into your expression. “What I want isn’t something money can buy, Bruce.” You needed distance—clean, undeniable distance. A clean slate, far from him, so you could finally move on.
He stilled.
“You don’t get to decide this for me,” you said calmly. “Not as my husband. And certainly not as my employer.”
For a moment, Bruce said nothing.
Then he straightened, stepping back just enough to smooth his suit into place. His jaw flexed once, tension rippling beneath the his cold composure, before he inclined his head in reluctant acknowledgment.
“Very well,” he said evenly. “But as we are still legally married, there are obligations we can’t ignore.”
You tensed. You already knew what was coming.
“Tonight is the gala,” he continued. “Both our presences are required.”
You raised a brow. “We don’t usually attend together.”
He shrugged, deceptively casual. “If you’re insistent on the divorce, we might as well let people see that we’re parting on amicable terms. It avoids rumours.”
You exhaled slowly, resignation settling in. You wanted to stay—wanted to keep working on the Eden Project—but the gala offered something useful. Nexus board members would be there. This could be an opportunity to chat with them individually and sway them to Wayne Enterprises side.
“I’ll meet you there,” you said.
“No need,” Bruce replied without hesitation. “Alfred will drive us together.”
You held his gaze for a beat longer, searching for something to explain his odd behaviour but his face gave nothing away.
“Fine,” you said at last.
Bruce gave a curt nod, already turning toward the door. “We’ll leave at seven.”
One thing about being old money in Gotham was the endless procession of galas. Charity dinners, fundraisers, benefit auctions—each one requiring polished smiles, practiced charm, and carefully chosen outfits designed to show that you belonged among Gotham’s elite. These events demanded hours of preparation, a luxury you rarely had. Fortunately, you’d learned long ago how to adapt and prepare around your busy schedule.
That was why you kept a small collection of emergency dresses in your office.
You opened the wardrobe tucked discreetly behind a panelled door, your gaze skimming over the hanging fabrics inside. Most were refined and understated. Creams, ivories, soft neutrals. Dresses that were considered the safe choices, keeping the clean cut billionaire wife appearance you had worked hard to craft.
Mrs. Wayne. The perfect executive wife.
Your gaze caught on something different, tucked into the far corner of the wardrobe.
It was a stark contrast to the simplicity of the other dresses. You remembered buying it on impulse, a rare moment of indulgence, telling yourself you’d wear it someday. A promise you’d never quite been brave enough to keep.
It was still appropriate. Still elegant. But there was no denying it carried a risk your usual choices carefully avoided.
You bit your lip, fingers hovering just short of the fabric.
Soon, you wouldn’t be a Wayne anymore.
The thought settled over you with an unexpected mix of grief and relief. A quiet ache paired with something lighter, freer. Beneath it, something firmer began to take shape—a resolve edged with steel.
You were tired of dressing for expectation. Tired of shaping yourself to fit what was required by your parents, by the Waynes, by a city that thrived on image more than truth.
You wanted—just once—to choose something because you wanted it.
Not for the cameras.
Not for the headlines.
Not for him.
So, in a split-second decision that felt far braver than it should have, you reached forward and pulled the dress free.
The fabric slid into your hands, cool and smooth beneath your fingers, and for the first time in a long while, you felt excitement bloom in your chest for the fact you were dressing for yourself.
By the time your assistant arrived with the hair and makeup team, you were in your dress and heels. You turned as she stepped into the room, and she nearly stumbled to a stop, eyes widening in open shock.
“Goddamn,” she breathed. “You look fucking hot.”
A surprised laugh slipped from you, light and genuine despite everything. “Thank you.”
She circled you once, hands on her hips, shaking her head in disbelief. “Seriously—if Bruce even looks at anyone else with you dressed like this, he’s an idiot.”
You forced a smile, though ignoring the sharp tug beneath your ribs.
You used to like to dress like this before. Long ago when you didn’t have all this expectation piled on you. Yet even then, he had chosen Julie.
That was the truth you’d learned the hard way: Bruce Wayne had never been incapable of desire. He had simply never allowed desire to become love where you were concerned. Men, you’d learned, were remarkably adept at separating the two.
So you let the comment pass without response, turning your attention back to what remained to be done. You allowed the hair and makeup team to guide you into the chair, surrendering to their practiced hands as they set to work.
By the time you stepped outside, dusk had settled over Gotham, the sky bruised purple and gold between the towers. The air was cool against your bare skin, refreshing after being cooped up in your office all day.
Bruce was already there, waiting.
He stood near the front steps, jacket buttoned, posture immaculate as always. If he had ever chosen to, he could have had a very lucrative modelling career
At the sound of your heels clicking against stone, he looked up. Whatever expression he’d been wearing faltered at the sight of you.
His throat bobbed as his dark eyes drank you in with an intensity he failed to mask. Without thinking, his hand rose to his collar, tugging at his tie as if he suddenly found it too tight.
You looked like yourself. Not Mrs. Wayne, the woman molded to fit beside him. But the woman he knew before he left Gotham and began his crusade.
“…You look,” he began, then faltered, his jaw tightening as though the right word had slipped just out of reach. “You look… beautiful.”
There was something unsteady in his voice—just enough to make warmth bloom traitorously in your cheeks.
“Thank you,” you replied evenly, despite the way your heart began to race. Clearing your throat, you stepped closer and reached up to straighten his tie, the silk cool beneath your fingers. You tried not to think about how little space separated you now, or the way his gaze had locked onto you with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.
When you finished, you moved to step back but his hand found the small of your back instead, keeping you there.
Your breath caught as your eyes snapped up to his. For a moment, it seemed as though he might say something. His lips parted, then pressed together again, the unspoken words settling heavily between you. Slowly, his hand fell away.
The sound of an approaching engine broke the spell.
You cleared your throat and stepped back, putting distance between yourself and whatever that moment had been. Headlights swept across the steps as the car pulled to a smooth stop. Alfred emerged at once, opening the rear door with his usual practiced grace.
“Shall we, sir? Madam?”
Bruce straightened, and you could see his walls coming back up. He gestured toward the open door. “After you.”
You hesitated, just for a second, turning back to meet his gaze. If you hadn’t known him as well as you did, you might have missed it—but there was something there. You could’ve sworn it was regret. Or longing swirling in his eyes.
You shook off the thought, dismissing it as wishful thinking.
You broke eye contact first and without another word, you slid into the car.
Bruce followed a moment later, settling into the seat beside you. The door closed with a soft click, and Alfred took his place behind the wheel. As the car pulled away, the glow of Wayne Enterprises receded behind you,
For several moments, neither of you spoke.
Bruce sat beside you, posture rigid. You stared out the window, watching the city unfold—familiar streets, familiar towers—everything suddenly carrying the strange weight of impermanence. After all, who knew if Gotham would still feel like home once the divorce was finalized. You certainly had the money and freedom to choose to leave if you decided.
“Is that a new dress?” he asked at last breaking the silence.
“Mhm. Not really,” you hummed. “I’ve had it hanging in the closet for a while. I just… thought it was finally time to wear it.”
He glanced at you then, his gaze lingering longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“It suits you,” he murmured.
You turned toward him in surprise, the softness of it catching you off guard. Then his phone vibrated.
His attention dropped immediately to the screen, as it lit up his face. You didn’t mean to look, but the name had caught your eye and you felt your heart drop.
Julie Madison.
Your gaze drifted back to the window, the city lights blurring slightly as the car continued on. You let your expression settle back into neutrality, smoothing away the flickers of hurt you refused to acknowledge.
This—this—was why you were leaving.
Not out of anger. Not even because of betrayal. But because of the quiet, relentless reminder that you were never his first choice.
Hi! When are you going to post the 4th chapter of prof Bruce?
I have been working on the 4th chapter for a couple of weeks now because I was not very happy with the last chapter ): but!!! I hope to be done by the end of this week fr fr. It makes me happy that you guys want more though! Thank you for your support 🫶🏻🫶🏻
⏾ content: Tensions are rising and you can’t seem to push these feelings down. How long are you going to keep lying to yourself?
⏾ I’m so sorry that this is late! It has been a crazy couple of months fr. Working full time, going to school full time, and being sick all the time is not the move. Hope you enjoy!!
Dear (y/n),
As discussed, I’ve reserved a library study room for our next meeting. The only available slot this week is tomorrow at 8 AM. Please confirm if that time works for you.
Best regards,
Prof Wayne
You read the email with a cheeky smile as you lay on your bed, it was only two days ago that you had met with your professor. But seeing him twice in one week? You were sold.
You quickly respond with:
Hi Professor Wayne,
That works for me! Do you know which room we will be meeting in? I don’t want to be late. Otherwise, I will see you tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it!
Have a good night,
(Y/N) (L/N)
You looked at the time, 10:45 PM. A little late for an email, but you didn’t mind. You wondered what kinds of things he would even be doing at such a late hour. Or if it was even him responding. Maybe he hired someone to respond to his emails. Then again, if he hired someone you would expect them to send out emails at normal hours.
Your phone pings with a notification again, and you can’t help but smile again. You slide up on your screen, expecting a response from him and your face drops. Not him. Just a stupid spam email. You let out a groan and throw your phone on your bed.
“Stupid. I feel like I barely know him and yet here you are. Being an absolute simp over a man who probably doesn’t even have time to even think of you. Get it together (y/n).”
You immediately fail by checking your email again.
You sit up and lay your hands in your face, groaning even louder. “I will not simp for my professor!” You say through your hands as you fall back on your bed dramatically. “I will be normal. Like a functional adult.”
The next day you make sure to arrive twenty minutes early to ensure that you are “on time” according to Professor Wayne’s terms. You take a slow breath. In for four, out for six; a grounding exercise your therapist had taught you. To your surprise, you are the first one here. You double check that you’re waiting outside of the correct room and jump a little as you hear a door slam down the hall. You turn your head towards the noise and see your professor sulking down the hallway, deeply lost in thought.
As he approaches you notice the bags under his eyes that indicate his lack of sleep. It looked like he hadn't slept for days. He slightly looks up and snaps out of his trance, immediately composing himself. That was the first time you had ever seen him caught off guard. And the first time he was almost human.
“Good morning Y/N”, he says smoothly, his voice sounding deeper than usual.
You feel a stir in your lower abdomen and look away briefly before making awkward eye contact. “Um- good morning!” You say shakily with your voice slightly cracking. ‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!’ You silently berate yourself while your ears turn bright red.
If he noticed, you couldn’t tell. He simply turned towards the door and unlocked it, making sure to hold it open for you.
As the two of you walk through the library you can’t help but notice how eerily quiet it was. You were used to the sounds of scattered typing and those annoying groups of people who were “studying” in the corner. You slowly approach the meeting room, watching Professor Wayne from behind as he practically runs to open the door. In one steady motion he unlocks the door, rushing you inside with a simple look.
You rush in and almost spill out the entirety of your bag onto the table. Once again, if Professor Wayne noticed you sure as hell couldn’t tell. He neatly sits himself across from you, reaching into the contents of his brown leather satchel.
“Before we begin,” he said, glancing up, “thank you for being flexible with the time. I know mornings aren’t ideal.”
You smiled, a little too quickly. “It’s no problem. I actually—uh—like mornings.”
A blatant lie. You hadn’t liked mornings since…well…ever.
He hummed in mild disbelief, opening his laptop. “Right. Let’s talk about your project. How are you progressing?”
You straightened in your seat immediately, “Honestly, not as well as I’d like sir. I was hoping to use our time today to really hone in on things.”
He stares at you for a moment before letting out a slight huff, “What is there to hone in on?” He says the last part with quotations, clearly not happy with your answer. And here you were thinking you were being noble for being honest.
You slightly frown and then neatly place your hands on the table, making sure to keep eye contact. “I understand the topic itself but…I’m afraid my approach right now is too generalized. I feel like I need more specifics. Like when people witness a crime in person versus online. Or even how they react to confessions?” The last part comes out more like a question. It’s unintentional, but you’re in too deep now. There goes your desperate need for approval again.
He leans back slightly in his chair, tilting his head as he studies you. “You do understand the complexity of this project, yes?”
You nod. “Definitely.”
“Then…I am failing to see why you need my help.” He responds, his voice measured but soft. “It seems that you have thought through the specifics you’re looking for. Why do you need my approval Miss (Y/L/N)? I set my expectations clearly right at the start.”
You feel your hands clench into fists. “Well, maybe I do need your help, sir. Or are you suggesting I’m incapable of making my own conclusions?” Your tone carries just enough irritation to betray the flutter in your chest.
His eyes flicker up, sharp and calculating, but then a hint of amusement ghosts across his expression. “Not incapable. Just… overly cautious, perhaps.”
Overly cautious? You bite back a retort and instead settle for a pointed look. “Or maybe I just don’t like being dismissed.”
He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, letting the corners of his mouth twitch. “Fair enough. Let’s then focus on refining your approach together. Step by step.”
The two of you spend almost four hours discussing your next move, but when you’re with him it feels like no time has passed at all. You couldn’t stay pissed off at him for too long. I mean how could you?
“How do you not get lost in all of this…darkness?” You ask, breaking the comfortable silence the two of you had been sitting in for the past twenty minutes. “It’s so…ugly and negative. How do you not get caught up in the shitty things we see every single day?”
Bruce looks at you plainly at first, but for a brief second the corners of his mouth ever so slightly raise.
“Darkness isn’t always the enemy (Y/N),” a look of amusement flashes behind his eyes, “Sometimes it just needs to be understood.”
His words linger in the back of your mind, long after you left the library. And later, when you step out of the run down subway and into filthy streets of Gotham, they replay in your head.
Darkness isn’t always the enemy.
Maybe your therapist was right. You really did have a bad habit of finding comfort in complicated people.
❝ SPANK ME, SIR .ᐟ ❞ ── mlist. req by anon. BRAT TAMER BRUCE WAYNE. eighteen plus. implied age gap.
RULE NUMBER ONE: never interrupt bruce wayne’s calls !
this is completely your fault. hidden inside bruce’s office, you keep your chest pressed against the mahogany desk, black dress pulled up to your waist, ass marked by the imprint of bruce’s much bigger hand. the slap hits hard with a controlled smack and you react; a soft whimper slips out with ease and your wrists wiggle just slightly inside the lock of bruce’s hand, held tight against your back.
not a soul roaming outside bruce wayne’s office is aware of what’s happening inside. not the employees. not even the receptionists. the thought of them knowing incites you, selfish and proud, your lips curl in a greedy smile. none of them will ever experience this.
“count, princess. out loud.”
“e-eight,” you gasp when the next hit lands on your ass.
bruce wayne is a busy man. perhaps the busiest man in gotham city. so, when you decided to show up at the wayne tower in the middle of the day, each and every of your curves hugged tight by the expensive fabrics and boobs pushed up all nice and pretty, you should’ve known there would be consequences.
the pretty dress isn’t the only surprise you have in store for your much older boyfriend. you traverse the office with slow steps, unhurried in each swing of your hips, sultry, high heels sinking deep in his persian rug. when you get next to his desk, you lean down and plant a kiss on his neck.
he doesn’t flinch. he’s too used to this. you play with his tie. you unbutton his shirt. you go as far as pulling up your dress high enough for bruce to notice you’re not wearing any panties. you turn around, facing away from his gaze and you bend over, parting your legs, pushing two fingers inside your pussy and pumping them in and out.
rule number one. never interrupt bruce wayne’s business calls. (he didn’t actually tell you this, but one can assume he’s not fond of it. he isn’t an easy man to distract, though.)
when you misbehave, he makes sure to apply proper punishment. when you’re being a brat— now, for instance; he won’t hesitate to lay you on his thighs and pull up your dress as an act of discipline. the punishment is non-negotiable. you were undoubtedly aware this would happen the moment his call ended. he rose from his seat neatly, adjusting the burgundy tie of his three piece black suit, fixing the mess you made.
“bend over. now.” he nods, signaling you to press your chest against the desk and pull your dress up.
there’s no shift in bruce’s tone— he doesn’t raise his voice. no, he’d never consider that. bruce wayne commands with his presence alone; cold blue eyes fixed in a piercing gaze, calm, still patient. an eyebrow arched barely and lips set in a straight line. you turn into a puddle, weak in the knees, standing next to his desk in a balmain dress and a pair of slender high heels.
“you’re not my boss!”
your attitude comes with a masochistic thrill. you enjoy this. in fact, you love and crave it desperately. bruce knows it too. a sharp smack against your ass (despite its intention to put you in your place) is enough to make your cunt drip wet and soak your panties. a little discipline every now and then is always fitting for a girl like you. a girl so eager to be a brat and test bruce wayne’s limits in the most inappropriate moments. you provoke him and he calmly punishes.
one more glance is enough to make you obey and so, you reach the other side of the imposing desk and bend over the lacquered wood, hands resting flat on the cold surface. bruce removes his jacket and he rolls up the sleeves of his pearly white button-up shirt. he positions himself behind you, having a full view of the gotham city sky through the large windows. he places both of his hands on your waist to pull your body closer.
“i still don’t think you’re my boss,” you pout.
he’s used to your games. he’ll even join you. being a brat is a daily occurrence he’s very much accustomed himself to; wandering around the wayne tower without his permission. spending an exacerbated amount of his money as an attempt to get on his nerves. which rarely has any effect on him, because, naturally, you could buy an entire company and the man wouldn’t bat an eye. it’s just a thing of control.
you allow other men to flirt with you when bruce watches you from across the room— not because you’d ever be remotely interested in any of the businessmen or politicians who frequently attend events and galas. despite their obscene intentions, they wouldn’t dare either. they know you’re bruce wayne’s girl.
each time, you sway across the hallway with high heels clicking on the marble floor and the men stare blindsided with desperation in their eyes, after a five minute conversation and barely any touching. you’re young, gorgeous and full of life, of course it doesn’t take long for them to fall for your simple tricks. a bright smile, constant eye contact and your hand suddenly brushing against their shoulders will do the job. fortunately, they have no idea they’re part of your perverted game.
across the hallway, bruce waits and always, his eyes promise punishment.
you just love to check how far you can go with your games; always testing bruce’s limits. you like to play and you enjoy the pain he inflicts even more. at times, it leaves you euphoric. frenzied. begging on your knees for more. at times, his punishments turn agonizing and suddenly, you regret your actions.
who would’ve thought that a punishment isn’t supposed to be fun? he takes it further, denying you pleasure and taking it away right when you’re about to orgasm. he splits you open with his cock, buried deep inside your cunt. with squelching noises, he plunges hard and deep enough to bruise your cervix. he’ll take care of your pussy with his fingers and mouth, drawing precise circles around your needy clit. but then, he’ll stop and he won’t allow you to touch yourself.
bruce’s palm presses rough in a slap against the plump of your ass and you squirm when his hand makes contact with your skin. dizzy, you whimper a nine and shortly after, the tenth fills up the silence of the lavish office as a lewd moan betrays you. each spank comes unexpected and the anticipation of each hit makes your heart pump fast inside your chest. your skin burns hot, but he soothes between each hit, massaging every hand imprint with gentle care.
pain and pleasure blend into the strangest of mixes and you feel your brain turning into a complete mush; with each hit you turn ecstatic, as opposite to how you’re supposed to be feeling. embarrassed. guilty. but you don’t feel any of it. you feel high on the pain, though, calm and peaceful. it’s just you and bruce and this is the only way you’ll ever experience supreme fulfillment.
the sting of each spank becomes desire and you crave more. the longer it takes him to land a spank, the harder you want him to hit you. you feel the wetness pooling down to your very core, coiling inside your tummy, needy and eager for release. your pussy aches and it hurts so bad to know he won’t take care of it. each hit goes straight to your cunt, making you wetter and wetter.
each pause feels like hell of earth. ten seconds pass torturously and you miss the warmth of bruce’s big hand hushing the sting of every warm mark. he smothers them with more pain and then he rubs it all away— there’s some form of intimacy that comes with it. a secret, a ritual of some sort, built on the need to go against bruce’s will. he urges to take care of it, to keep you in control, to discipline you. to keep everything neat, functional, in order. he plays your messy game and you let him punish you. yin and yang.
“sir…” your words slip out slurred past your lips, “hit me… mmm, hit me harder!”
“don’t make me use my belt. i decide if i hit harder or not.”
“please do! i-i wouldn’t mind that…” the thought of his five thousand dollar belt leaving marks on your ass for a week is enough to make your sweet pussy drip wet.
“of course you wouldn’t. now, be quiet and keep counting. can you do that for me, princess?”
“yes… daddy.”
you don’t remember anything. at all. you can’t even recall the fact that his usual punishment consists of ten spanks. or at least, one of the many bruce has on his ‘punishments for my bratty girlfriend’ list, depending on how much of a nuisance you were that day. so far, the number of hits went up to twenty. but it doesn’t feel like a punishment anymore. he leans down just enough for his lips to kiss the pain away.
drunk on the taste of pain, you keep your mouth agape, unable to breathe out any other words. just moans, unrestrained, sultry noises filling up every corner of bruce’s enormous office. your eyes roll, hazy and mind completely empty, devoid of any thoughts.
and then, bruce stops. initially, you assume he’s changing the pace, trying to build up the anticipation.
“you’ve had enough, princess. do not interrupt my calls. and no sex for the rest of the week. tell me, are you alright?” he lets go of your hands and another gentle kiss soothes your pain away.
“mmm, no, no, please… i want more!” you pout. in this state you’re numb to any sort of pain. to you, it’s pure bliss. pleasure.
“sweetheart, i’ve hit you thirty five times. that’s enough. i went overboard.”
your eyes widen. thirty five times? when? times passes fast when each spank sends you numb in the realm of blissful pleasure. but you probably won’t be able to sit down for this entire week— you can even imagine how ruined your ass will by tomorrow, awfully bruised
you wake up and turn around, but the stabbing pain makes it difficult for you to move. bruce helps you adjust and you use his arm as support, leaning against the lacquered desk. your ass burns, but you don’t complain about the discomfort. you grab bruce’s hand and you bring it closer to your mouth, sliding two of his fingers inside and sucking on them lazily, swirling your tongue around them.
“if you think you can get away with what you did earlier,” bruce pulls his fingers out of your mouth, “you’re wrong.”
“you’re being dramatic…”
“am i, though, sweetheart? let’s get you cleaned up and i’ll rub some cream on you. we’re going out for dinner later.” he kisses your forehead and nose and his lips find yours in the sweetest kiss. his muscular arms wrap around you in a hug so tight you can barely breathe.
unfortunately for you, you won’t be having sex for the rest of the week.
unfortunately for bruce wayne, his cock has been bulging in his pants from the very first moan you let out. he isn’t a sadist, but the way you turn stupid and needy when he punishes you made him ache to fuck you. but he won’t. at least not this week. for now, he’ll take proper care of his bratty girlfriend.
message from ivy! hi divas i swear to GOD this wasn’t supposed to be so long, but as per usual, i couldn’t stop writing ! this is my first (i think¿) posted bdsm fic ! my focus wasn’t on the smut bcs i ABSOLUTELY love punishments and a good spanking sesh without any sex. sorry for edging you whoopsies. huge thank you to the anon who send me the ask <3
i’ll make a part two so i can abuse the scenarios i have in my head aka the ones i mentioned in this fic (spending his money, flirting with other men etc etc) thank you for reading muah ! 💋 interactions and reblogs are super duperrrrr appreciatedddddd !!
i just feel like he’s so used to having demanding and shameless partners (talia, selina, the rest of his roster, probably half the justice league) it’d be a switch up to have someone soft spoken. someone who doesn’t demand his attention and just waits for him to come home before sunrise, bored and sleepy when he comes up to bed.
and it takes him a while to adjust to you. your soft spoken behaviour, gentle smiles, patience, kisses when he climbs into bed, down his spine that lead to nothing but you showing how much you care about him. nothing he was used to anymore.
and then he finds himself looking forward to getting off patrol, to getting to you and your warm hugs and cold hands against his abs, cuddling him close while you sleep.
he looks forward to seeing you curled up in his chair in the batcave, dressed in one of his shirts, half asleep but there because you couldn’t help but worry about him. he can’t wait to scoop you up into his arms and carry you up the stairs to bed because that’s what you deserve. to be loved and cherished and treated with the same tenderness you gave him.
he enjoys how shy you tend to be when you want something from him. which isn’t often because you’re satisfied with just having him — another thing he loves.
he keeps a hand under your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes when you need to say something, you feel bad for asking him for anything because that’s how you are. but bruce would give you whatever you wanted, if you ever so much as think of it.
new set of jewellery? done.
you want those pretty heels that go with your new dress? check your closet.
but you’re not materialistic like his ex-flings, don’t care much for his wealth and his name, you only care about the man who comes home to you at odd hours of the day and settles himself only in your arms because that’s where he belongs.
nsfw under the cut
and sometimes, he’ll come home and settle himself between your thighs, starting out innocent, the picture of a tired business man coming home to his loving girl after a long day. he’ll press kisses along your thighs, hum hoarsely, let you feel the press of his teeth ‘playfully’ before another kiss lands there too. he’ll make a show out of it, pretending like he isn’t going to do what you know will inevitably come.
soon — because he’s impatient — he’ll be kissing over your cotton panties, pretending to not notice the way your thighs shift around his head before pressing his tongue against the fabric, letting the saliva coated on there transfer onto your panties.
and he’ll repeat this, over and over again, aiming to catch you off guard when he actually starts.
and when he does? you’re really in for it.
it’s no surprise that bruce isn’t great with his words, he prefers actions, gifts, sex. to show you what he hopes you already know.
sure, you’re definitely a little — a lot — shy when it comes to him. quiet in a way his mind needs, no constant nagging for his attention, just patience and carefully placed touches.
but he’s on a mission to make you as loud as possible for him in moments like these. he wants to hear you gasp, to hear his name on your tongue like a prayer, desperate for anything he might give you. and bruce gives, with you? he can’t stop giving.
its a thanks and a confession wrapped into one.
he’s gruff, grunting into your ear with every thrust, every move of his hips against yours, every feel of you clenching around him has him making sounds he didn’t even realise.
he was letting out. his fingers, nimble and certain, rub circles into your clit because he’ll be damned if he cums before you do — he has before and he’s never stopped trying to make it up to you despite you not minding.
from million dollar man, an upcoming bruce wayne fake marriage au!
When the panic room door swings open, you're half expecting it to be whoever broke into the house. The man in the mask.
Instead, when Bruce's frame fills the doorway, you let out a small sob. Decidedly worse for wear than when he'd left for work this morning, his knuckles are bloodied and his shirt is torn.
He's dropping to his knees immediately, eyes scanning your form. "Are you okay?"
Unable to form any words, you throw your arms round his shoulders and bury your face into the crook of his neck. "I thought you were- I-I-"
"I know, honey," He murmurs, voice low and gravelly. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here."
"Are they- I mean, what happened?"
Bruce is guiding you to your feet, hands impossibly gentle as he steers you towards his bedroom. Your bedroom now too, you suppose. Ever since the agreement, you haven't spent a single night in your own wing of the manor. "They're dealt with. You don't have to worry."
An overwhelming urge to be close to him consumes you, and you turn, pressing your lips to his desperately.
His hands settle on your waist, holding you ever tighter - almost bruising. Like he's afraid to let you go.
Hi guys, so so sorry I’ve been so busy with finals, working full time, moving and being sick! It’s been a crazy couple weeks but hopefully I can update soon 😭 Mayhaps by the end of the week?
Omg can you please please do older bf/sugar daddy Bruce I absolutely love ur work
Older bf Bruce Wayne x fem!reader
a/n: Sorry for my absence, life has been beating me up (quite literally), but I am back in full swing. As always, the age gap is legal, I feel the need to mention it.
cw: fluff, age gap, insecurities (?), smut in part 2
summary: Bruce takes you out on a date for your birthday, but when people begin to look at you wrong he takes matters into his own hands.
part 1 | part 2
You weren’t completely sure how your arrangement with Bruce had begun, but somewhere between flirty conversations at events and muttered hellos in passing, the two of you had fallen into a steady rhythm. What started as a simple acquaintance had blossomed into a relationship.
So now there you were, standing on the street outside of your apartment, phone in hand, carelessly scrolling as you waited for his car to show up. You heard it first, roaring from down the street, and then you saw it— saw him, as he rolled the window down to greet you— park in front of you.
He got out of the car and jogged towards you, embracing you once he got to you.
"How's the birthday girl doing?" He spoke into your hair, breathing you in.
"Better now that you're here." You mutter, face smushed against his shirt.
He led you back to the car, opened the door and helped you settle against the seat before jogging back to the driver's seat.
You rested your head against the car window, watching the city streets, the night lights, the traffic go by. Bruce's hand laid steadily atop your thigh, his touch warm and grounding. He squeezed your flesh periodically, as if to remind you he was there.
"I got you something, but you'll have to see it later, 'kay?" He mumbled, looking over at you, the red light of the stoplight made his sharp features stand out, his gaze almost aggressive.
"Then why tell me now?"
"Because I don't want my girl thinking I'm not spoiling her. I'd just...rather do it somewhere private." He winked at you before hitting the throttle again once the lights went green.
The first thing you noticed when you walked into the restaurant was the low lights and the soft jazz music playing. Then, you noticed the people—couples having dinner, just like you and Bruce—except they didn't look like you, not really. The women were middle-aged, dressed in classy pearl-colored dresses with tastefully painted nails, their skin pulled taut and diamonds adorning their wrists. Their husbands looked just like your boyfriend.
Bruce had assured you many times you belonged there, but standing there, waiting for the maitre'd to come over, in your high heels, red dress on hugging your waist, you couldn't have felt more out of place.
He squeezed your hand arrhythmically, brought it up to his lips, kissed your knuckles. When you did nothing in response he looked over at you, one brow raised in concern. You didn't meet his gaze, to engrossed in a staring contest with a woman in some other table. Way to spend your birthday.
Once the maitre'd got back to where you stood he excused his absence and led you to your table, in a secluded booth, away from prying eyes. Bruce had always valued privacy, more so when he started dating you, the backlash came almost instantly after your first public appearance together, and then never really stopped; you'd learned to ignore it, Bruce did the best he could to help you avoid it.
Throughout the dinner you felt their eyes on you, like phantoms poking at your skin, vipers biting at your flesh. You knew the looks you were getting without even having to turn your head.
Bruce held your hand on the table, his fingers, curious, played with your rings, your acrylics, your bracelets. He failed to notice the way your heart sped up and your eyes found solace in your lap, the way your palms began to sweat and your cheeks reddened. At least you weren't fucking crying, you thought, but then the waiter brought a birthday cake, and more eyes were on you, and you swore you were happy but god could people mind their business?
Bruce noticed after taking a photo of you, trying your hardest to smile for him, he was so happy, smiling softly under the low lights of the restaurant, his gaze sticky and thick like caramel— and then he noticed, your smile faltered for a second, your brows knit with discomfort as you tugged on your clothes, your hair, the stupid napkin on your lap that wasn't smooth enough, why wasn't it smooth enough.
"Hey," His deep voice broke you out of your worries, "let's leave. I'll get the check, you wait in the car, how does that sound?"
"Yeah, fine. Sorry, I just—"
"—got overwhelmed, I know. I know you." His voice was authoritative and sweet, in a way that made you feel protected, safe, like you could just let him take the lead and you'd get to where you needed because he always looked out for you.
You got up from your chair, gathered your stuff and exited the restaurant, trying your hardest not to break in there. The tears came as you sat in the car waiting for Bruce. You saw him move around the establishment, talking to servers and the maitre'd, from the stern look on his face it seemed like he was arguing. He always did that, got into passive aggressive arguments to defend you.
And then he walked out, winking at you, smirk on his face.
"Bought the place. We'll do some...staff rearrangements, change some of the rules...ban a few people, maybe next time we'll be able to actually enjoy our dinner in there."
Your tears dried down almost instantly, sobs replaced by giggles. "B, that's so reckless! You can't just buy a restaurant because someone in there looked at me wrong."
"Yes, I can," He hummed. "It's your birthday." He argued.
Bruce had never been one for bold displays of affection— you sometimes swore he had the emotional range of a wet wipe— and he found that spending his money was a way for him to demonstrate he loved without having to risk anything. That's why you'd learned moments like this mattered, where he bought a restaurant out of spite for all of the clientele, threatening to ban them if you wanted to dine there again.
But what you liked the most was when he wasn't trying to prove he could love, when he simply did it. When he took pictures of you when you were sleeping or eating, or sitting in the yard drinking coffee in the morning, pictures he took to remember how his heart had done a little flip when he saw you like that.
When he struggled trying to post them on social media, because you looked so beautiful the whole world had to know. His usually deft fingers, so smooth when it came to Batman technology, felt too big, too heavy for instagram.
The car ride back to the manor was quiet, his hand traced small circles on the flesh of your thigh all the way. He was at your side, picking you up into his arms immediately after parking the car and killing the engine, apologetic look on his face.
"I really wanted it to be a good birthday for you, sweet thing, I'm sorry." He pressed a kiss to the side of your neck as he carried you upstairs.
"B, don't say that, it wasn't bad. I was with you."
Once he got to the bedroom he set you down on the bed, beside a pink box with black bows on it— your birthday present, lingerie. How on brand for him— but his gaze was stuck on you.
His hands caressed your ankles before he helped you kick off your shoes, finally looking away from you, offering the pink box to you by setting it on your lap.
"You don't have to wear it tonight, we can just put you to bed and leave it for tomorrow, but I thought you'd look beautiful in that." He whispered on your ear from over your shoulder.
You nodded silently and undid the bows, opening the box to reveal a black lace matching set, pretty soft pink bow at the front of the panties.
"I'll go put it on."
"Okay." He kissed the exposed skin of your back, and tapped you in the ass once you'd gotten up from the bed.
────୨ৎ────
co-written with @cherrycolaheartss
tags: @laceyfaeryy, @resting-confused-face
⏾ cw: 18+, slow burn, eventual smut, your professor is still hot…shocker, bruceiskindofadick, opposites attract
⏾ content: Your first meeting with Professor Wayne is off to a shaky start to say the least.
⏾ eek! I'm so excited for all the notes from last weeks chapter!! Thank you guys so so much for reading my first fic!! I'll eventually post one-shots as well, but for now I'm focusing on this. If anyone has interest in being tagged when I update, let me know. I'd be glad to do that!
It has been a week since Professor Wayne offered you the extra credit opportunity, and let’s just say that the research aspect isn’t going great. But, here you still are. Obsessing over what today’s meeting will look like and obsessing over the way your dress looked.
So stupid. You thought while you tugged your dress down to your sides. You figured it would be best to not dress in your usual attire. Which consisted mainly of whatever you dug out of your laundry pile that day. You give yourself one last look over and then glance at the time on your phone; it reads 2:07 PM.
“SHIT, I’m gonna be late!” You grab your bag and rush out the door, double-checking that you locked it because the apartment building you lived in was not the safest of places. The streets on the other hand, were far worse by comparison. The roads were still pretty torn up with man-sized potholes and cracks that made them undriveable, the surrounding buildings looked like they could crumble at a gust of wind, and the garbage left behind from the flood covered the sidewalks entirely. You had been promised real change, but it would most likely take years before you saw a difference in Gotham. For now though, you could settle for the shitiness. It’s something you’ve known your entire life, so what’s the harm in a few more years of waiting?
You eventually make it onto the crowded subway and immediately put your earbuds in to drown out everyone around you. The noise on the subway is always just too damn much for you to handle. You grab your phone out of your backpack and hit play on your playlist, sighing softly as you hold your backpack close to you. There was no way that today's meeting would go well, especially with the lack of peer reviewed articles. So far you only found two that weren’t already in the stack of papers Professor Wayne gave you. You can only assume that he will find this unacceptable, so you have to do something to distract him from the fact that you totally blew it.
Maybe I could just lie and say I had some more “stuff” come up this week so I couldn’t fully focus. No. You attended class all week, and besides he would probably see right through your lie. You haven’t personally experienced this, but he seemed to be the type. Like he could get anyone to cough up the truth with a simple look.
The subway comes to a stop and you squeeze your way through people to get off at your stop. You hop off the platform and quickly make your way up the stairs and to the street towards your University.
You eventually pass a cafe and come up with an even better plan. I’ll bring him coffee! Shit. I don’t know what he drinks…and I can’t email him either. He literally takes a million years to ever get back to anyone. You enter the shop and look at the time; 2:47. 13 minutes until you had to meet him. You knew you were cutting it close, but you couldn’t show up completely empty handed either. A peace offering of sorts would hopefully make him look past your fuck up. You glance up at the menu and panic after you realize you’re next in line. I’ll go with a latte to be safe. Everyone likes those. You order and before you know it you’re out of the cafe with 8 minutes to spare. You’d make it in time if you ran and didn’t eat shit on the way over.
You made it on time! You’re huffing and puffing, and your hair is a mess but you made it. Before going in you are sure to make yourself presentable. You wouldn’t want the hottest professor on campus to see you look like a hot mess. He was too particular to settle for anything less than perfection.
You shakily open the door, immediately feeling yourself overwhelmed with butterflies in your stomach and chest. Was this a terrible idea? Probably! But it was far too late to go back now.
There sat Professor Wayne, perfectly composed as he leaned back in his chair reading today's newspaper. Gods, he even makes reading the paper look sexy. How can such a grandfatherly act look so perfect?! You shake away the thought, feeling slightly ashamed of how shamelessly you thought of him. He was your professor for heaven's sake! You glance at one of the headlines; WOMAN STABBED ON SUBWAY BETWEEN PARK AND 5TH BARELY ESCAPES WITH HER LIFE. Unfortunately, this was nothing new for the citizens of Gotham, especially the female presenting ones. You consider yourself lucky that you’ve never experienced anything too terrible on the subway.
“(Y/N).” He glances at his watch and then back to you, his expression unreadable. “I almost thought you lost your way.” Professor Wayne folds the newspaper carefully and places it in its designated spot on his desk.
You stand awkwardly for a second before setting down his latte, your heart exploding from anxiety. “Ha ha. Very funny. I am actually right on time sir.”
He makes a disapproving tut and straightens his posture, staring straight into your eyes. “Early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable.”
Before you can help it, you involuntarily scowl. Now that was definitely something a grandpa would say. “I was unaware of that rule. It won’t happen again.” Great, what a wonderful first impression you’ve made. Smooth move (y/n) smooth move.
“Obviously.” Your professor wordlessly motions towards the seat in front of him, ignoring your scowl.
You hadn’t noticed how bare his office was until today. He had no pictures, posters, or even one of the university's dumb infographics about getting therapy. You couldn’t imagine Professor Wayne in therapy. He’d probably spend the whole time with that smug look on his face. Ugh, his stupid handsome jawline with his stunning blue eyes. Not now, he’s literally standing right in front of me. Quickly, you take a seat in the tiny uncomfortable chair, making sure to push his latte directly in front of him. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be offended by the gesture.
Professor Wayne’s eyes flicker to the latte, but only for a moment before they return to his now lit up monitor. He looked…unimpressed to say the least. “I don’t drink latte’s. But your gesture has been noted.”
Dick.
Instead of letting him win this one, you give him your best fake smile and fish your tiny file out of your bag. “I know it’s not much, but I think I’m off to a good start Professor. I figured we’d go over the requirements for the paper itself. Like, the minimum amount of citations, the format, the length, and the content itself.”
“If you expect that to take up most of our time today then you’re sorely mistaken.” Your professor states, still looking emotionless. “I have already assigned you the project on Canvas, did you not see it?”
Fuck. “No, I’m sorry I didn’t see it. I swear I check-”
“Take this time to look it over then, it’s alright.” He says with an almost caring look in his eyes, maybe a part of him did have some empathy.
The next hour and a half is filled with many more awkward silences and more ‘quirky’ remarks from Professor Wayne. You're not convinced that you’ll even get a good grade on something that is literally for extra credit. The part of you that is hopeful that you may be able to pass is spurred on by your dirty little crush on him. Could you be more cliché? You kind of liked being in his inner bubble, even if he had built about five brick walls around himself. Maybe one day you’d be able to get a peek through one of them. Somewhere under that hard exterior is a person. But what kind of person? You were dying to know.
After another long awkward silence, Professor Wayne’s voice interrupts your thoughts. “Let’s meet in one of the library’s study rooms next week. I’d like to show you how to do proper research. With a subject this new, you can’t get away with your research solely being from online articles. I will email you with more details within the next few days.”
You pause for a moment, realizing that this was your cue to get out of his office. “Alright. I will see you next week then. On time.” You add the last part while you finish packing up your things.
When you look up again, you see the smallest smirk on the corner of his lips. “Have a good weekend Professor Wayne.”
“You as well. Oh and (y/n).”
You stop in your tracks and look over your shoulder in the doorway.
“You did some good work today. Keep it up.”
A small smile creeps across your face along with an ever so slight blush across the bridge of your nose. "Thank you Professor Wayne." Internally, your stomach was doing backflips. Another compliment? You could get used to this.
Dinner had been good—great, even. The drinks were never late, the food delicious and warm. The only complication in the whole affair regarded lodging; you were staying at your parent’s house, which they’d insisted upon. This wasn’t the first time Bruce had met your parents, but it was the first trip dedicated to spending time together as a group. The brief initial meetings had made quite the impression, so much so they already considered him a part of the family.
Meaning? Polite luxuries were no longer afforded, and they had him camping out on an air mattress in your childhood bedroom beside your tiny twin bed.
Bruce didn’t mind. He was so used to sleeping on a hard cot in the basement of Wayne Tower that the air mattress was a sort of opulence. Most importantly, he thoroughly enjoyed time with your family. Seeing you in your element, getting to know the people who had helped mold you into the person he loved, was blissful. He would’ve slept on cement without complaint.
The first night, two days ago, you’d been so petrified of your parents overhearing that you barely even let him kiss you, despite how badly you craved his touch. He’d been working relentlessly the past month, various charity appearances and meetings about more charity appearances taking up his days, and high-intensity patrols taking up his nights. This week was supposed to be a vacation, but you couldn’t get a true moment alone. Stolen kisses and gripped thighs under tables weren’t enough to satiate your desire for closeness.
Last night you’d prayed for your parents to tuck in early, as they usually did, but they’d kept the both of you up until three in the morning with a deceptively intense game of Monopoly. It had tuckered the both of you out enough to pass out immediately. You’d slept until mid-afternoon, waking to a text from your mother about spending the evening at her friend’s birthday party—and that your sister would visit in their place.
She hadn’t yet met Bruce, and was entirely enamored. Her eyes glittered every time he acknowledged her. When he excused himself to use the restroom, she leaned in with excited, jealous whispers. The next few hours were a bore.
Bruce caught onto your need for escape like you’d spoken it aloud. He pretended to surprise you with dinner reservations, and hastily made them in the car ride over. Your head throbbed with so much fawning conversation, always surrounded by prying eyes and ears. And you had another four days of this, with a family party pinned at the end of it.
By some stroke of luck, your sister had abandoned the house by the time dinner plans were completed. Opening the door to an empty, quiet home was a godsend, and you slipped off your jacket and slunk to the bedroom to change. Bruce followed close behind. You fell onto the bed and slipped off your heels, rubbing the side of your foot where they had pinched. Your vision trailed along his legs when he tossed off his dress pants and pulled on a pair of gray sweats. His hips pulled forward as he shrugged off his blazer and yanked on a tee, creating a yummy print against the light fabric. You felt your body flush, and checked the time. It would be at least a few minutes until they got back…
You shimmied out of your underwear and sat on your knees, staring at him hungrily. Maybe it was the fact the room was dark aside from dim, faded fairy lights you’d put up years ago, casting beautiful mountains and valleys across his briefly exposed chest. Or maybe that it had been weeks, and your body felt tight with need, hoarding every second of that time like a grudge. You couldn’t decide what you wanted first—to touch him or him to touch you. For his fingers, or his lips, or…
He walked to the side of your bed, smoothing your hair behind your ear with a calloused hand. His movements were innocent and slow, and you knew he was acting oblivious. There was no universe where he immediately caught onto your boredom but couldn’t tell how intensely you ached to be taken care of now. You vibrated with it, full to the brim, desire so bloomed it blurred your vision.
Was he waiting for you to beg for it? Would he really make you beg? Or was he playing safe, assuming your parents would be back any second? The thought only made you want to rush, not stall. Only increased the desperate pull for him to be on top of you, or you on top of him or, fuck, anything.
You started pulling down his pants but Bruce shook his head; he let the rejection hang for a moment, watching the quiet flicker of your eyes across his face, gauging your reaction as he sunk down to his knees. The only sound was the air mattress sliding across the floor with a satisfying shick, and a creak of coils within your mattress as he moved a warm hand to your thigh and spread your legs.
He moved his hands underneath you and hooked around your legs, gently scooting your hips to the bed’s edge. The quilt you laid on cushioned your elbows as you sat up to watch him with wide eyes. Vibrant anticipation made your mouth water, peppering goosebumps up your arms and down your legs. The dim lighting framed his wide shoulders in half-shadow and accentuated the valleys his fingers created in the flesh of your thighs.
His eyes flicked up to yours and all thought vaporized as he brought his mouth to your clit. You held a breath. His eye contact was immobilizing, bringing heat to your cheeks and closing your throat. You only realized his hands had wandered when you felt a squeeze around the fleshy part of your waist. Your attention had been bought and fate sealed when his tongue pressed between the folds of your pussy, sending a soft rumble of pleasure up your core.
You inhaled sharply as a hand traced down the side of your body, spurring a shiver at the base of your spine. The bedframe creaked as his weight adjusted against it, a finger teasing your entrance. He watched as your breathing shallowed and your subtle, quick nod shook the fragile twin bed.
He wanted to watch your reaction when… your lashes fluttered as he slid his finger in, simultaneously pressing his mouth firmer against you. God, you tasted so fucking sweet. He suppressed a moan so he could better hear yours when he added a second finger, and oh, his body was unprepared for the sound. Your hips bucked against his mouth, and he let out an involuntary moan as your slick drenched his chin. He pumped his fingers deeper, harder, and suddenly your hands were in his hair.
His eyes dipped down only to pull back and visualize your arousal; your fingers slacked in his hair, a longing whimper slipping off your tongue at the pause. You were puffy, swollen, and the most delicious shade of pink. He drew a long, deep breath, half teasing, half preparatory. He brought his wet, pursed lips a centimeter away; your body tensed in anticipation, the room’s air turned static.
Tight puffs of warm air caressed your clit, and your elbows slipped as your head fell back; your low groan was his cue to close the distance and lap at you, his fingers motionless inside. He kept a deliberate tempo, every few seconds leaning a little closer, moving his tongue a bit faster. He was waiting for it to be too much, patient for your hands to rip at his hair until it stung. Mmms and ahhs accompanied the thick, wet noises between your thighs, and he nearly lost himself in them.
Usually you folded before this point, but you were making him work for it tonight—challenge accepted. He broke the suction and slowly withdrew his fingers, reaching for your spare hand. “Look at me,” and you immediately obeyed without protest, not even a sarcastic tease. His heart skipped. Ooh, you needed him. Even in the low light he saw how thrown you were by the width of your pupils and the slack in your jaw. His cock twitched under his sweats, his thoughts loosening.
“Please,” you pleaded, shifting your hips closer. Bruce grinned when you grabbed the back of his head. He felt the insistence within your palm and obliged, moving his mouth back down. A part of him felt bad—you were never this needy. But the beauty in the trembling arch of your back and the heat emanating off every inch of your skin was so intoxicating he couldn’t resist keeping you here. He dragged his tongue lower, circling your entrance until your grip tightened, but not enough. Not yet.
The warm, unhurried slip of his tongue against your clit had your moans echo off the walls. His pace was achingly slow, but you couldn’t complain when his mouth knew your body this well. His easy tempo continued for minutes, decreasing each time he felt your walls clench around his fingers. Tension built in your stomach and your back arched higher off the mattress. The sweeping motions of his tongue were languid, but his flicks were hard and calculated. You grabbed another fistful of his hair and yanked as his swipes turned to sucking, and he groaned against it.
You shrieked as his fingers entered you once more, the come here motion hitting that dull, heady spot over, and over, and… “Fuck,” you cursed, face tense as he worked you to the edge. He was hitting that spot relentlessly, and the noises of your soaked cunt were downright pornographic.
He felt your pussy clench hard around his fingers, and his mouth separated from you with a pop. “Go, baby.” He coached you as he curled his fingers higher. The room was hazy, his senses attuned only to your face and his fingers. His gravelly voice was strained by his own mounting desire. “Cum for me.”
You bit your lip and fought it; he couldn’t overwhelm you this easily, work you as he pleased. Even though he was right and you were on the edge of completion, almost dangling off the cliff, you wouldn’t let him have it so easily. He didn’t let you have it so easily. Remembering the torturous speed of the past ten minutes… and how fucking perfectly he was nailing you right now.
Your breathing slowed intentionally when he moved up to kiss you. A whimper slipped from your lips as you held your orgasm at arm’s length, and Bruce’s brow cocked when he realized what you were attempting. “C’mon,” he purred, nudging your jaw out of the way to press a wet kiss to the nape of your neck. Your pulse hammered beneath his lips, betraying you, his hot breath matching the pace of his fingers as they fucked you.
“Not so easily.” You managed a breathless sentence, the end frayed with a whine as he pulled his fingers out to circle the pearl of your clit. Your teeth made an indent in your lower lip, failing to keep secret how you were putty in his hands.
His blue eyes bore into yours, framed by his straight, dark hair. His cologne mocked you this close, weakening your resolve. Your body quivered, barely able to keep moans from spilling out in an endless chorus, singing his praises. He grinned, speeding up his pointer and middle fingers. “Let it out, baby.” he kissed along your collarbone, dragging his lips down to your nipple. A moan hummed from his chest as his tongue swirled it, making you yelp. “I can tell you need it.”
His coaxing wouldn’t undo you, his coaxing wouldn’t… you gasped as his fingers pushed inside again. You shook your head, face heating. He paused and thank god he had, because you needed a split second to contain yourself. “Want me to stop?”
“No.” You pushed your hips down on his fingers and grinded on them, moans and whines escaping full force. The bed creaked under the impact, a laugh mingling with a moan as you noticed his eyes flash, then darken. His jaw dropped open, beginning to pant. It was water. You were water.
The room spun. He kissed his way down your torso until he could finally taste you again. Impossibly wet, impossible to keep up with the gyration of your hips and the roll of your waist. His tone tempted the Bat when it got this ragged. “Fuck,” he swallowed hard, as if it were the last breath he’d ever take. And maybe it would be, the way you weren’t leaving him room to breathe.
He wanted to egg you on. Fuck yourself on my fingers, he’d gasp, but he was worried you’d stop. Somewhere the script had flipped and you were teasing him now, commanding control. You always melted him like this. “Take what you need.”
The words unraveled you. Your body slammed the length of his fingers, jamming the headboard into the wall without mercy. “Another,” you groaned, feeling instantly fuller. His knuckles, the angle of his fingers, and the pinprick pain of hickeys he stained along your skin made you feral. “Please,” you mewled, threading shaking fingers through his sweaty hair. He’d caught your staggered rhythm; you closed your eyes and submitted to the pleasure of each thrust, as sensitive as you’d ever been.
Bruce felt like you were riding him; he swore he felt each slip of his fingers on his throbbing dick, his hips twitching in unison with his hands. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Broken curses fell from your lips and you tightened around his fingers. His cheeks burned scarlet. He didn’t know if he was still breathing. Everything in the world left him.
You didn’t have to say anything; he felt it in the tremble of your legs, saw it etched in the crease between your eyebrows. “That’s it,” he coached you through it, feeling you clench so tight his breathing hitched. “Perfect baby, cum for me.”
Your hands landed on his shoulders, nails digging into sweaty, flaming skin as your climax shot through you. Your hips bounced erratically, Bruce’s fingers still fucked you through it, your pussy a useless, trembling, spasming mess. The white-hot release flooded your brain with TV static, a rush which cascaded through every cell in your body. Your mouth opened wider to free a guttural moan when you suddenly felt empty, clenching around nothing, and his hand clamped down on your mouth, muffling you.
“They’re back,” he whispered, gulping for breath. You writhed, simultaneously wrestling against the forced silence and grateful he’d heard, body contracting and jumping beneath him. “Shh…” he soothed, his dominating gaze quickly placating your throbbing frame. You blinked down the residual high when you heard the front door shut, footsteps entering the hall.
“Back from the party! Brought you guys some cake.”
Hearing your parent’s voice so soon after was disorienting; Bruce paused, waiting a second longer to drop his hand. You stared at each other a moment, completely still, until a smile crept on his face and you laughed.
“I’ll have to wait a minute.” Bruce sat up, adjusting his sweats with a heavy sigh. Your eyes traveled the dark room, catching your breath like you’d just run a mile. His fingers never felt that good before, his tongue never worked such brutal magic. He interrupted your reverie.
“You okay?” He was breathless too, his shirt limp and stretched haphazardly. He looked dazed, and blushed when you didn’t immediately answer. “Sorry for teasing. You just…” he turned tomato red.
“Just what?”
“You don’t know what you do to me,” he confessed, focusing on your smile as you leaned toward him. Your hand rested on his knee; his Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Come try it, you two.”
You felt like a teenager again. “I have an idea.” Your fingers trailed toward his waistband. “You better simmer down, or we’ll get in trouble. Cake tasting’s important, you know.”
“Evidently…” he tried to measure your parent’s wrath against the ache in his boxers, half shocked he was even considering being so reckless. How soundproof was this room?
“More than okay.” You finally answered, tugging at his drawstring until the knot untied. He drew a quick breath, but didn’t pull away.
“I won’t be able to be quiet,” he admitted, flustered.
The walls narrowed to the space between your lips and his. You knew your parents would soon unwind in the living room across the house, unable to hear a peep—but Bruce didn’t. “Is that a challenge?”
a/n: apparently i have writer’s block but not for bruce wayne smut, so here you go <3 i think it’s cute for Bruce to have the experience of parents interrupting something, since he likely didn’t have that experience growing up !! at least battinson probably didn’t, lmao. also he’s a total munch. a real eater. let me know what you think !!
Bruce Wayne! who loves to see you tremble and shiver all over his hands as he makes you cum multiple times. He‘ll be knuckles deep in your pussy as he finger fucks you, getting off on the sight of your whines. “Cmon bunny, one more for me yeah?” Your practically arched off the bed, sheets damp with your fluids as he flicks your clit, hot squirt soaking his abs. Link
Bruce Wayne! who’ll be balls deep inside your cunt, mercilessly pounding you into the mattress as he whispers sweet nothings into your ear. How could he resist when you’re just so soft and pliable for him? It’ll be late into midnight and he’ll still be fucking you thin and through, good luck if you want him to stop. Link
Bruce Wayne! getting an instant boner at the sight of your body wearing a cute sun dress, the frilly fabric hugging your delicious curves as you walk around the manor. His hands immediately reach for your ass, kneading the soft flesh as he bends you over the kitchen surface. Let’s just say, you got a different ‘cream pie.’ Link
A/N sorry for the delayed post, having issues with writing rn(｡-_-｡)
plot: things become a bit easier between you and your professor (now mentor)—but something isn't adding up.
pairing: professor!bruce wayne x student!reader
cw: 18+
word count: 3k
a/n: listened to 'bad decisions' and 'hands on me' by ariana grande on loop while writing this—if this were my main fic, i would've written like fifty bajillion scenes of lusting and personal time, but this is a miniseries, so, we move right along! trying new things <3
A one-on-one mentorship didn’t require a classroom, so you found yourself sitting across from Professor Wayne in his minuscule office. Evidently, billionaire or not, every faculty member got the same 100-square foot space that left barely enough room for one student in addition to a desk, filing cabinet, and two chairs. Deep brown tones filled his office, making it appear stuffy.
You felt awful watching him squeeze into his tiny seat across from you; had he opted for the smaller seat so you could have room? Surely the higher-ups could accommodate him. Like you’d spoken aloud, he apologized while hunting through his desk.
“Emailed the admin about booking a conference room, but they’ve yet to get back to me. Hopefully,” he pulled out a bottom drawer, a small, satisfied sound slipping past his lips that made you sit straighter. “They’ll respond soon, and we can get somewhere more comfortable.”
Comfortable. You’d repeated that word like a mantra in the mirror as you picked your outfit for the first day. Against your better judgment, you’d gone with sweats and a tee; unprofessional, you’d chastised, but wearing anything else felt promiscuous. Hyperaware of how tightly the jeans hugged your waist and ass—and oh, god, you avoided your skirts like your life depended on it—you’d landed on a perfectly comfortable pair of thick, cozy sweatpants. You tugged at a loose thread as your focus landed on his hands.
Blue was the color he’d chosen for his pen. Not black, not red, but a cool, even blue. How sweet. You pulled at the thread harder.
“Do you have topic ideas?”
“Yes.” Dutifully, you slid a folder out of the backpack you’d obsessively cleaned the night prior. Smooth manila protected your typed list, ranging from strict academia to looser creative pursuits. You pushed the paper to him, heart pounding.
He stared, his head cocked slightly. He looked to you, the paper, then slid it back. “Which are you passionate about?”
“I thought we’d look over them and decide together,”
He shook his head, lips pressed in a thin line. You felt what he wasn’t saying. “I won’t be the one writing it. It should be about what you want.”
Your professor held out his pen, and your fingers brushed as you took it. It was weighty in your hand, and you very well could’ve imagined it, but the cushion where his fingers had been held warmth. His big, long, warm hands… they were what you wanted. Manicured nails caught your attention, and you bit back an audible ‘of course’. His hygiene was impeccable. What else did you expect from a man like him? Was he manicured elsewhere?
“Circle the topics you’re most interested in. If you still need my help,” yes, I do, “then we’ll talk.”
You knew it would be bad after the break you had, but not this bad. You were achingly aware, in fact, following out of the corner of your eye while you pretended to deliberate topics, that he’d switched his usual sweater for a button-up. With the top two buttons undone.
Focus.
You snuck another look, and he caught your eye with a curious squint.
FOCUS!
In truth, none of the topics genuinely interested you. Scouring his faculty page online, you’d gone down his research and found topics he was engaged with, and went from there. Sitting only a few inches from him now, your play felt embarrassingly obvious. It could’ve been minutes or could’ve been hours, but nothing was circled, or underlined, and the pressure in the room shifted.
“I don’t like any of these,” you admitted, once again feeling like a child owning up to a Big Mistake. What would the slap on the wrist be? Sending you home early? Emphasizing that you really needed to take this class seriously, only making you feel worse?
Instead, he bridged the space between you. The depth of his blue eyes this close had you genuinely worried you’d drown. “If you had to write the paper right now, and no one would read it, what would you write about?”
You hoped he couldn’t feel the heat emanating off your cheeks, and fought to keep your voice steady. “But you will read it.”
“I’m here to support, not punish.” He lingered a moment, holding your gaze so firmly that a small gasp escaped when he sat back against his chair. “The process will be more enjoyable if it’s a subject you want to dig into, and your writing will be better for it.”
It’d been hard enough getting grades back throughout undergrad knowing someone had read what you wrote, perceived you, judged you. It was an entirely new thing when the single most attractive, naturally charismatic man you’d ever seen was judging it in real time, intimately. If you didn’t know him, and had seen him on the opposite end of the same coffee shop, you would’ve hightailed it out of there, holding your breath—never would you have even thought it an option to approach him.
Yet here you were, mandated to share a teensy room with the object of such desire.
“This isn’t like last term. This course is about development and revision, pass no pass.”
“Alright.” It didn’t settle the rhapsody that threatened to overwhelm you, but nothing would in his presence. He appeared to attune to your continued hesitance at once.
“What makes you afraid of me reading it?”
That you’ll think less of me. “You’ll think it’s elementary.”
“Pick whichever topic without regard for how I might receive it.” He waved his hand over the carefully crafted options. “Or pick from the assembly of my research credits you collected there.”
Crap. Of course he could tell.
It took you the rest of the class, but you finally selected your paper topic. When you shared it, Professor Wayne’s eyes flashed, and after your internal recoil, you noticed him grin. “It’ll certainly make for an interesting essay.”
You shifted in the chair, the space between you and the shared desk seeming too tight. “Bad or good?”
“Neutral.”
He’d been too thoughtful when he said it. Pause… ‘neutral’. “A professional way to say ‘bad’ without hurting my feelings?” An hour spent with him and your filter was slowly removing itself. A smidgen of bravery gathered within you, though you couldn’t imagine how with the adrenaline-spiked overwhelm at how fucking perfect he was.
“Seems to be your Achilles heel, Y/n.” He stood, somehow managing to pull on his coat in the meager space. His perfect hair fell perfectly around his ears, swishing slightly as the jacket’s collar grazed it. “A harsh inner critic will only get you so far.”
“Mm.” Your throat went dry as he towered over you. It was as if he’d plucked last night’s fantasies from your bedroom. Now, just press his hands onto the desk… lean closer… tell me he wants to…
“I mean it.”
You bit your lip, blinking at warp speed. “Yeah?” Too pitchy, shit.
He nodded, oh, even just a nod… and it was only the first day! “Almost dropped out of my doctoral program twice.”
“No way.”
He grabbed his mug, and your eyes trained on the movement. Does Professor Wayne know all I can think about is his hands on me? “Overthought my dissertation from the day of admission. Didn’t think I could measure up.”
Him having anything outside of strict confidence was so shocking it pulled you out of your lust. “And?”
“Now I get this spacious office all to myself.”
Your cheeks hurt from the slope of your grin, digging into the apples of your cheeks. The man was endearing; certainly more than he’d been a term prior. Was it pitying? Did he see you as fragile? Because good god, you wanted him to break you.
“My point being: I had to write it despite my concerns. Follow where my mind went. Learn to trust it.”
“How did you?” If you could mimic a single crumb of how he moved so effortlessly through the world—billionaire near-miss-A-list-celebrity notwithstanding—you’d take it. Managing a string of conversation that didn’t make your core tighten would be helpful, too.
“Trusted my supervisors. That if I were truly out of line, someone would’ve told me.” He walked around the desk toward the door, but stopped between you and it. The noise got harder to ignore, but you managed.
“Like you did last term.”
“A bit kinder than that, I’ll admit.” He gestured for you to lead the way out of his office, and you shakily got up from your chair to follow orders. You stalled in the slim, empty hallway, lit mostly by passing headlights through the window at its end.
He clicked the lock and strode just ahead. “You have a strong voice. It’s a shame you’re not trusting it.”
His smooth speech was beginning to genuinely unravel you. If he’d been speaking to you like this in his office, when you had to stare into his face instead of at his broad, flowing shoulders…
“I just can’t believe you ever felt that way. You seem like you knew all this stuff from birth.”
He tossed a look back at you, the whisper of a smirk wearing his mouth. “That’s the trick, isn’t it?”
Mmm…
Professor Wayne held the door open for you into the building’s main hallway, and you hugged the folder tight to your chest as you skirted past. “Come with an outline for next week’s session.”
“Will-do.” Your voice was too deep, thrown, almost ragged.
“Hopefully we’ll have a more accommodating room by then.”
You did not have a bigger room for the rest of the term.
“Wonderful.”
He handed your essay back without comment, which was too confusing to internalize his praise. “No edits?”
“Stellar paper.”
“Like, I’d get 100 if I turned it in for a grade?”
“I’d invite you to TA on the back of the rubric.”
“Shit.”
If you had to pinpoint the moment you and Professor Wayne’s communication had become less rigid, it might’ve been at the reveal of his dissertation insecurity. Or two weeks later when he made an offhand joke about being an orphan, and his cheeks turned the slightest shade of pink when it didn’t land.
Either way, things had become easy. For the last day, you’d brought him a coffee. With sessions being in the evening, you usually showed up with water or the occasional herbal tea; however, as your roommate made customary for the end of a term, you were headed straight for the club after. A latte for you, black coffee for him.
And a pastry, as a parting gift.
“What now? Since I’m apparently perfect?” You tapped your fingers against your exposed thighs, the minidress you’d thrown on only covered from the waist-up by a baggy sweater. Things were pleasant between you two, sure, but that didn’t mean you didn’t ache watching his lips curve around the edge of his cup, or linger when he rolled the cuffs of his sleeve.
He checked the clock, and you attuned to the movement of his waist when he shifted. You’d miss this. His tiny office that made you both sweat, his dry one-liners, the perfume of citrus and musk that followed you on your walks home.
“Guess you get out half an hour early.” A bit curt of a nod, you noted, but it could’ve been in your head.
What wasn’t in your head, however, was how he didn’t rise to follow you out the door. You withheld a pout as you tucked your folder into your bag and stood. It was your favorite time of the week getting guided down the hall with him. It felt delightfully possessive; he was your mentor, you were his student.
“Not coming?” One hand on the doorknob, watching as he glanced halfway up at you, then quickly back to his desk.
His voice went quieter. “Have finals to grade.”
“That’s why my paper has no errors?” You teased. “Antsy to finish?”
“Have a good night.”
No joking, no awkwardly-delivered story about some niche aspect of his personal life: nothing.
With a level of awkwardness that hadn’t existed since the first meeting in ethics, you caught his hint for you to leave, and left. The hallway felt massive without him guiding you, the walls colder. What the fuck?
The walk home was quick, his TA comment stuck like glue. The first order of business when you slumped into bed involved pulling out your laptop to peruse the class listings. After such a lackluster goodbye, you figured you could make up for it through another term. A jarring crack in your chest festered when you considered the possibility of that being your last ever interaction.
Ethics 511: Ethics Matters, An Explanation of Moral Qualities (TA)
Time: Wednesdays 4-6:40pm
Faculty: Bruce Wayne
Seats: 0/1 [OPEN]
You slammed it shut and paced the room, drawing an invisible pros and cons list, a frustrating experience that ended with you flipping it back open, wildly moving your cursor to the REGISTER button, and clicking SUBMIT with your eyes closed.
He glanced at the yellow office slip in your hand and sighed. “The assistant position is no longer open.”
“Oh!” Your spine tingled at his flat affect, disappointment disorienting you. With one term left, this had been your single opportunity to work with him again. “Damn. It wouldn’t let me sign up online.” Had it gotten sniped in the two days it took the office to get back to you with the override form?
He didn’t look over, opting to concentrate on whatever lay within his notebook. Right off the bat, it was apparent you were a nuisance. Your stomach twisted into a knot.
You parted your lips to speak, but nothing came of it. Fuck. Say anything.
“Get a conference room yet for your new mentee—”
“Sorry to cut you short, but I have a deadline to meet.”
He didn’t sound sorry. He wouldn’t even look at you, and practically cut off the last syllable of your sentence.
You swallowed back bile and a thousand other questions. It was a knife to the heart that you weren’t worth looking at for two fucking seconds now that he wasn’t obligated to teach you. At least you’d go out politely. Kindly. Maybe that could be enough. You faked a cheery grin. “Good luck!”
“Have a good evening.”
Invisible bruises peppered your skin moving down the hallway from his classroom. Reduced to tears once again, like the past three months hadn’t even happened. Prideful, you leaned against the wall before the exit and searched the schedule to double-check.
Ethics. 511. Ethics Matters. An Explanation of Moral Qualities. (TA). Wednesdays. 4-6:40. Faculty: Bruce Wayne.
Seats: 0/1 [OPEN]
You stomped back to his classroom, pausing for a beat at the door to catch your breath and reign in tears. Clenched fists at your sides. Biting your cheek. It didn’t make sense. He always made sense.
Peeking through the window panel, Professor Wayne looked beaten; his posture hunched over the desk unlike he ever sat. He ran a stiff hand through his hair, and the huff of his exhale ruffled the papers below him. He adjusted uncomfortably.
He seemed… flustered. Strung-out. You pressed the pushbar.
“Did I do something wrong?”
He startled like a gun had been shot, but his recovery was smooth. You thought an additional button had been loosened on his shirt. “I’m immersed in my work.”
“Did you just pass me and say all that because I cried at the midterm?”
His shoulders dropped in disillusionment, and you tensed. He squeezed the words past his teeth. “You did good work. Now let me get back to mine.”
Vulnerability spilled out of you, your voice cracking. “I just—”
“Y/n.” His voice was firm, an edge creeping in.
“You acted like I would be the perfect candidate. Classes start next week.”
“I no longer need an assistant.”
“I just checked, and it still says ‘open’ online.”
“I’ll get it changed.”
“This doesn’t seem—”
“Let it go.” He glared at you while he said it, as fiery and brutal as swallowing hot coal.
“So it is something.” Whatever window he’d opened for you was bolted shut, and it felt like it snapped off a finger as he slammed it. He faced his desk, an absent stare at the empty monitor. His silence was the final brick, and you chewed on your cheek as hot, angry tears wet your lashes. He didn’t respect you enough to even tell you why.
He repeated himself, weaker this time. “I no longer need an assistant.”
You stepped closer, and his shoulders drew inward. What the hell was his problem?
“Hi,” another student maneuvered around you to set up at the desk in front of his. Precisely where you’d chosen the first day of ethics. You could’ve fallen to your knees as she took your seat. “I hope I’m not interrupting, I wanted to go over expectations for the mentorship next term when you’re available.”
“We were just finishing, Isabel.”
So much for his deadline.
The ease of the last term sat differently in your chest. Had it been so relaxed because he hadn’t actually cared? You stopped yourself before scowling at the woman—it wasn’t her fault she was his next mentee, but god, jealousy nipped at the tips of your fingers as she rose from her seat and walked toward what used to be yours. His attention, his consideration, his time; his eyes, his scent, the way your name sounded in his mouth…
“Appreciate the transparency, Professor.” You spun on your heel and left without looking back. Fuck him.
Tags: Cute restaurant date, pampering, spoiling, money money money, teasing, pet names, love hotel, face sitting, squirting, Bruce eats you out like no tomorrow, your pleasure first before his, black lingerie, clit stimulation, nipple rubbing, riding his nose, LOVE.
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Y’know when you get that sickly feral need to just go to town on someone? Well, it’s happening to Bruce.
Today was special, he was going to surprise you with so many damn gifts it would make your head spin. The day called for pampering and shopping, along with a nice dinner date for the two of you, super cute right? Time flowed by like water, gleaming sunlight that warmed your skin turned into the frigid chill of the night. Stars were gleaming through the black cloak, like little dots that told a story every night. Bruce’s manor showed every single detail of Gotham, one of your favorite parts of the house.
“Doll are you finished?” He appeared at the door frame, looking to see if you were done getting ready. Oh, you looked so fucking beautiful to Bruce, he couldn’t stop staring at your face. “Hmm? Oh B! ‘M almost finished just oneeee seconddd..” You clasped the back of your earrings on your earlobe, the sparkly crystals dangling made the light shine on them. Your gaze looked up at him, smiling at how he put the time in to get ready. Bruce had already spoiled you with a cute necklace, the back of the piece being engraved with ‘Wayne’ to show you were his. “Brucey? Your staringgg..” He zoned back into reality, smiling at your beautiful appearance. The dress he chose for you fit you perfectly, the backless design was suited for you, and the deep neckline? Basically all dolled up for him to eat..
“Let’s go love. I’ll grab your bag, okay?” You nodded, spraying perfume on your pulse points before checking the mirror once more. Bruce was starting the engine of his black mercedes, the loud rev telling reminding you to get in the car. Your high heels clacked against the floorboards of the manor, rushing towards the car in the front. He was patiently waiting for you on the passengers side, smiling as he saw you come out. You were about to open the door yourself but Bruce interrupted you. “Please, allow me.” He opened the door, letting you slide into the car while he closed your side.
He slipped into the driver's side, placing his hands onto the wheel. “Are you ready for tonight, handsome?” You smirked, rubbing your hand on his thigh, slightly teasing him. He tensed at the sudden contact, a small fire being lit inside his stomach, his mind taking a mental note. Bruce’s hand slid down to yours as he drove, mindlessly rubbing circles on the back of your hand while he drove, focusing on the road. A soft playlist you made for nights like these was playing, the song ‘Rearrange My World’ by Daniel Caesar coming on. You hummed the lyrics while admiring the streets of Gotham, how it wasn’t the best city but had its moments where everything was peaceful and okay made it special to you. Tonight was so serene, maybe it could’ve been like this all the time .
“Bun we’re here.” Bruce tapped your palm, looking at your face when you realized. A cute shocked expression made him smile, he took you to your favorite restaurant. Coffee and Champagne was a special restaurant that laid in your heart, you went there on special occasions with family or friends, but recently your time was occupied with life. “Bruce! I, oh my gosh this brings back so many memories..” You got out of the car, letting the sudden flood of memories come right back into your mind as you stared at the building. “Hope you enjoy it m’love, wanted to make this extra special for you.” He grabbed your hand, leading you into the entrance.
The employee smiled at both of you, guiding you towards a table under the light. You both sat down, having a conversation about what to order, but then a small fire in Bruce’s stomach grew. Your heel was rubbing his calf, the fabric stopping you from teasing his skin. He gave you a serious look before returning to the waiter, giving your orders. They walked away, making you slide your foot onto his thigh, the flames blazing higher and higher . He grabbed your ankle, stopping you from rubbing him when the waiter arrived with your food. “ Watch. I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’ll be begging for it, sweets…” Your face flushed with heat, his words being sent straight down to your cunt, the arousal dampening your panties. You sipped on the champagne that Bruce bought for the both of you, sending him a dangerous look before continuing on with your meal. He finished his meal, calling the waiter over for the check. Your dish was nearly finished, your stomach being full from the food. “I can’t wait to see what you do tonight, ‘m just itching to know..”
That was his last moment before the flames burned inside him, he placed a hefty stack of bills on the check and dragged you out of there, walking towards the love hotel near the corner.
You struggled to keep up with his pace, so he picked you up bridal style , walking into the hotel. “Hi. Can I get your most expensive room please?” You grabbed his wallet, placing a couple hundred bucks on the counter, watching as the worker eagerly took it and handed him a key. Bruce practically ran to the room, giving you the key to unlock the door.
He closed it with his body, shifting your legs around his waist so he could kiss you. “Mmph.. Fuck. Dirty little thing teasing me like that in the restaurant? Oh just watch..” Bruce walked towards the bed , sitting on the edge while holding you in his arms, a sloppy make out session happening between you two . He laid down onto the mattress, your thighs locking around his torso, holding onto his inky black locks. You broke the kiss, panting to grasp a deep breath for your lungs.
“ Sit on m’ face doll..” He gripped your hips, squishing your body through the fabric of your dress. You gasped when Bruce practically tore your dress into shreds, revealing the cute floral black set you wore underneath to surprise him. If he wasn’t hard before, he is now. Bruce slapped your ass cheek, making you jolt forward near his face. “Bruce! I- I don’t wanna suffocate you..” You hid behind your hand, covering your embarrassment with your palm. “Baby. I can assure you, you're not going to kill me this way. Even if you did, that’s the best way to kill me.” He reassured you, gently rubbing your skin to soothe your mood. You took a lot of courage to move, but eventually did so. It was a sight to behold, the scene of your sex about to sit on top of his face was something that burned into his memory forever. You nervously hovered over his face, unsure if you really wanted to sit on it. “But Brucey..” You looked down into his eyes, watching as his pupils dilated, looking like giant hearts in an azure sea. He grabbed the fleshy globes of your ass, pulling you down to sit.
You screamed, feeling the wet muscle suck on your little bundle of nerves, his teeth grazing your soaked folds. Your juice dripped down into his mouth like a fountain, the liquid that cured his parched mouth. “Mmnghh..!!” He growled into your little hole, prodding at the ring of muscle with his tongue. Bruce’s taste buds were beautifully blessed by you, your whole body was a meal to him.
The first orgasm of the night ripped you into pieces, euphoria shining through mending it all back together. His hands groped your flesh, feeling you up and down as he rubbed the underside of your boobs. His fingers danced on the tips of your nipples, one hand grounding into your meaty thigh to balance your body. “Bruce! Oh fuck..! ‘Mcumminggg-!” You squirted right into his mouth, the juices of your slick and cum quenched his thirst, Bruce feeling himself leaking in his pants. Your thighs clenched his head tightly while you rode on his face, the bridge of his nose helping you stimulate your clit, jolts of pleasure riding through your body. Bruce sucked and licked on your poor cunt so much, the noises in the room were probably heard from other rooms. You got off his face, lying next to him while you tried to recover. “You taste better than anything in the world angel. Hope tonight was special enough for you, I love you to the moon and back.”
A/N Think i’m gonna release my intro post sooonnnn (✿◠‿◠)
Tags: Sex ban! First one to lose is bruce, teasing, stuck in the dryer, pussy eating, slick, marking, kissing, hickies, Bruce is feral for you! full nelson, creampie, sweet nothings, sex
Have you ever tried this one?(∩˃o˂∩)♡
A sex ban, made from you. What even started this? Well, let’s talk about it.
Bruce is constantly bending you over or making full on love to you, but he can be rough at times. There was one time where the headboard of your shared bed cracked right down the middle, his palm gripped so hard on the wood it broke. Or when Bruce fucked you in the shower, almost knocking everything down in the process from how carried away he got.
“You are on a sex ban. Nothing less, nothing more.” Bruce stood there astonished from your words, sex ban? “Wait doll- how come? C’mon, you know how much you love it when I get to bend you over.” He shot back arrogantly, his pride swelling like a balloon from his own words. “Bruce, you break so much stuff in the process the only place where it’s safe is on the floor. Remember the headboard? Shower?” You pointed out the times when Bruce was reckless, fucking you so good be broke stuff in the process.
“Ehh- okay, fine. I’ll go on the ban, but if you break first angel ‘m gonna pound you so hard..” He whispered against your ear lobe leaving you all flustered, a stupid smirk wiped on his face as he walked away.
Day 1. It was easy, light brushes and touches did nothing to you and Bruce, maybe. You were washing your dish when he came behind you, leaning against the plush of your ass, supposedly ‘grabbing something’ from the cabinet. You almost would have punched him from the stupid sneaky move. As the two of you laid in bed that night, you cuddled up against his front, accidentally touching his chest just a little too much.
Day 2. There he was, shirtless and in a pair of dirt washed jeans in the garage. Bruce was fixing one of his cars that he owned, the dirt and grime coating his body making you clench. “That’s not fair..” You whispered, thinking of any way to get back at him. Maybe it was fair when you walked in the garage with a pitcher of ice cold lemonade in nothing but his oversized shirt, the fabric swallowing your torso. Bruce had to hold everything back when he saw you, your cute frame being covered from his very own shirt made him hard in his jeans.
“Thank you angel.” Bruce leaned into your neck, leaving a small kiss on your pulse point, watching as you flushed with pink. Oh, two can play at that game.
Day 3. You woke up to Bruce falling off the bed with a loud thud. “Bruce! Are you okay?” You leaned over on his side, finding him face first on the floor. He laid on the floor and shot his hand up, his hand giving a thumbs up. You dismissed it and went back to sleep.
Little did you remember, you took off your pajamas due to the heat and fell asleep in your underwear, leaving Bruce with a great image burned into his retinas and a semi boner. When he heard the soft noises of your snores, Bruce thought he was in the clear but you were sprawled all out on the bed without the blanket. “Son of a..” He mumbled. The rest of the day, Bruce had to hold back from pouncing on you and pounding you senseless for hours to make up.
Day 4. Bruce snapped. You were doing laundry, grabbing the dry clothes out of the machine when there was just an old sock wedged into the metal. You leaned inside to grab it when you felt something warm on your ass.
“Bunny. I’ve been holding back so fucking much, but this? You believe I can last longer when you're bent over like this? Fuck..” Bruce’s warm breath brushed against the curvature of your ass, his hands groping the flesh as he heard your soft moans inside. “B-Bruce! Not here..!” He slid down your pajama shorts, introduced with the pretty sight of your puffy folds throbbing with slick. The breeze of air against your folds made you twitch, lightly arching your back as Bruce spread you open.
He sucked on the inner part of your thighs, biting and squeezing the tender flesh with his teeth, his hands spanking your ass. You moaned from the stimulation, the red marks against your ass spurring Bruce on even more. His lips leeched onto your pussy, the taste of sugary sweetness blessing his taste buds after such a long time. “Fuh- taste so sweet f’me love, needed this..!” Bruce spit against your folds, the warm fluid hitting spot on your tight hole as it dripped down. “Bruucee!” You were tense with need and pleasure, his teasing getting you worked up. Forget the sock, his mouth worked wonders on your wet little cunt.
You shook from your first orgasm, the slick smeared all over his mouth. Bruce slurped loudly, his eyes closed shut from your sweet fluids as he ate you out. “M gonna make up for all the time, better take it all bun.”
Bruce pulled you out, a smile growing at his lips as he saw your face all flushed with need and embarrassment. You were so hazy from the orgasm that you didn’t notice he was carrying you to the bedroom, his footsteps moving faster as he approached the door. Bruce laid you down onto the sheets, the soft silk against your body was relaxing.
“Gonna make me break the bed again yea? My dumb little baby needs to be bred with my cum?” Bruce shifted onto the bed, your body in between his meaty thighs as he looked down at you. Your shirt was riding up towards your breasts, the underside being left out just enough to not reveal your nipples. You yanked off your shirt, throwing it to the side as you looked at Bruce.
He leaned down and kissed you, his arms tightening around your waist as he sat you up. You clawed at his back, angry red scratch marks littering his skin from your nail. “More- please..!” You moaned in between, breaking the kiss to lift your neck. Bruce latched onto your unmarked skin, his canines digging into your skin leaving a large bite mark. He sucked on a sensitive point, leaving you all twitchy and shaky.
There were hickies and red spots all over your skin, as Bruce sat back to admire his work.
“World's best pussy for me..” Bruce sat on the bed as he flipped you around, the small of your back against his front. His cock was out, the tip leaking pre as it ran down his length. He lifted your legs, your feet dangling in the air as his shaft rubbed against your folds. The softness of your boobs and the plush of your tummy was so damn sexy to Bruce, his cock slowly entering your small tight hole. Your wet gummy walls clamped around his inches like a vice, the way you clenched around him was dizzying.
Bruce had you in a full nelson, the position making it easier for him to reach deeply inside your sweet pussy. “Ngh, too! much..!” His hips snapped up against your ass, his balls slapping against the skin of your flesh definitely leaving a mark. Bruce was merciless with his thrusts, his cock making you squirt all over the bed with a wet mess. The sheets were stained with your fluids, as he continued to fuck you over and over.
“Gonna cum inside and you’ll take it all for me, yea?” Bruce was pussy drunk, the way your tits jiggled and your ass rippling from his hips made his mouth water. He buried himself deep into your pussy, biting down on your shoulder as he came inside, the hot flood of cum inside your womb making you shiver. Bruce let you down onto the sheets as he pulled you into his body, basking in the aftermath of your orgasms. “Guess that really was a sex ban.”
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A/N Started a new story for fun and kinda getting really into it.. also had no desire to cum but now i have a high libido ◔_◔
