BAREFOOT IN (THE) PARK (ROW) . bruce doesn’t submit to anything, really. pairing ! bruce wayne x fem!reader wc ! 6.6k warnings ! nsfw. porn with plot. sorta ooc bruce in a way... dom/sub dynamics – bruce is the sub in this instance – implied subspace and the fear of it? discussions around control, nicknames used include : brat, doll, baby, good boy, sweetheart, my man (towards bruce) honey (towards reader) clothed cunnilingus + fingering + dry humping + handjob + spit kink + titplay + dumbification if you squint?
🗒️ this fic is so dialogue heavy i hope it turned out how i intended, inside me there are two wolves, secretary (2002) and barefoot in the park (1967) rip robert redford this one’s for you 💔
now playing ! blues for paul — neal hefti 🎧
“That’s why I broke up with you.”
Across from you, Bruce’s lips halted mid sip of the complimentary glass of water that was placed on the table moments prior, your words ricocheting off the rim like a bullet. A BB-gun’s bullet, at the very least.
Tonight you were dining at Park Row, the playground for Gotham’s finest stuffed suits and powdered elbows where everything was curated to please the eyes and tease the palette.
The furniture was velvet, the tablecloths burgundy, the windows floor to ceiling and the jazz soft and non-intruding; hell, even the lighting managed to match the waiters’ uniforms. Park Row, with its light chatter and the occasional guffaw of wealth which sat oh so high up in Wayne Tower if not to stroke the egos of those who dined here but to keep the city’s most powerful close to the man whose name was on the building.
Close to Bruce Wayne, the man who sat across from you, who was another man, or rather another thing entirely.
“Bruce?” You called to him, peeping over the menu book in your hands. Rings decorated your fingers — right index, pinkie, middle, left index, thumb— “Did I shoot the gift horse in its mouth?”
There was a tease in your voice, a sparkly lilt that could placate any lesser man. If Bruce could ever consider himself a greater man now that he was your ex.
Nothing on your left ring finger.
“I heard you,” he replied, placing his glass down on the table. It met the cloth without so much as a thud, and to the untrained eye, it wouldn’t have been obvious that he even picked it up in the first place. “I’m just—”
“Thinking?” The menu snapped shut between your palms. “Oh doll, don’t do that. Bad things always happen when you do that.”
He huffed under his breath, the slightest uptick of the corner of his lips giving him away almost immediately.
“How’s the new job?” He asked, opening the menu in front of him only to close it again, his eyes meeting yours then looking away. Then back to you again when he realized you hadn’t stopped looking straight at him since you closed the menu in your hands.
“We’re touching that territory already? Ouch.” You feigned hurt, pinching your brows together.
How long had it been, really? Three months? Four? You’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be Bruce Wayne’s secretary, always on-call, always available at ungodly hours, always attentive to every detail because that’s just how he liked it and you’d be lying if you said that extra bonus in your bank account at the end of every fortnight wasn’t initiative enough to have his coffee ready at exactly eight o’ clock — black, two sugars, no cream.
“Apologies, I…” He stopped himself, reaching over to take the menu from your hands and placing it neatly on top of his by the corner of the table. He didn’t look at you for that. “I figured you’d want to talk about it, what with your recent promotion and all—”
“Bruce,” you looked at him pointedly and his shoulders shifted. He couldn’t sit much straighter than he was already, couldn’t look any neater and less imposing than he tried to be. “What is this?”
“Two former colleagues having dinner.” He said, plainly. “What else is it supposed to be?” He finally looked you in the eye again.
You met his stare and laughed, an easygoing wrist propped at the edge of the table where your fingers stroked the tablecloth. “Oh, you’re good.”
“It was in the paper yesterday,” he defended. You stared at him for a moment then shook your head.
“And you read the Saturday paper?” You looked at him incredulously, like he’d kicked a dog or something.
“What, did Alfred bring it to the Master’s dojo with his afternoon tea?” You mocked, leaning forward with both elbows on the table and he grinned despite himself, mirroring you by leaning forward himself ever-so-slightly. “Bullshit. You don’t read the Saturday papers.”
“I do,” Bruce smiled. That same smile that had Senators and oil heiresses weak in the knees, that curve of his lips that could charm the robes off the goddamn Statue of Liberty if you let him get close enough. “I did. You were phenomenal, I’m impressed.”
“Ha! Complimenting me already and it’s barely been ten minutes since I sat down,” you quipped, light and airy with amusement. “Is there a wire under the table? Am I a suspect in something?”
“Have you done something I should know about?” Bruce asked.
His voice was cool and low, almost Bostonian if you weren’t raised in Gotham to truly know that Upper East side cadence that was like Old Hollywood dipped in sex and danger — transatlantic with a side of Wayne.
The smile on his face had long melted to a soft smirk, the kind that was more him than the Bat, you’d realized after orbiting him for so long. He could be fun, too fun sometimes. You would lose yourself. Now you were sounding like him without even meaning to.
“We should order—” You rerouted, swallowing hard and allowing your gaze to dart around the room momentarily.
The table you both occupied — if it could even be called a table and not a secluded booth that provided an ample view of the other patrons — felt warmer, but you’d run hot all your life.
Bruce, on the other hand, was still as neat as always, non-fidgeting, firm. Temperature never bothered him anymore, not since the mountains and the dunes and the jungles whose names you cannot pronounce. He sat unmoving once more in his dinner tux, a deep-black single breasted thing with tailored proportions.
His bow-tie was crooked, completely off-center and leaning to the left. You would’ve smiled if you didn’t already know it was purposeful.
“How’s our son?” You continued, glancing at him briefly as he beckoned the waiter over with nothing but a look across the room.
“Dick?” His head turned back to you, brows easing up from their crease. “He’s good. He’s… better. Blüdhaven’s better.” Your gazes met and neither of you broke it.
“Better for him,” you began. “Or for you?”
“Certainly not better than that new job’s been for you since it took you away from Gotham, I’m sure.” Bruce smiled, so wide your eyes went to the shine of his canines and the jut of his bottom lip where a laugh tickled and threatened to burst.
“What was that, again? ‘Q-Corp’s new Chief Operating Officer is a riot in red Louboutins,’ or did I get it wrong?” He continued.
“Don’t insult me, Wayne.” You laughed. “And those were suede, by the way. Completely different brand.”
“Gianvito Rossi.” A careful tongue licked his lips and he cleared his throat. “I would know, I bought them.” He looked up at you through his lashes, not that he needed to at all but he did so anyway. “But if we’re talking better as in physicality… you look good. You look… you really look well. I’m happy for you.”
Your fingers teased the edge of the tablecloth. “A facade of a facade,” you said. “Is it you saying that, Bat or is it Mister—”
“—Wayne! Lovely to have you dining in tonight,”
The waiter, a long-limbed gentleman who seemed to buzz with energy, approached. He swept up both menus in his hands like clockwork and nodded a soft good evening in your direction before turning back to Bruce. “What will it be for the boss?”
You snickered under your breath and Bruce bit back a smile, leaning back in his seat, way more casual than Mister Wayne, the boss, should be.
“The lady will choose for me.”
Your eyebrows lifted in intrigue, a smirk curving at the corner of your mouth. Across from you, Bruce sat — or rather reclined — with his head tilted back slightly to stare up at you with those baby blues.
Under the table, the point of his shoe brushed the edge of your heel and your eyes narrowed at him momentarily. Foreplay.
“We’ll skip starters for main, I’ll have the loch fyne salmon,” you began, your eyes fixed on Bruce and he tilted his head in a side nod of approval. “Some honey potato croquettes, and an extra spoon for the table. Oh, and Laurent Perrier, please.”
The waiter glanced between the two of you. Neither of you looked away.
“Mr. Wayne will have a scoop of creamed potatoes, a square of butter, four peas,” you said, calmly. “And as much ice-cream you can eat, doll.”
Bruce’s throat bobbed, his lips parting where no sound left him, only a shaky breath.
“Hazelnut,” he finally turned to the waiter, who was staring at him quizzically.
“No,” you intervened. “He’ll have chocolate,” you proclaimed, that sparkly lilt in your voice again as you shot the waiter a small, sweet smile. Enough to placate lesser men. “He likes chocolate more.”
The poor guy tried to look at Bruce but he was already looking back at you, so he nodded and left.
Once he was gone, a wolfish smile was on Bruce’s face. “You scared him,” he said.
“You liked it,” you rebutted. With a raised eyebrow you huffed, “But hazelnut? Are you teasing me?”
“I like hazelnut,” he sat up straight, moving both your untouched glasses of water to the side to get a better look at you. “You know I like hazelnut.”
“No, you don’t,” you leaned forward in the space he created. “They’ve served it at every charity event in Gotham since before you were born so you think you like it, but you don’t.”
“And I like chocolate better?”
“You like what I tell you to like, because you like being told.”
“Yes, Bruce, you like chocolate ice cream more,” you chuckled. “I’ve seen you eat it all the time. You ate chocolate ice cream on our—”
“First date,” he finished for you. “Your lunch break, it was summer,” he recalled. “Robinson Park by the bench near the broken water fountain.”
“Of course I remembered,” he said.
You were quiet for several moments, and in that time the waiter had returned with your salmon golden, an icy bottle of Laurent Perrier in its bucket with two glasses and another plate — a scoop of creamed potatoes with a square of butter on top, four little green peas on the side and a fine bone china bowl of chocolate ice cream, there was even a cherry on top.
Bruce looked at you as he took his first bite, the tiny spoon sinking into the ice-cream first with a curve. It was gummy and soft, and he slid the spoonful into his waiting mouth.
Your lips formed a thin line. “Stop,” you said. “Just stop it, you’re ridiculous.”
Mouth full, he swallowed. “What? I’m eating the ice cream.”
“You’re not enjoying it,” your fork idled over your plate. “At the very best you’re pretending to, and it doesn’t suit you.”
He squinted at you for several seconds. “You’re saying I’m a stuffed shirt.”
“I didn’t say that— you can be… fun,” you argued. “Lots of fun—”
“Well, that’s what you were implying, that I’m a stuffed shirt.”
“Can we— enough, of the stuffed shirt nonsense, please,” you sighed. He took another spoonful of ice cream and swallowed it. You rolled your eyes. “All I’m saying is, you’re extremely… certainly… very proper and dignified.”
Bruce barked out a laugh then, the loudest sound you’d heard from him all night. “Proper and dignified…” he repeated, mulling over the words on his tongue.
He picked up a single pea with his forefinger and thumb, popping it into his mouth. “Right, and your new boss? What’s that like for you? Is he any fun? A little more easygoing than dear old me?”
“You are so unbelievably petty, Wayne,” you scoffed. “Is that why you invited me to dinner? To update your file on me in that mental computer of yours, like some…”
“—sort of stuffed shirt?”
“I was going to say jealous freak,” you shook your head. “You really are a spoiled brat, you know that?” Came as a mutter in the back of your throat as you finally dug into your food.
You didn’t see the twitch of his jaw or the way he reached for his other utensil to shovel that ridiculous little pile of creamed potatoes into his mouth. It was almost humiliating.
But it was good, so good, he liked it. He wanted more, of the potatoes he thought, but what he really wanted was more of you. Like this.
“Tell me again,” he said.
“That you’re a brat?” Your eyes flitted up. “Gladly.”
He shook his head, that familiar peek of his canines betraying him. He liked that. “Robinson Park,” he said. “Why you broke up with me.”
“I told you,” you swallowed. “The last time we went, you wouldn’t walk barefoot with me on the grass.”
The bullet had now come from a water gun instead. “Well, there’s a simple answer to that—”
“Oh,” you chuckled. “You finally got done thinking about it? My big, bad, detective…”
“It was seventeen degrees out,” he argued. “It rained the night before, the grass was wet, the concrete was cold, there was even a wind.”
“Heavens forbid! There was a wind,” you laughed. “All very logical, very sensible and very true, but it’s just no fun, Bruce.”
He shrugged, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am a little bit too proper and dignified for you. And maybe you would’ve been happier, like you are now, with somebody a little more colorful and flamboyant— like the geek that runs Q-Corp.”
“Well, it would be a lot more laughs than with the stuffed shirt,” you hummed. He stared at you seriously and you sighed. “But more than that, at least when he wants me to tell him to do something, he actually obeys without shame or performance. In fact, he could probably even admit to liking it.”
“I was never ashamed of you,” Bruce said, firmly.
“No, you were just ashamed of how I made you feel,” you argued back.
He inhaled through his nostrils, then placed the napkin down, straightening in his seat as if his spine could get any straighter. “When else was I so proper and dignified that I rejected you?”
“Let me think…” You put your utensils down and tilted your head a little to the side, feigning intense thought. “All the time. You’re always dressed right, you always look right, you always say the right things, smile the right way—” you paused to let out a huff of disbelieving laughter. “You’re very nearly perfect, honestly.”
“That’s a rotten thing to say.” Bruce looked down at you.
He didn’t need to feign offense because he felt it. It didn’t matter whether it was true or not. But there were times he thought himself to be a rotten man, so perhaps you weren’t so far off track. A perfectly rotten man.
“B, your bow tie is crooked because you made it that way,” you said. “Your hair is perfect and your suit is perfect and your shoes are so shiny they could be a mirror, but your bow tie is crooked.” Your brows pinched and he closed his eyes momentarily in understanding. “You know, before I went out with you, I thought you slept in a tie.”
“Only for very formal sleeps,” he smiled, just the slightest. “You said I wasn’t a stuffed shirt and that I could be fun, then you said I was no fun.”
“You can be fun sometimes,” you murmured. “When you give in.”
“What’s left when I do?” he asked. “Mr. Wayne? Or…”
“A secret third option,” you raised three of your fingers. “One that’s mine. He’s in there, somewhere.” His eyes followed each ring above your knuckle, crossing a leg over his knee under the table.
Bruce looked down at the half eaten bowl of ice cream, the empty plate in front of him where the peas and potatoes used to be.
He swallowed hard. “I missed you,” he croaked out.
“Did you, really?” you hummed, your brows pinching in faux curiosity. “Say it again.”
He was hungry. So hungry.
“I missed you,” he said firmer. “I did.”
You sucked your teeth. “So that’s why you invited me here.” You lift your head to meet his gaze and a mock pout touches your lips. “So I could fuck you again?”
Your taunts broke the dam. “I couldn’t function without you,” Bruce nearly exclaimed. “The Bat— he exists within structure, order. There’s a routine. You know the job and you know how I am, what I need. But this, Bruce— me…”
“You’re just a man,” you finished.
“A man who needs you,” Bruce reached across the table for your hands.
You let him, your palms pressing under his larger ones.
“I need the coffee at eight, the texts about what to have for lunch, the ties picked out the night before. Hell, tell me to leave you alone, tell me to come find you, tell me to take my shirt off and get on the table. Humiliate me, just don’t—” he rambled.
“Fuck, I need you to tell me what you need me to do. I’ll do it. I’ll do anything—”
“Bruce,” you whisper-shouted, eyes wide as you peered at him in the midst of his distress. “Finish your ice cream.”
“Do I need to repeat myself?”
He was frozen for several seconds.
Then, he uncrossed his legs and reached for his spoon. One spoonful became two, and then three. Soon, he was slouched over slightly, his eyes never once leaving yours where you watched him with your intense gaze.
The more he ate and the more he watched you watch him, he felt a pit swirling in his stomach. Like electricity. That same feeling he gets when he’s ahead of a case, when he knows, when he’s in total control.
“I want more,” his words came muffled after a harsh swallow.
He couldn’t remember what hazelnut ice cream tasted like, but he knew he’d remember chocolate forever. That sweet, creamy, rich flavored treat that left the slightest bitter aftertaste in his mouth as a reminder. He remembered you. He needed you. “Call the waiter over.”
“You want more ice cream?” Your brows shot upwards, all the while your mouth curled in awe.
Bruce only licked his lips clean and looked up at you with that devastating smile. “You said all I could eat, honey.”
Your gaze went shaky for a moment, from his eyes to the waiter across the room as you lifted a finger, then back to his eyes, his hair, his mouth.
“You better eat up, I’m paying,” you huffed.
He grinned around his spoon while hand dipped into his breast pocket. From it, he retrieved his card and slid it across the table. “Sure you are. Tell him to notify my valet, too.”
“Does he still call you Mom?” Bruce asked, twirling the to-go cup of Laurent Perrier in his hand, if it could even be called a to-go cup because it was just a glass of champagne they let him walk out of Park Row with. Perks of owning the place.
The air had a slight chill even this early in Autumn, the warmth of the headlights still fresh on the back of your knees where Bruce had parked the car somewhere by the side of the road below the dilapidated sign suspended over the open gates reading : Robinson Park, The Green Heart of Gotham.
It was well past eleven at night by now, the only sounds heard in the vastness of paved walkways and greenery were your heartbeat and Bruce’s footsteps, each drag of his shoes against the ground flitting towards your awaiting ears. It was the same as you remembered it, except there was no broken water fountain by the bench with the iron plaque bolted into the back marked ‘Wayne’.
“Only when he needs one,” you replied. “I can’t blame him, poor kid. He was so little when I first met him…” Your steps halted by the edge of the fountain and you took a seat on its concrete basin. “Do you remember?”
“I do,” Bruce said. He stopped walking a few steps away, his eyes fixed off in the distance where the path broke off to fork, trees and solitary benches on either side. “You were good with him. I…” he paused to glance at you briefly. “I didn’t always know what to do.”
A soft silence passed between you two. “I still don’t know what to do sometimes,” he admitted. “I didn’t know what to do the last time we came here.”
“Is that why you brought me here?” You looked up at him just as he turned to you. “Not that I’m complaining,” you clarified. “I just figured you would whisk me away to Dracula’s castle across the bridge, we’d make up like old times, I’d be out of town by tomorrow so you wouldn’t have time to say it was a mistake—”
“I changed my mind,” he said. “I wasn’t lying when I said I needed you.”
“But for how long?” you asked. “Just up until I demand too much from you and you shut me out again?”
“The job is unpredictable—”
“The job has nothing to do with you needing me to give you structure,” you watched as his shoulders slackened. “Out there, you control the odds. You’re fucking Napoleon when you’re him. But when you’re mine…”
“I lose myself,” he interrupted.
“You find yourself. Over and over again. So let me show you who you are,” you rose from your seat. “Come here.”
He hesitated. Then he gave in. He reached you, towering over you at his full height like this but still you stared him down.
“Even when I didn’t like you,” your breath came shaky. “I loved you. Even when I didn’t know who you were, I knew you. I know you.”
“I hate it, what it takes away from me,” he sank to his knees, his arms bracketing your thighs. “But I love it. I need you. I need it when it gets my head quiet.” He was almost weeping. “I want it, the way it was all the times before when I lied and said it was a mistake. I want you to show me. I want you to stay— but I don’t know where I stand when there’s no programming, no mission, nothing to overpower.”
“You submit,” you whispered.
Bruce buried his face into your stomach, his nose tickling your skin through the fabric. His grip on you tightened a fraction, brows knit tight and eyes shut near painfully.
You carded your fingers through his hair, leaned down and kissed along his hairline. “My boy,” you whispered to him. “My sweet man.”
With a shaky inhale his lips pursed over your navel first. Then his head went lower, palms going loose around your thighs as his mouth pressed little kisses down its path — your hipbone, the tops of your thighs, the middle, your knees, your calf. He went until he was crouched on the concrete and his lips hovered over your ankle.
You withdrew from him and a sound left his mouth that could make any woman cry. He whimpered for your touch as you staggered backwards to sit down. Bruce straightened his spine and shifted to get up but you stopped him.
“No,” you said and he was frozen in place. “If you want me, crawl to me.”
This time, he did not hesitate.
He let his palms go flat against the rough concrete and he crawled, like an animal, the knees of his tailored suit now scuffed, the palms of his calloused hands shaking with anticipation. When he reached you, you met his eyes, peering down at him as if he’d done something good and not something shameful, degrading.
With a shaky palm, he grasped your ankle. He kissed the skin there softly, then reached for the other and did the same.
“Good,” you repeated to him all the while and he felt the blood rush to his cock as it began to grow in his pants.
When he had one shoeless leg perched on his shoulder and the other cradled in his hands, he looked up at you. “Did I buy these too?” His fingers yanked gently at the shoe straps and you hummed.
“I keep all your gifts,” you said.
Bruce’s eyes darkened further with lust. “I want to give you another,” he said. “Can I give you another?”
You looked at him, waiting. “Please?” he finished, nearly moaning.
You pulled him up by his hair with a tug and he went so eagerly that he stumbled forwards into your kiss. Your tongue slipped into his mouth and he groaned, one hand bracing himself at the edge of the fountain’s basin where you sat.
He kissed you back fervently and you gasped, grasping at him with a madness as you shrugged his suit jacket to the ground.
“Tell me what to do,” he said, breathlessly. “I trust you,” he confessed.
You took one of his hands in yours and placed it firm against your chest where your heart beat wildly. “I’ll take care of you,” you whispered. “No matter how deep you go under, I’ll bring you back. I promise.”
“I want to make you feel good,” he whimpered mid sentence as you slipped his hand under the fabric, his palm meeting the warmth of your breast. Your fingers tightened around him, your smaller digits wrapping around two of his as you maneuvered him like a puppet. His index and middle stroked your stiffened nipple and you sighed.
Bruce pushed the fabric of your shoulders and latched his mouth onto your other breast. You arched up against his body and he shuddered at the feel of your thigh brushing his sensitive cock. He lifted his knee to press between your legs and you cursed, bucking forwards involuntarily.
“You’re so beautiful,” He murmured as he sucked each of your aching tits greedily, going from pinching and circling each nipple to repeating what he’d done before. “I’ll be so good for you,” his mouth travelled hot and needy down your body while his knee thrust against your clothed pussy, over and over in a steady motion and hard against your needy, hidden clit.
He rucked your clothes up to your hips, the chilly air against your core making you shiver with even more need.
His knees hit the ground once more and his tongue flattened against your pulsing cunt. With his tongue, he licked fat stripes up and down over the lace of your underwear, gathering your wetness and spreading it, adding his own saliva to the mix.
You swatted his hand away when he reached for the waistband. “Leave it on,” you told him.
Bruce kissed your leaking pussy through your panties, puckering his lips and sucking at your folds, his tongue thrusting against the throb of your clit and the outline of your tight little hole.
You grasped his face in your hands and he whined from the loss. “Open,” you said, gripping his jaw with one hand, your thumb teasing the swell of his bottom lip. His mouth opened and his tongue lolled out obediently. “Don’t swallow,” you gathered the spit in your mouth then spat a stringy glob onto his tongue.
His adam’s apple bobbed as a broken noise leaked out from the back of his throat.
“Fuck,” your eyes rolled back when he spat it back onto your lace-clad cunt, the fabric darkening even further from the wetness.
“Use your hands, doll,” you cooed at him and one of his palms left where it was fondling your breast, pressing tight against the front of your panties as you ground forward, riding his hand back and forth.
“So good,” Bruce let out a guttural groan, letting both his hands slip under the fabric.
He teased his left middle finger over your hole, circling it slowly then rough, sliding one finger in and then two, your back arching as you sat up, bent over him. “So fucking wet— they just go right in—”
“Bruce,” you called out to him in warning, grounding him, and his waiting mouth latched eagerly onto your hanging breasts. His other hand ground over your clit with rough, steady rubs, the harsh squelch of wetness echoing in the darkness, nearly blending in with the rush of water from the fountain
“Ah— shit, yes! like that—” you cried.
He grinned like he’d won a prize at the State Fair. The swell of his cock was painful and he leaked more pre every time he heard the noises you let out.
“Fuck me,” he said. His fingers withdrew from you and pushed your panties down halfway as you seized from the loss. Before you could rear on him, his head was between your legs and your head drooped backwards with an open mouth moan for more.
His tongue dragged up the expanse of your inner thigh, lapping up at every bit of slick that had escaped. “Taste s’ good…. so good.”
Your eyes watered and your finger reached down to grasp his throat. “So good, dolly, keep going, keep fucking me like that— you’re doin’ so good for me—” the babbles rushed from your throat as your hips twitched against his mouth, thighs locking up around his head.
His pace stuttered as he slithered the slick pink muscle of his tongue into your weeping pussy.
“F-fuck—fuck me,” he choked out, coming up for what little air he could get, his eyes welling up with tears, those baby blues shining up at you in the dark. “Harder,” he whimpered and your grip tightened.
His cock jerked against your leg as he dipped his head down once more, his tongue fucking into you while you fucked back onto his palm grinding against your clit.
“I’m gonna cum!” you gasped, the pressure on your clit feeling white hot, his tongue burning your insides. “Bruce! Bruce! Bruce!”
You shrieked, back bowing at an awful angle, a gush of cream trickling from your sensitive pussy as you writhed and heaved for more air, your grip on his throat going slack.
Bruce buried his tongue impossibly deeper into you, licking up the mess of your orgasm with muffled little moans of his own, disoriented and uncontrolled.
Slick ran down your thighs and the air made it feel colder. A chilly wet spot on your leg had you finally looking down, only to see where Bruce’s cock tented in his pants, grinding through his own orgasm, sticky cup seeping through his pants and onto your leg.
“Oh, Bruce…” you cooed and he answered with a soft suck at your overstimulated clit. “C’mere, sweetheart.”
He withdrew with a wet pop! a harsh squelching sound echoing as he withdrew his fingers too, and your thighs trembled from the loss. Looking up at you, his eyes were watery and his lips pretty, pink and swollen.
“You were so good,” you whispered, taking his hands and pulling him up to where you were. His knees wobbled slightly from having knelt so long but he endured. “My sweet man,” you cooed. “You did so, so good… you made me feel so good…”
“Can I?” He looked at you, his gaze drifting down to your lips. “Please?”
You hummed and pulled him down onto you, your mouth melding into his. His brows knitted together in pleasure and his hands ran up and down your sides then snaked around your back, pulling you tighter against him, you hugged him back, withdrawing from the kiss to suckle at the sweet spot just below his ear.
He called your name but you shushed him softly.
“Don’t worry about it,” you whispered. “Let me take care of you… remember what I said? Just submit. Let it all go...”
Bruce let out a heavy, shaky breath.
You pushed him down and climbed on top, his back catching against the edge of the fountain before he straightened himself to sit upright. As you straddled him, he felt his cock jump, the sensitivity had him biting his lip so hard he nearly drew blood.
“Be good for me,” You kissed his throat, your fingers undoing the topmost buttons of his shirt first. “I want you to make noise, so make noise when I make you feel good, okay?”
He nodded in response and you looked up at him.
“Yes—yeah, I will,” he stuttered out. He cleared his throat. “I can do that. Just… go easy.”
You smiled wickedly, then hummed. “Mhm, ‘course I will, you promise to be good, don’t you?”
“Always good for you,” he nodded.
You eased your palm down over the leaking swell of his cock through his pants. Smiling, you felt him twitch against your hand, swelling still.
Slowly, you unbuttoned them, pulled down the zipper and watched as he sprung free, the tip of him rosy and leaking at the tip.
He called your name in a half whimper.
One of your hands wrapped around the length of his cock and he inhaled harshly. Slowly, you began to stroke him up and down, up and down, keeping the same torturous pace.
“Ah, fuck— that feels good…” Bruce threw his head back and moaned.
Your other hand found his hair and yanked his head back up, forcing his gaze to where you were jerking his cock in your fist.
“Don’t look away from me,” you commanded. He whimpered, his hips bucking upwards and you pulled his hair harder. “I thought you said you could be good, doll?”
“I—hah! fuck— I can…” he heaved. “I can, I can!”
“But you’re breaking your promise, Bruce…” you feigned a pout as you jerked him harder, your thumb swiping over the tip of his cock and tightening at the base, fresh ropes of precum dripping down to your wrist. “Tell me what you want, ask me for it nicely and I’ll give it to you.”
His eyes squeezed shut and he forced his hips to keep still while his abdomen burned with approaching release. “Want…” he cried, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes.
You pulled his hair again and they shot open with a chorus of uh! uh! uh! rushing from his lips, the wet, schlick sounds of you fucking his cock in your hand matching the tempo of his moans.
“Wanna cum— fuck, can I cum? Please, let me cum, baby…”
“Please.” He looked up at you with a trembling bottom lip. “Please— ugh, fuck! ‘s good… so good, I can’t— can’t hold it, I need to cum!”
You twisted your wrist, your swollen, used pussy snug against his thigh, and he grinded it upwards to appease you, your mouth slipping open in a quiet moan. “Spit,” you told him and he did, the glob sliding down the length of his shaft as your strokes grew sloppy.
He shuddered through a full body cry when you rubbed the tip. “That’s it…” you leaned forward to kiss his neck. “Hold it for me, just a little longer… you can do it, Bruce… you’re my good boy,” you whispered.
He whined. “I’m… I’m your good… good boy— fuck, I can be good.”
His cock twitched in your hand and you kissed him, your fingers reaching for his throat while your pace grew rougher, faster, untamed. His moans were muffled against your mouth as you choked him tight and you swallowed each and every one until his hips jerked up, hard and you whispered, “Cum, baby, cum for me.”
“Shit— I’m cumming!” he groaned, long and loud, his hips jerking up in hard thrusts, spurts of his hot, creamy cum shooting out and making a mess of his lap and your hand.
You stroked him through it softly, slow, squeezing gently from the base to the tip as he spilled more.
It took several seconds before he could even breathe properly, and even then his chest still felt like he’d been hit by a freight train.
“Christ…” he heaved, head lolling back farther than he anticipated, and he lost his balance, already dizzy from his orgasm, slipping against the edge of the fountain and splashing his head against the water.
He clutched you tight against his chest, and when you realized what had happened, you roared with laughter. “Oh my god…” you huffed between chuckles. “Are you okay?”
“Don’t.” Bruce shut his eyes tight, trying his best to salvage the rest of his remaining dignity by at least buttoning his pants.
You shifted on top of him, snickering behind your palm.
“How did it feel?” you asked softly.
His eyes opened a fraction and he looked up at the sky above you both, at the vast open stars that held alien civilizations and monsters unknown but stars, and the sun, and things he would never have to meddle with. Things that never relied on him to exist.
“Like catharsis,” he whispered. “Fuck me like that again, I might die.”
“Learned something?” you teased, tracing a finger over the buttons of his shirt.
“That I can step outside of my body, yes. And…” He reached a hand to the back of his head and gathered some of his hair in a hand, wringing it out like a wet cloth. “That it doesn’t hurt…giving control up for a change.”
“Did I catch you good enough?” You whispered, cupping his cheek with a palm.
“You did,” he whispered back. He sat up and pulled you into his embrace, reaching for his discarded suit jacket and draping it over your shoulders. “I want you to stay.”
“Does this mean we’re back together?” You bit back a smile and he huffed at you in mock offense. “What?”
“We were back together when you showed up for dinner,” he claimed. “I’m surprised you didn’t call the Q-Corp geek to inform him that you’ll be tendering your resignation soon.”
“And what? Go back to being Mr. Wayne’s hot secretary?”
“I wouldn’t say it like that, though I do agree about the adjective,” he shifted to stand and you followed, grasping onto the hand he offered you. “I was thinking you’d be my Chief Operating Officer.”
“What?” You wobbled on your feet, partly due to shock.
“Wayne Enterprises.” Bruce only shrugged. “It’s there if you want it, but you don’t have to…”
The way he looked away for a moment gave him away. A sap.
“Well,” you pursed your lips to hide your amusement. “Q-Corp does pay well. And the work environment is really suited to my standards of feng shui—”
“Your standards of feng shui?” His brows pinched in disbelief. When he saw that your lips trembled and you couldn’t hold your laugh anymore he rolled his eyes. “Right, feng shui. Silly me.”
“Bruce, don’t brood,” you shoved at his shoulder playfully but he stalked off down the concrete path without you.
You stood behind and watched him with the weight of a thousand giggles in your chest.
Then, he stopped halfway, reaching down to kick off his shoes. Soon, his socks were coming off too.
Your eyes widened. “What are you doing?”
Bruce Wayne turned to face you, and halfway down that concrete path he shouted to you, “Honestly? I just feel like walking barefoot in the park all of a sudden!”
You laughed so hard your knees felt like jelly. But you walked barefoot in the park with him that night.
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