cw: 18+ mdni, breeding kink, mating press, car sex, dbf!batman, condescending praise (this is either 2005 batman or comic batman) loosely based on “when did you get hot” by sabrina carpenter!
you’ve liked older men since an young age. brad pitt, matthew mcconaughey, the most common few. it didn’t help that as you became an adult, the men liked you back.
one in particular threw you off.
you and your family were currently mingling in the gala ballroom filled with gotham’s richest. how’d you end up there? your dad’s bestfriend’s with billionaire playboy, bruce wayne.
see what i mean, you were bound to like older guys.
your eyes scanned the room for familiar faces before they landed on said playboy—“excuse me for a minute” you smiled politely before turning away from the conversation and walking towards the man. a simple tap on his shoulder had his head on a swivel “look at you.” more surprised than anything.
he smiled warmly bending down to hug you, his hands caressing your back before resting respectfully in the middle of your back.
his cologne alone was enough to make you all funny feeling.
the two of you talked for most of the night and somewhere in there, bruce dropped a rather flirty remark and smirk. something about how you “fill out your dress”.
the gala ended and bruce promised to get you home safe and sound.
not before fucking you, that is.
he didn’t move as if he was in a rush, his hips were slow and teasing mostly.
“you’re so tight, princess” bruce whispered in your ear whilst thrusting into you deeply. you huffed in a needy manner as your nails dug into bruce’s back.
he released a noise that was equal parts wince and pleasure—“you like it, baby? show daddy how good it feels” one of his hands that was resting against the limousine’s seating is soon raised to lift your chin up for a kiss.
bruce’s mouth was restless. not only sloppy but, hungry as well.
with each flick of his tongue (or yours really) he would thrust slightly faster. “mmhn!” you moaned which was ultimately muffled by the older man’s mouth pressed against yours.
you prayed alfred hadn’t heard you but, how could he not?
with the speed increase you felt euphoric but then again, that could’ve been the thousand (two) drinks you had. highly unlikely.
your hips met his and he broke the kiss resting his forehead against yours to peek down at the sight of his cock sliding in and out of your slick.
“you really do fill out this dress beautifully” the man groaned out returning his gaze to your face, you were fucked out.
“fill me up then” you whimpered as the tip of his cock hit that spot causing you to shudder and your walls fluttered around him. those four little words from your pretty little lips was all it took for bruce to finish in you.
he was a man of no restraint.
and since he couldn’t give you the proper aftercare (i mean yall were in a car), he paid for your breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
“i sent a little extra since you’re eating for two now ;)”
The idea of Playboy Bruce with a reader who owns a big charity over in Metropolis. They met at a gala that the Wayne Foundation funded. Bruce thought it was a good idea to become business partners. Though, they both keep running into each other at events, and Bruce can't get you out of his head.
He's extra flirty trying to put on his persona as he casually talks about how much he's personally donating to our cause.
The reader is just super grateful and thinks Bruce is a great guy. Bruce uses the partnership as an excuse to see you more. To get to know you more. Anything and everything. It's all professional of course... for appearances of course.
Until his mask slips, and it isn't. Suddenly he finds himself not wanting to hide himself around you.
!!! hehehe
Philanthropy
(Bruce Wayne x Charity Founder! Reader)
‘When Bruce spots you, the founder of a Children’s Health charity, at one of his many Galas, he decides to put his fortune to use helping kids and getting to know you better.’
The first time Bruce Wayne sees you, you’re on stage at the Wayne Foundation’s annual Children’s Charities Gala, thanking the room full of billionaires for their generosity to your own charity, amongst many others, while looking like you’d rather be anywhere else — maybe something actually working with the sick kids — instead of putting on a smile to open the millionaires’ wallets.
You’re poised, genuinely thankful, and completely unaware of how the spotlight catches the your eyes when you talk about the new pediatric wing the charity is funding, “thanks to all your generous donations”. Bruce, leaning against the bar in his perfectly tailored tux, forgets the conversation he was having mid-sentence with Mister Fox.
By the end of the night, he’s searching for you near the silent auction tables with a glass of champagne in one hand and a cheque in the other.
“Miss L/N,” he asserts, voice low and warm as he approaches you from behind, his infamous playboy smile already in place. “Bruce Wayne. I’ve been meaning to introduce myself. Your work for the Children’s Hospital is… inspiring.” He means it, as he pulls a lip between his teeth and gazes down at you.
You shake his hand— firmer than he’s used to from the women at these Galas —as you thank him for the Wayne Foundation’s support. “Your donations and fundraising have been an enormous leg up, Mr Wayne. I can’t thank you enough.” You smile up at him with pearly whites; he admires them a second too long but catches himself.
He also notices you don’t linger on the handshake the way most people do when they’re trying to flirt.
“I’ve been thinking,” he continues, a little shaken by your resolute professionalism, “Wayne Enterprises has a lot of resources sitting idle. We should partner. Joint initiatives. Joint press. Joint… everything.”
You blink, surprised, then light up— not at him, he suspects, but at the idea. “Mr. Wayne, that’s one hell of a proposition… that would be incredible. The exposure alone—” you lean in as you talk.
“Bruce,” he corrects smoothly, “I insist. Great, I’ll have my people call your people tomorrow.” And he does. Daniel drafts the paperwork that same night: Bruce had said it was “urgent”. A multi-year partnership was drawn up: joint galas, shared grants, co-branded hospital wings. All very above-board. All very…strategic.
All a complete excuse, because, suddenly, Bruce Wayne can be everywhere you are. At the Gotham City Children’s Hospice ribbon-cutting, he’s there casually mentioning to you that he’s “personally matching every donation tonight— dollar for dollar.” He stands close enough that his sleeve brushes yours while you both cut the ribbon, and he murmurs, “You make that hard-hat look fashionable,” just loud enough for only you to hear.
At the charity auction in Gotham, he bids absurd amounts on items he doesn’t need, but the Hospital would love— first edition medical texts; a signed photo of Batman visiting the hospital— just to watch you laugh in delighted disbelief from across the room. When he wins the Batman photo (much to his and Alfred’s amusement) he has it delivered to your office with a note: ‘I think the kids would like to have this.’
At the joint Foundation board dinner, he sits next to you (of course he arranged that) and spends the entire evening asking questions not about the charity, for once. What keeps you up at night? What’s the one thing you wish people understood about the kids you help? What do you do outside of all this?
You answer openly, gratefully. You tell him stories about the patients, the families, the victories and the losses. You thank him— sincerely, repeatedly— for his generosity. You can’t help but notice how pretty he is when he’s listening; he can’t help but watching your lips as you talk.
He soaks it in like a man dying of thirst. Every time you say, “Bruce, you’ve already done so much,” he just smiles his slow, devastating smile and replies, “Not nearly enough, for you. For the kids, I mean.” You blush and nod.
From then on, you notice how much he listens. He really remembers the little things you’ve said. He asks follow-ups weeks later about one of the kids you mentioned in passing. You think he’s the most generous, charming, dedicated partner your charity could ask for. He thinks you’re the first person in years that’s actually sparked his interest: you’re selfless, grateful, and clever.
One night, after a late strategy meeting in his Towers office, you’re both exhausted. Papers everywhere, coffee cold. You’re laughing about something ridiculous one of the board members said when he suddenly goes quiet. You look up: he’s watching you with an expression you’ve never seen there before. “You know,” he says quietly, “this partnership has been the best investment I’ve ever made.”
You smile, soft and warm, hoping that he means in you, and in the Charity. “I’m so glad. I’m— the kids are very lucky to have you around. You’re good company, you know?” You look down and hope you haven’t overstepped a boundary.
He watches you a moment longer, quietly smiling, then stands, offering his hand to help you up. “Shall we? I’ll walk you out.”
You take his hand— professional, always professional— and don’t notice how he doesn’t let go until you’re at the elevator. You don’t notice how he watches you leave, either. But he does— every time.
❀ summary: after not getting enough alone time over the past few weeks with your husband, you finally convince him to try something new.
❀ warnings: cursing, smut, unprotected sex, mean bruce, degrading, name calling, hair pulling, spanking, restraints, praise kink, choking, dom/sub, smut without a plot except it has a fluffy ending, 18+ nsfw mdni
❀ pairings: husband!bruce wayne x female reader
❀ wc: 2.4k words
❀ author's note: i really enjoyed writing this so i hope you enjoy it too!
It had been quite some time since you and your husband had any time to yourselves, let alone anytime for intimacy. It had been weeks since Bruce touched you. Since then you had started hinting to him that you wanted to explore, try something new sexually. That's what led to this moment, you on your knees in your shared bedroom in nothing but lacy black lingerie and matching stockings, looking up through your lashes at your husband.
"You look like you were made to be on your knees for me. Wouldn't you agree?" Bruce's voice was low as he circled you slowly, eyes dark and hungry, like a predator circling it's prey. He tsked when you didn't answer him, stopping in front you his hand threading through your hair. "You know what happens to pretty little things who don't answer when spoken to." He said, fingers tugging on your hair just enough to make your scalp prickle.
You swallowed hard as you nodded your head slowly, "I was." You murmured, barely above a whisper, tugging on your bottom lip with your teeth softly.
He exhaled slowly, fingers tugging your hair back, tilting your head back to expose the column of your throat. "That was a lousy answer. You can do better than that." His hand left your hair to grab your chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Or do I need to remind you how to use that pretty mouth of yours?"
"I was made to be on my knees for you." You whimpered softly, looking up at him with wide eyes.
Bruce's responding chuckle was dark, pleased, as he released your chin. "Better." He let his hand trail from your chin, down your neck. "But let's see if you can follow instructions better." His hand withdrew from your skin, leaving you whimpering. "Pathetic," he murmured. "I've barely touched you and you're already whining? You really are a needy little whore." He took a step away, the sharp click of his dress shoes loud in the quiet room as he let his hungry gaze drink you in. You could see the outline of his cock straining against his slacks, the sight only making more arousal pool between your legs.
"Hands behind your back." He ordered. Your fingers trembled as you pinned your wrists at the small of your back, arching your spine slightly to give him a better view of your tits. "Good girl." He praised softly as he walked behind you, crouching down and you herd him pull a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. The cuffs clicked in place around your wrists, the metal cool against your heated skin.
Bruce’s breath ghosted over your ear as he leaned down, his voice low and rough. “Now, let’s see how well you take what you’ve been begging for.” His fingers traced the lace clinging to your thighs, slow and deliberate, before hooking into the fabric and tearing it aside with a single rough pull. The sound of ripping lace mingled with your gasp, the sudden exposure making your skin prickle. He groaned softly, dragging two fingers through your slick folds. "Look at you. Soaked through just from being told what to do.” He brought his fingers to your lips, smearing your own slick across them. “Taste it. Prove to me you know what you are.”
The moment his fingers pressed against your lips, you opened obediently, tongue darting out to lick and suck the wetness from his skin. Bruce watched, his expression unreadable except for the dark satisfaction in his eyes. "Good girl," he murmured. "But you're still thinking too much." His hand suddenly fisted in your hair again, yanking your head back sharply enough to make your breath catch. "You don’t get to think. I want that pretty head of yours empty while you take what I give you. Understood?"
You nodded frantically, lips parted around a shaky breath. "Understood." You whispered breathlessly.
Bruce’s smile was dark as he released your hair just to drag his knuckles down your cheekbone in a mockery of tenderness. "That’s my girl." He murmured, before his hand abruptly disappeared, only to land a harsh slap to your ass. You gasped, your spine arching involuntarily. His breath was warm against the back of your neck. “You like that, don’t you?” His palm smoothed over the throbbing skin, fingers digging in just enough to make you whimper and you nodded. His hand moved from your ass, sliding between your legs again. Your hips instinctively rocked against his hand, desperate for more. "Fucking slut, already pressing your cunt into my hand like a bitch in heat.”
Bruce’s fingers slid through your slick with deliberate slowness, teasing your clit, never giving you exactly what you needed. His voice was a low, dark purr as he spoke, "Already dripping all over my hand and I haven't even fucked you yet." You whined, hips rolling forward, but he clicked his tongue in disapproval, his free hand clamping down on your hip to still you. “No. You don’t get to move unless I say so.” His fingers retreated entirely, leaving you empty and aching, and you bit back a sob. "God you're so fucking pathetic." He chuckled mockingly as he stood.
You could hear the rustle of fabric as he undid his belt. Then silence fell over the room. Your skin prickled in anticipation, wrists straining against the cuffs. The pause stretched until you whimpered quietly, causing him to chuckle low in his throat. "Aww, is my poor girl needy for cock?" He asked as he circled around you and stood in front of you, giving you a mock pout when you nodded.
His belt came off as he tossed it aside. Then he unzipped his slacks, pulling his hard cock out, the tip glistening with pre-cum. "Open your mouth." He commanded, slapping your cheek with his cock before dragging the head of his cock over your lips, painting them with pre-cum. You parted your lips obediently as he let out a low groan as he slid past your lips, his grip tightening in your hair to hold you steady. "That's it," he murmured, voice rough. "Take it like a good little slut." His hips rolled forward, forcing his cock deeper until your throat fluttered around him, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. He didn’t stop until your nose brushed against his slacks, your gag reflex kicking in as you choked around him.
Bruce held you there for a heartbeat too long, your throat spasming around him, tears spilling down from your lashes. When he finally pulled back, it was only enough to let you gasp for air before shoving back in, his rhythm relentless. "Fucking gagging on my cock like it's the only thing you know how to do." His thrusts were punishing, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. You tried to focus on breathing through your nose, saliva dripping down your chin and onto your tits, but he didn’t let up, not until your jaw ached and your vision blurred with tears.
Your breath hitched as he fucked your mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts, each one dragging the length of his cock over your tongue before bottoming out in your throat. The tears streaking your cheeks only seemed to spur him on, his grip tightening. His hips stuttered, and you braced yourself, wanting him to cum down your throat, but then he pulled out entirely, leaving you gasping, a string of saliva connecting from your lips to the head of his cock.
Bruce dragged his thumb through the mess on your lips, smearing spit and pre-cum across your chin before shoving two fingers into your mouth without warning. You choked around them, the sudden intrusion making your eyes water, but he only chuckled, pressing his fingers against your tongue. "Look at you, still trying to suck even when I’m not giving you my cock. Pathetic." He pulled his fingers free with a wet pop, then wiped them on your cheek, leaving a sticky trail. He tugged you up to your feet before shoving you onto the bed on your stomach, your cheek pressed into the mattress as he tugged your hips up, pulling your ass in the air.
Bruce’s palm cracked against your ass again, harder this time. You cried out, arching instinctively, but his grip on your hips was ironclad, holding you in place. “Stay still,” he growled, his voice rough with barely restrained control. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, spreading them wider as groaned. “Fuck, look at you. Already clenching around nothing like a desperate little whore.” He landed a harsh slap to your pussy next.
The slap stung and you jolted forward with a yelp, thighs trembling. His laugh was rough and mocking as he slid the head of his cock through your folds. "You're pretty when you're all desperate and needy for my cock. Promise to fuck you real good, angel. Gonna have my cum dripping out of this pretty little pussy for days." He growled before thrusting into you with one brutal thrust, bottoming out.
"Fuck, you're even tighter than I remember." He groaned, dragging all the way out before slamming into your cunt again. "I've been neglecting this poor little pussy, haven't I?" He asked as he tugged on your hair, not waiting for a response as he set a merciless pace. "Don't gotta worry about that anymore. Gonna fuck my little slut the way she deserves."
Bruce’s hips snapped forward again, the sharp slap of skin against skin punctuating the air as he buried himself inside you to the hilt. Your gasp was muffled into the mattress, your fingers twisting uselessly against the cuffs still locked around your wrists. His grip on your hips was bruising, fingers pressing into your flesh hard enough to leave marks that you knew would appear tomorrow. “Fuck,” he growled, his voice rough with exertion. "You take me so well. Like you were made for this.” He spit on your ass, watching it slide down to your puckered hole, his thumb pressed against your tight ass, the tip pushing inside.
His thumb pressed in deeper, just enough to make your hips jerk, but he didn’t slow his brutal pace. “Already trying to get away?” He chuckled darkly, his other hand fisting in your hair to yank your head back, arching your spine painfully. “You don’t get to run from me. You take what I give you.” His hips snapped forward again, driving his cock impossibly deeper. You whimpered, the sound muffled against the sheets, but he only tightened his grip, forcing your body to accommodate him fully. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice thick with desire. “Let me ruin you.”
Your thighs shook as your cunt clenched around his cock, a broken whimper escaping your lips as he laughed low in your ear. “That’s it,” he murmured, breath hot against your skin. “Clench around me like the greedy little slut you are.”
You could feel your orgasm quickly building in your stomach, the pleasure growing so intense you almost couldn't take it anymore. "P- please! Please let me cum. I- I need to cum." You cried out, your tears staining your cheeks and soaking the sheets under your face, your mascara running.
Bruce’s fingers dug harder into your hips, his thrusts never faltering, if anything, they grew rougher, deeper, as if your begging only spurred him on. "Oh, you need to cum?" He mocked. "My poor little angel needs to cum, does she?" He gave you a mock pout, despite the fact that you couldn't see it. His hand slid around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. "How badly do you need to cum, baby? Tell me how much you need it."
Your breath came in ragged gasps, his grip on your throat turning the plea into a choked sob. "I- I need it," you whined, the words barely audible, your hips rocking back against him instinctively. "Please let me cum! Pleasepleasepleaseplease-" Your begs turned into unintelligible whimpers and moans.
His hand tightened around your throat, causing stars to appear in your vision. His hips snapped forward mercilessly, dragging more choked moans out of you. "You wanna cum? Then thank me. Thank me for fucking you like the needy little fucktoy you are." He growled.
Your voice cracked around the words, throat raw from his grip. “T-thank you! Thank you for fucking me-” His fingers loosened just enough to let you gasp before tightening again, cutting off your air mid-sentence.
Bruce laughed, low and rough, his hips never slowing. “Louder. Let me hear how grateful you are.”
You sobbed, the pressure in your abdomen coiling tighter with every thrust, your words dissolving into a broken chant. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Your words tumbled out between moans and sobs.
"Cum. Fucking cum for me, you dumb little slut. Soak my cock." He sneered, hips pounding against your thighs.
Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. Your cunt clenched around him, your thighs trembling as your orgasm tore through you. Bruce’s groan was guttural, his fingers tightening in your hair as he fucked you through it, each snap of his hips prolonging your orgasm. “That’s it,” he growled, voice thick with satisfaction. “Fucking ruin yourself on my cock.”
Bruce’s grip on your hips turned bruising as your orgasm wracked through you. He let out a ragged groan, his rhythm stuttering as his thrusts grew erratic. “Fuck,” he gritted out, his voice raw, “you’re squeezing me like a fucking vice.” His cock throbbed inside you as he gave one more rough thrust before stilling. You could feel his release filling you up. He slowly pulled away and groaned as he watched his cum leak out of your now puffy and swollen cunt. He took two fingers, scooping his cum up before shoving it inside of you again, finger fucking his release back inside of you, making you moan softly.
He pulled away, trailing tender kisses up your spine as he released your wrists from the cuffs. He gently rubbed his thumbs over your wrists as his voice softened. "You did so good for me, angel. Such a good girl." He gently turned you over onto your back, kissing your tears away. "You're so pretty, baby. My pretty little angel."
You smiled as he pulled you into his warm embrace, peppering feather-light kisses all over your face. "You did so well for me. So perfect." He praised, snuggling you in close. "I love you so much, sweet girl." He said softly as he kissed your nose, causing you to giggle. You rested your head on his chest, letting him gently caress your back, the repeated motion pulling you into a peaceful sleep.
As you fell asleep, you made a mental note to do this again.
❀ end note: i seriously cannot get enough of mean!dom bruce. i 100% have more coming for him soon!
❀ if you liked this fic then i would really appreciate it if you liked, or commented, or reblog it! thanks for reading! ❀
✮ Hal Jordan just wanted a cup of coffee. A quick break. Nothing complicated. But the second he stepped into the Watchtower kitchen, that quiet moment unraveled the moment Y/N Wayne walked in—graceful, lethal, and breathtaking in a way that made it hard to think straight.
Dressed in tight black tactical gear, with dark eyes that burned with need, she didn’t bother hiding what she wanted.
(Warning: Age Gap; 19 & 30)
He was just trying to get a cup of coffee.
He had twenty minutes before the next meeting, and after an emergency planetary rescue followed by three hours of Bruce Wayne-level debriefing, Hal needed caffeine like he needed oxygen.
The lights in the kitchen flickered soft white over the polished countertops, clean steel, and half-eaten remnants of whatever food Barry had speed-cooked earlier. The room was still and quiet—until he felt someone step in behind him.
“Next time clean your mess you insufferable ass-” he said without looking, voice gruff, assuming Barry trailed in behind him for another snack.
“Such a potty mouth,” you purred, your voice smooth and low.
Your tone was silk wrapped in razor wire. Y/N Wayne. Batman’s daughter. The woman who had been dancing around him with dangerous intent for weeks.
Hal swallowed and turned slowly.
You were leaning against the counter, arms crossed, head tilted, all dressed in sleek black tactical gear that hugged you like a second skin. Your lips were full and pink with a sheen of sparkling gloss over them. You had dark eyes sparkled with the same devilish curiosity that had gotten them both into trouble before.
But not this kind of trouble. Not yet.
“What do you want, Y/N?” he asked, cautious. His body stiffened at the unusual tension surrounding them.
You didn’t answer at first—just pushed off the counter and walked toward him with slow, deliberate steps, — hips cocking side to side in confidence as your heels clicked and echoed off the walls.
He tensed. “Don’t.”
“I just want coffee,” you said, mock-innocent.
But when you reached past him to grab a mug, your body brushed against his—hips grazing his side, the curve of your chest brushing his arm. And you lingered. Just a second too long.
He stepped back. “Y/N…”
You turned toward him with a smile that could melt ice or cause a diplomatic incident. “You know, you always look so serious when you’re trying to resist me. I think I like it.”
“You’re Bruce’s daughter,” he growled, like saying it out loud might ground him.
“Mhm.” You stepped closer again. “And you’re a grown man. One who hasn’t stopped staring at me since the mission on Galtrex-7.”
“That was a tight uniform,” he muttered, even though he could feel heat creeping up his spine, he couldn’t help but to be a witty piece of shit.
“And this one isn’t?” You teased, dragging your gloved fingers slowly down the zipper of your suit—only a couple inches, just enough to show the bare skin of your inner boob, just to watch his throat bob as he looked.
“Y/N…” He backed into the center island table, heart thundering. “We can’t. You know we can’t.”
“And yet,” you whispered, stepping between his legs as he leaned back on the table, “you haven’t left the room.” Leaning over him as he sat on his elbows.
Your fingers trailed up his chest. “Tell me to stop, Lantern.”
His hands clenched at his sides. “I should. I should tell you to—”
He grunts, not allowing the moans threatening to spill over the top the freedom of escaping, as you dug your nails down his abs, Just enough to make him sore, not to draw any blood.
“I heard you like it rough, I promise I don’t bite,” you lean in kissing the edge of his jaw, slowly you bring your lips to his ear whispering, teasing, “unless you want me too.” Your minty breath fans over his face— Hal’s chest rises and falls in painful breaths.
And not a moment later your lips were on his.
He let out a choked sound, caught between surrender and desperation, and kissed you back. Hard.
The mug clattered to the floor, forgotten. His hands found your waist, pulling you tight against him. Your mouth was hot, demanding, and he met you with equal fire. The kiss deepened—messy, hungry, frantic. You softly moaned into it, your fingers raking through his hair, messing it up until it stood in all directions. Your leg slid between the middle of his,— body flush to him, and Hal lost the will to resist.
He lifted you onto the island table, standing between your thighs as both of your lips never parted. Your arms locked around his neck, pulling him in, his hands dragging down your back to your hips, gripping you like he needed to stay grounded.
“This is so wrong,” he muttered against your mouth.
You smiled into the kiss. “So make it worse.” You muttered. “Ruin me—“
Oh trust, he was planning on it.
He kissed you like a man who hadn’t been touched in years. His mouth moved down to your throat, where he sucked a mark into your pulse point — you tilt your head with a soft gasp. Your hands were all over him—shoulders, chest, hair—like you wanted to memorize the way he felt under your fingers.
He groaned. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Not before I get to fuck you sensless.”
Their bodies pressed tighter, your back arching off the table. He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper. Like if he gave you too much space, you’d vanish. Like he needed you to keep his heart beating.
“Fuck princess-“ he muttered— painfully hard against his suit. Your mouth was dirty and direct, you were a girl who knew what she wanted, and it turned him on way more than it should have.
“Wanna take this off, I know you do..” you trail off directing his hand to the zipper in front of your suit.
He gently pulls it down, the small zip of your suit filling the quiet in the room. All Hal could think about is how catwoman and Batman would kill him if they found out he was defiling their sweet, innocent, daughter.
Hal kisses down your left shoulder, to your color bone— lips hovering over your soft breasts, he latches his mouth to one of your nipples, gently tugging at your bud with his teeth.
He groans allowing himself to suck at your soft mounds, placing purples markings up and down your chest.
You peel your latex suit off, allowing it to flood at your waist, he tugs it down more— lifting your hips, the suit pooled on the floor.
You both knew how risky this was, Bruce Wayne’s daughter naked in just a pair of black heels, legs spread open, cunt drenched all for Hal, her dad’s long time friend, and co-worker.
Hal pushes down the waistband of his pants, freeing his aching cock. Just as he was aligning his tip to your entrance— he heard a loud laugh down the hall. Barry and Vic most likely.
Shit.
You hop down picking up your hero suit, knowing the damage has already been done, you snatch Hal’s arm, throwing him into a closet in the kitchen. Luckily it wasn’t the pantry, just an area that holds old stuff like, a table, some cleaning supplies, and a broom with a dustpan.
The room wasn’t insulated, and the air was infested with dust and grime. Hal shuts the door behind you both. — Pulling the metal string hanging from the light bulb above you. With a small click, the lightbulb buzzes to life, dimmed by dust rimming the bottom of it.
Berry walks in putting together a shit ton of random foods while Vic sips his coffee with a disgusted look on his face.
“Dude gross..” he winces.
“I haf a hifgh mofabolisom..” Barry slurs unable to speak through the beef jerky —cheese whizz he was snorting down..together..
“Groody...” you trail off.
Without a warning Hal slaps a hand over your mouth— he forces your legs open with his knee, holding you up with his arm.
Your back was flush against his chest as he angles his hips, thrusting into you, with a hard slow pace. You could feel your eyes roll behind your head as he hit your cervix with every thrust.
You went limp in his hands, like warm putty, allowing him to completely ruin you.As soon as Barry leaves with Vic trailing behind him in slow calculated steps. You accidentally let out a small whimper.
You could see them both pause for a second through the ridges in the door, but they both eventually walked out the door.
That’s when hal lets go of your mouth, allowing you to draw out a raunchy moan that could battle a pornstars best performance.
He constructs a green table, a little more sturdy than the one in the corner with only three legs.
Gently Slamming you on the surface— he slaps your ass, rutting into your wet cunt in hard fast strokes. He didn’t care anymore, the only thing on his mind was how good you squeezed his fat cock, how you clenched around him every time he would let out a groan or whimper.
“Dirty little fucking slut, you like seducing grown men huh, pushing me to my fucking limit!” He growls inhumanly fucking you with such a force your body jerks forward on impact.
He slaps your ass, kneading the soft flesh between his fingers.
“Fuck, M’gna,” your mouth gapes open in pleasure, unable to see, as stars flooded your vision.
“Yeah? Gonna cum on this fat dick, go ahead and cum princess.” Hal leans down on your back, wrapping a hand around your throat, as the other one rubs fast circles onto your clit.
“Fuck!” Hal grits.
A bone shivering moan racks from your body, as your orgasm crashes down on you. Your legs shake and your body twitches in pleasure.
Hal thrusts deep and hard a couple of times before spilling his seed deep inside of you, slowly riding out his orgasm with a sigh— throwing his head back — eyes furrowed in pleasure.
Beep beep.
The alert from the Watchtower systems echoed faintly from the hallway.
Meeting time.
Hal pulled out, panting. His lips were swollen, his hair a wreck, and his mind was no longer anywhere close to calm.
You hopped off the table, putting your suit back on like nothing had happened. eyes sparkling. Your mouth was a little redder than before.
You looked like sin; And victory as a sheet of sweat covered dusted your skin.
“You coming?” You ask, tossing a glance over your shoulder while walking toward the door.
He groaned quickly tucking himself back into his pants. “Literally or figuratively?”
Your laugh was low and dark. “Pick one.”
⸻
Ten Minutes Later – in the JLA Conference Room..
Superman was mid-briefing when the door hissed open.
Hal walked in, trying to look composed. He failed. His hair was still wild, his jaw red from kisses, and his shirt looked like it had been tugged on in haste.
Y/N followed a beat behind, gliding into her seat like a cat who’d just knocked over a glass on purpose. Her mouth wore the faintest smirk.
Across the table, Bruce Wayne’s eyes narrowed. He looked from Hal… to his daughter… then back again.
Hal coughed and stared straight ahead.
Wonder Woman raised an elegant brow.
Barry leaned over to Vic. “Dude I told you. Kitchen closet.”
“No way,” Vic whispered back.
But Y/N just crossed her legs, laced her fingers under her chin, and smiled sweetly.
In her mind, it was Mission: accomplished.
Though Hal had only one thing in his mind: survival.
Rain pattered gently against the grand windows of Wayne Manor, the late Gotham sky painted in shades of charcoal and silver. You sat curled on the edge of Bruce’s massive leather couch, an open laptop on your knees and your bare feet tucked under his plush throw. The glow of the fireplace flickered across your features as you typed, the smell of old books and pine lingering in the air.
Somewhere below, in the vast echoing chambers of the Batcave, your boyfriend was probably still in the suit , running diagnostics, patching injuries, sulking, or some combination of the three. You’d long given up trying to pull him back from his nightly rituals. The only thing that worked was time... and tea. Lots of tea.
You smiled to yourself, finishing the last sentence of your column: "In a city obsessed with shadows, sometimes the bravest thing we can do is light a match."
It was your favorite kind of piece ; hopeful, subtle, and just cryptic enough that your editor wouldn’t know it was secretly inspired by Batman himself.
You hit save.
“Third column this week,” came a deep voice behind you. Low, tired, but warm.
You turned around, half-startled, half-delighted. Bruce stood in the archway, no longer in the suit, but wearing black sweats and a plain t-shirt that did absolutely nothing to hide the bruises blooming down his arms.
“You’re early,” you said, setting the laptop aside.
“I had motivation.” He crossed the room to you and leaned down, kissing the top of your head with the kind of exhausted tenderness only he could pull off. “And Alfred told me you made tea.”
You handed him the mug from the coffee table. “Chamomile. For the broody billionaire who never sleeps.”
Bruce gave you a look that might’ve been a smile if he weren’t so physically wrecked. He sat beside you with a soft grunt, stretching long legs out on the floor and leaning his head back against the couch.
“Rough night?” you asked gently, running your fingers through his damp hair.
He closed his eyes. “Riddler’s back. Not dangerous tonight, just... irritating.”
“That’s sort of his brand.”
Bruce cracked one eye open to glance at you. “And Joker’s quiet, which usually means he’s building something. I hate it when it’s quiet.”
You frowned, brushing a bruise on his jaw with your thumb. “You hate it when it’s quiet, you hate it when it’s loud. What don’t you hate?”
He took your hand and kissed your knuckles, a rare soft gesture from Gotham’s most emotionally constipated man. “You.”
A quiet pause bloomed between you. The fire popped once, and you could feel the edge of your heart go soft.
“I still don’t know how you do this,” you murmured, leaning your forehead against his temple. “Every night, without breaking.”
“I am broken,” he said, not dramatically, just factually. “But I’m stubborn. And you’re here. That helps.”
You laughed under your breath. “You know, there was a time when I thought dating Gotham’s most eligible bachelor would mean red carpets, rooftop parties, silk sheets, maybe a yacht.”
Bruce smirked faintly. “We have silk sheets. You just keep stealing them for writing-fort blankets.”
“Guilty,” you said, raising a hand.
“You ever regret it?” he asked softly, more serious now.
You blinked, turning your body to face him more fully. “Regret what?”
“This,” he said. “Me. All of this. Knowing who I am. What I do.”
Your smile faltered, just slightly.
“I regret not stealing more of Alfred’s scones,” you said after a moment, trying to lift the weight of the question. “But no. Not for a second.”
Bruce searched your face for a beat too long, as if trying to see if you meant it. He always did that. Even after a year and a half of being together of shared scars, sleep-deprived cuddles, and impromptu crime scene debriefs over waffles he still looked for reasons you might leave.
“Hey,” you said, reaching for his hand. “I fell in love with you knowing. From the beginning. Maybe not all the details, but I knew the man. The one who disappears at 2am with half a dozen cracked ribs and still comes back in time to make sure I locked the windows.”
His thumb brushed your palm.
“You don’t have to keep proving yourself to me, Bruce. You’re enough. Even when you're bleeding on the floor.”
“I try not to make that a regular thing,” he murmured, almost smiling.
You leaned in to kiss him, gentle but grounding. He kissed you back like someone who’d been holding their breath all night. When you pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours and just breathed for a moment.
“Come down to the cave with me?” he asked quietly. “Just for a bit.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re not luring me into another ‘accidental’ sparring session, are you? I still have bruises from the last one.”
Bruce chuckled. “No sparring. I just want you there. I like your voice when I work.”
Warmth bloomed in your chest, the kind of quiet intimacy that wasn’t for headlines or stories. Just the simple truth of being wanted in someone’s most vulnerable spaces.
You nodded, then stood, offering your hand like he hadn’t lifted weights heavier than you five hours ago.
Down in the Batcave, it was colder all polished stone and sterile blue light. But the moment you stepped in beside him, the space felt less lonely. You perched on the edge of the console chair as Bruce ran scans on a fragmented Riddler device, your fingers wrapped around a second cup of tea Alfred had somehow predicted you’d need.
“You could write about all of this, you know,” Bruce said without looking at you.
You rolled your eyes. “You say that like I haven’t written a hundred secret love letters to you disguised as editorials about Gotham’s silent protectors.”
He turned, arching a brow. “Wait. You’re serious?”
You smirked. “You really thought my line about ‘a man who wears the city’s wounds like armor and keeps standing anyway’ was about Gordon?”
Bruce blinked. “I did, actually.”
“Well, then you’re not as much of a world’s greatest detective as you thought.”
He walked over slowly and stood between your knees, hands resting on your thighs. His eyes were darker here, almost black in the cave’s light.
“Say it again,” he said.
“What? That you’re not the world’s greatest—”
“No,” he interrupted softly. “The other part. About the man who wears the city’s wounds.”
You bit your lip, heart stuttering in that way it always did when he dropped his guard.
You looked up at him and whispered, “I said you wear Gotham’s wounds like armor. And you keep standing anyway.”
His jaw tensed, like he was trying not to feel it that tenderness, that truth. You brought your hands up to cup his face, pulling him into another kiss. This one was slower. Less about urgency, more about home.
When you finally parted, he rested his forehead against yours again, his breath brushing your lips.
“You’re the best thing I never expected,” he said quietly.
“And you’re the only billionaire I’ll ever make an exception for,” you whispered back.
A/n: this is a bit longer than my recent ones idk if I like it…
It's My Turn with Momma | Bruce Wayne/Batman x OC!Magician ft Batsis
Synopsis: Valerie likes hogging her Mom. From sleeping in the bed beside her, sitting during meals, movie nights, and even down times. And Bruce is missing Vivian's love. Is he willing to fight his daughter for it?
Main Story Master List • Elseworld Stories Master List • Main Story Season 3
It’s normal for kids to be attached to their mother. In Valerie and Vivian’s case, it was expected — the two have been inseparable since birth of the former, and with Vivian taking a sabbatical from work to focus more on Valerie the two spend every day, morning or night, being together (along with Alfred). So Val being more clingy towards her mother is normal — well, normal to the people of Gotham, but for the Wayne family…
It’s a little concerning.
At first they found it adorable and funny that Val is so attached to her mother. Vivian loved it. She loved that Val would call for her, would want to snuggle with her, and just be with her. When Val learned to walk, Tim swore his baby sister looked like a duckling following her momma duck in the manor. Wherever Vivian went, Valerie followed… crawling frantically and calling out “Mumma! Mumma!”
Then Valerie learned how to walk and still the same thing. She would follow Vivian everywhere in the Manor and would only stop once they reach the place they will settle — or when Vivian has to work on something. Mostly in her office or Helena’s garden, then there was the master bedroom, and then the living room and other function rooms in the place.
At dinner Val would be seated between her parents — okay, that part is normal, she can’t eat by herself just yet so she needs her Mom and Dad’s help on that. But then movie nights… while Valerie enjoys snuggling with her siblings there are just times when she’s being extra clingy to her Momma.
“Val, I thought you wanted to sit beside Cass for the movie,” Bruce said. He was just about to sit in his and Vivian’s love seat in the media room, while the kids had their own spots on the couches, bean bags, and the carpet, but he found Valerie sitting with her Momma… and Batplush in his spot.
“I want to sit beside Momma,” Valerie hugged her Mom, making Vivian laugh.
“But where’s Dada going to sit?” Bruce asked.
“B, there’s literally empty seats everywhere, pick one so we can start the movie,” said Jason.
But Bruce didn’t want to sit anywhere, though he knew he was sounding like a child, Bruce wanted to spend the night beside his wife. He’s gotten so busy at work in Wayne Enterprises and his duty as Batman to Gotham and the Justice League, then there’s his fatherly duties too, he rarely got to be with Vivian these past few days.
“Are you really going to fight a three-year-old who is also your daughter for a seat?” Barbara raised a brow at him.
When it came out of Barbara’s mouth, his little predicament sounded petty, especially when he’s a grown man about to argue with his three-year-old daughter for a seat.
“Alright, there we go,” Vivian got Valerie to sit on her lap. “And you get to hold Batplush so Dada can sit with us.”
“But I wanna sit with Momma,” Valerie pouted.
“Well this is better, baby, you get to sit with both Momma and Dada.”
Jason finally turned off the lights and started the film. Alfred was dragged from the door to sit in with the family, the food distributed to everyone by Dick, and everyone was enjoying their night off as a family.
With Vivian holding Valerie, Bruce would feed her popcorn whenever she would squeeze his hand. In the middle of the film, their popcorn bowl already half, Bruce leaned down to rest his head on Vivian’s shoulder—
“My Momma!” Valerie pushed Bruce’s head away and placed herself on that spot.
“Val!” Vivian chastised her. “Dada just wanted to be close to us.”
“But I want to be with you tonight, Momma,” Valerie muttered.
Bruce couldn’t believe it. Since when did Valerie become so possessive of Vivian? Back then she didn’t mind if he would be this close to her mother, but now…
“Come on, Val, you gotta learn how to share,” Duke told the girl.
“You’re making it sound like Viv’s a toy,” Stephanie snickered.
Seeing it was everyone against her, Valerie apologized to her father, to make it up to him she switched to sit in his arms while still holding her mother’s shirt. That was good enough for Bruce that time. He got his daughter in his arms and he got to cuddle with his wife.
~ * ~
It’s understandable for Valerie to want to sleep beside them in bed or them in her nursery. At a young age, she has been plagued by nightmares and ghosts and other supernatural beings during the night. It would result in her running to her parents bedroom or screaming for help if the ghosts were too scary for her to get out of bed. Tonight, as Bruce went home from patrol and wanted to get to bed, he was stopped at the sight of Valerie laying on his spot.
Okay, he really doesn’t mind that, he usually just places pillows at the end of the bed then he snuggles to Vivian’s side so he could hold her while they sleep.
It is when Valerie wakes up randomly while they all sleep that sometimes ruffles his feathers.
For some reason, when Valerie sees her mom hugging her dad and not her at night, she would start to sniffle and then crawl over her parents. The sudden weight would wake Bruce and Vivian from their sleep, and wouldn’t comprehend what’s happening until they realize Valerie has squeezed herself between them both and was hugging her mother.
“Momma,” she whimpered.
“Oh, baby, Momma and Dada are here,” Vivian said, her voice still tired and eyes droopy with sleep.
“Momma…”
“Momma’s here, Val,” Vivian hugged her daughter and went back to sleep. Completely unaware of the look Valerie was giving her father.
It wasn’t resentment, not anger, not even jealousy… or maybe it is. Because the way she looked at her father was like saying: Momma’s mine.
Again, since when did Valerie become so possessive of her mother?!
~ * ~
It kept happening, the randomness of Valerie’s possessive personality towards Vivian. During meals, playtime, study time, bedtime, naptime, any freaking time there is that Vivian allocated for Valerie to keep her in a routine — it just comes out by random where Valerie just hogs Vivian. And the mysterious part is it happens when Bruce is also craving for Vivian’s attention and embrace!
It was during one of the family night offs when it happened again. It’s been a long and tiring week and all Bruce wanted is to be with his wife and hold her. For tonight’s family event, they wanted to play monopoly and finally see who is most likely to flourish Wayne Enterprises or bring it to the ground. With the kids playing, Bruce and Vivian were just spectators, along with Alfred, and wanted to snuggle in their love seat with tea and biscuits — oh, and with Ace and Echo at their feet too.
But then just as Bruce sat down in the love seat with Vivian, as if it were a second sense, Valerie shot up from where she sat beside Tim and looked at her parents. She pouted and started running towards them.
“Thought so, that game is too boring for a three-year-old,” Vivian chuckled, ready to pick up their daughter.
But Valerie climbed over her mother and hugged her possessively. “My Momma!” she said as she glared at Bruce.
Bruce looked at her both amused and just baffled and said, “Yes, Val, that’s your Momma.”
“I want to play with Momma — Momma let’s play!” Val threw Vivian her doe-eyes and pouted.
But Bruce has had enough, Valerie’s been hogging Vivian for months now and he’s a husband with needs too… needs from his wife which are the emotional, mental, and physical support. And in this case, he wants to snuggle with his wife.
“Val, we can share your Mom,” Bruce tried to reason with her.
“But I want Momma,” Val pouted.
“Valerie, come on, we can all sit here and watch the others play,” Vivian tried to reason with her.
“But Momma…”
“Val, it’s my turn with Momma,” Bruce told his daughter. “You’ve played with Momma all day now, and it’s my turn to be with your Mom. Okay?”
He didn’t realize his voice was a little stern when he said it, he only did when the room turned silent and everyone’s attention was on them, and then Jason whispered to Dick: “Told you he’d crack.”
Valerie started to sniffle, “but Momma…”
Bruce was about to sigh in defeat and let his daughter hog Vivian again but then he heard a sound which he never thought he’d hear from his wife towards their daughter.
“Valerie Willow Pryor-Wayne, sit up and you listen here,” Vivian said sternly. Her voice was still calm but it had a sharpness to it. Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian knew that tone. They’ve become a receiving end of that tone, and they all knew the moment Vivian speaks to them in that tone, they were fucked. Valerie did as her mother said, her face showing how baffled she is to hear her mother talk to her in that way. The way Valerie looked at her mother was like… it was as if her mother grew a second head!
“Everyone please step out for a minute while I talk to Valerie.”
Everyone at the table got up and left the room, Bruce too was about to follow but Vivian told him to stay.
“You haven’t been nice to your father whenever he comes home and sits with us,” Vivian continued, still with the calm but sharp voice of a mother scolding her child, and once everyone had gone. “Listen here, I love that we spend time together but that doesn’t mean you get to stop me from spending time with your Dada and your brothers and sisters. You need to share, not just your toys, but also me with everyone in the family and with work. Understand?”
Sniffling and tears building in her eyes, everyone thought Valerie was going to cry but all the toddler did was say, in a trembling voice, “Yes, Momma.”
“Good. Now, we spend a lot of time together in the morning but your Dada and I only get to be together in the morning and evening. So when Dada comes home from work, he also wants to snuggle with Momma because he misses her.”
“Just like after daycare?” Valerie asked, her eyes downcasted and tears falling, quiet sobs and hiccups leaving her lips.
“Yes, just like after your daycare we snuggle in the nursery and then we do your homework and play. You Dada also wants to snuggle with Momma — your brothers and sisters sometimes want to snuggle with Momma and that’s okay. Understand?”
Valerie nodded. “Yes, Momma.”
“Good. When Dada wants to snuggle with Momma you can join us but you have to learn how to share. Understand?”
Another nod. “Yes, Momma.”
“Good. Now apologize to your father.”
Valerie wiped her tears and turned to Bruce. “I’m sor… I’m sorry, Dada,” she finally cried. But it was a quiet cry, and how can Bruce not take her to his arms.
“It’s alright, Val,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Valerie repeated.
“It’s alright, I forgive you.”
“Dada, I also want to play with you all day.”
Bruce’s lips curled to a smile. “I want to play with you all day too, Val.”
Once Valerie’s cries had stopped and tears wiped clean, Alfred was the first to knock and enter, bringing with him ice cream to cheer up the girl. Once traces of Valerie’s cries were gone, everyone came back — all holding a bowl of ice cream — and went back to their game. None of them mentioned what happened, none made it awkward, it was just resetting their game and Tim calling for Valerie to sit next to him so they can play together.
Valerie turned to her mother and father, silently asking if she could join them in the fun.
“Go on, go have fun,” Vivian told Valerie and kissed her daughter’s forehead.
Before she leapt down, Valerie whispered to her mother, “I’m sorry, Momma.”
“It’s okay, baby,” Vivian kissed her nose. “Momma forgives you.”
“Go on, the game’s starting,” Bruce told Valerie and helped her down.
Valerie took one last look at her parents and then joined Tim — her face smiled in excitement as they started the game.
As everyone played, cheered, mocked, and cursed (in a child-friendly manner), Bruce and Vivian snuggled in the couch and watched.
“That must have taken a lot from you to do that,” Bruce whispered to Vivian.
“Val’s not getting special treatment from me,” Vivian told him. “She’ll be raised the same way we raised these kids. She’ll be disciplined, respectful, she’ll learn hard work, and the value of money.”
“Ah so chore-money, huh?”
“Yeah, and it worked with them.”
Tim and Valerie cheered when they got to purchase an expensive lot in the game; Jason cursed at Tim, Damian and Cassandra had him paying at the curse jar, and Valerie learned a new word: “son of a bitch!”
She even tested it which had Barbara covering her mouth but still laughed.
Vivian, Bruce and Alfred could only sigh as Valerie learned another new curse word from her brothers and sisters.
But with everyone so engaged with the game, they don’t even know what’s happening around them. Leaning down to his wife’s ear, Bruce whispered, “want to have some fun of our own?”
Vivian smirked. “Finally found the window you’ve been looking for, Wayne?”
“Well, it’s my time with Momma,” he was about to kiss her but Vivian covered his lips. He gave her a confused look.
“Yeah, don’t… don’t say things like that or even have the word Momma while speaking in that voice or when we talk about sex,” Vivian told him.
“Right.”
“But let’s go!”
Bruce got up from the couch and pulled Vivian with him. They left the game room as quietly as they could and ran up the stairs to their bedroom. As their bedroom door closed — and locked — Bruce made sure to make up to all the times Vivian’s been hogged by their children and finally got his wife’s undivided attention.
~ * ~
Downstairs, right in the middle of the game, Valerie noticed something was off.
“Where’s Momma and Dada?” she asked them.
When the other realized the absence of Bruce and Vivian, they sighed and groaned. There was only one explanation for the couple to disappear like that in the middle of game night, while they’re all busy playing. Though Wayne Manor was huge, it was a little unsettling to know just upstairs and a few halls down, Bruce and Vivian were making up for lost times.
“I blame Val,” Jason said as he bought another lot.
Valerie pouted. “What did I do?”
“You kept your Mom and Dad separate for so long, now they’re having their own game in their room,” said Stephanie, off-handedly, which had everyone look at her in bewilderment. Did she really just say that to a kid?!
“What game are they playing? Is it fun?” Valerie asked.
That had Jason, Dick, and Damian choke on their drinks, Duke to lose his ability to speak, and Tim telling Stephanie off for what she said.
“Is it?” Valerie kept asking.
“Yeah, it is,” Dick answered.
“DICK!” They exclaimed.
“It’s the truth!”
They all groaned and hit their head on the table, leaving Valerie to be more confused.
“I’ll go see Momma and Dada,” Val said, but just as she was to make a step, everyone exclaimed: “NO!”
Main Story Master List • Elseworld Stories Master List • Main Story Season 3
a/n: a commission for beloved mutual @wackular using their OC Jester, written in second POV! Hope you all enjoy, this was sooooooo much fun to write!!!!!!!! :)))
cw: depiction of fight, flirting, groping, mildly noncon touching (reader is into it), almost kiss, description of costume (Jester costume), m!reader (no description of features)
masterlist ao3 requests
PREVIEW:
“My offer still stands, Jester.” He asserts towards you. Since the chips are down and it’s clear you’re going up the river, you can’t resist the opportunity to play back a little bit.
“Which one?” You inquire coquettishly. “The one where I go to Arkham—”—You don’t resist the chance you have to wriggle your hips against him—“—Or the one where you buy me lunch?”
Ever the unfettered, he doesn’t rise to the bait that you offer him. The only thing he returns is a monotone, “I don’t take criminals out to dinner.”
That’s not a no, you think to yourself, and since he is continuing the banter—a rare privilege—you decide to keep it going.
tl;dr: you flirt with danger on the job. Batman/Villain!Reader
“Batsy,” You exclaim with your hand in the proverbial cookie jar, “Funny running into you here.”
Batman stands, lithe and silent, mere yards from you, as you stand besides the well-polished, open vault. It’s no small feat to remain mobile under the intensity of his stare, but you manage.
One of your puffed sleeves is within the belly of the beast, whilst your other clasps around the satchel for your ill-gotten goods—after all, you still have the chance to walk out of here with them. But with the Bat that maintains stalwart obstacle between you and freedom, that prospect seems to be growing slimmer yet.
“Jester—”—His voice bears a deep, familiar timbre that cuts through the silence and the shadows—“—Joker sent you out alone again?”
At your boss’ name, you can’t help but affix a winsome smile at the ol’ ball and chain. Even if you’re under duress at the appearance of the caped crusader, you can’t help but inject a little charm into the situation.
“Joker knows he’s in good hands when I’m on the case.” You shoot back with cavalier ease. And, because there’s always refuge in audacity, you slowly slide out the object of your ambitions into plain view. After all, if you’re up against the wall, you’re going to take the opportunity to view what you’ve put your hide on the line for.
They never did make a bowler hat like Chaplin’s—which is just why Mr. J had to get his hands on it. Even if it means you’re here in this museum, talking up handsome strangers in odd hours of the night. You’ve been in worse before.
“And you believe him when he says that?” There’s no room for humor with the Bats—you’ve learned this the hard way, of course. Harley warned you, but you always hoped you’d be the one to coax a smile from him. And yet, that strong, implacable jaw remains ever-unmoving.
“Haven’t let him down before, have I?” You flash him your teeth in what you hope is a suitable enough grin. Neither of you chooses to mention the actual truth—or the booking pictures from Arkham you have to show for it.
“You should take a page out of Harley’s book and get out while you still can.” Batman asserts. When he takes a measured, menacing step through the doorway towards you, you decide to pocket the hat into the bag. After all, you intend on walking out of here, and you need a free hand to do it.
“Where’s the fun in that?” You ask, thinking about your predecessor who now walks the straight-and-narrow. You let your hand linger in the depths of your bag. It’s somewhat of a task to keep your eyes trained upon the figure that seems to assimilate into the darkness that cloaks him.
“I always believe in service with a smile.” Because you’re determined to make it out of here, you resort to what one might call a dirty trick. After all, you didn’t rock up to the scene of the crime unarmed.
It’s a fluid flick of the wrist to produce your scepter. Though rather than bear a tufted pommel like your namesake might, this one is barbed, and hurts. And Batman knows this from experience—which is why he takes a step back as you swing down and out towards him.
You’ve fought one-handed before; you’re better two-handed and he knows it. But Batman is here to round you up. You’re here to finish a job—which means that you have greater motivation than him to hightail it out.
Everyone always says that the first time is unforgettable, but every dance with Batman is a pleasure in itself. Perhaps it’s because he’s the strong, silent type that makes him such an exemplar partner. Either way, he always comes around eager to resume the waltz that you weave with him.
And in the ample space of the museum as the two of you bob and duck between the priceless preserved artifacts, the venue is no different from any other. He always brings his best to the party.
Your scepter is merely an extension of you, beautiful, colorful, and lethal. Batman knows this, which is why he keeps out of the circumference of its reach. You make a grunt of exertion as you slice it through the air audibly.
To your growing vexation, he sidesteps around a monolithic statue cast Stygian in the late night hour. There’s scarcely a sound in his retreat, and you can’t help but issue a thin hiss through your teeth at how he’s avoided yet another hit.
“Just a little closer, Bats,” you offer with good cheer, “Unless you’re afraid to throw a punch.”
This might have been where you put your jingling foot in your mouth, running off the high of your fighter’s adrenaline. Because this is where the tide seems to shift, and Bats begins to advance on the offensive. It’s almost frightening how quickly he consumes the space between you both, crossing with nary a detectable noise to document the movement.
You slap your scepter up in means of defense, against the full force of his forearm that bears down on you. The muscle doesn’t even seem to flinch against the blow. You barely have time to process it, before his other arm swings out in a haymaker with intent to connect.
You dodge out of the way, but just barely—the force of his fist whiffs past your sleeve. Even though it doesn’t make purchase, the raw power is evident enough that you’ve dodged a bullet.
And then you find yourself hook, line and sinkered as the crook of his fingers curls around the fabric. There’s a stuttering gasp you make as you find yourself reeled forward, towards the great plane of his chest—time to make a play or else the game’s over. You aim the scepter straight at him, where the bat marks the spot.
But he sidesteps, damn him and those incredible reflexes—you tumble to the linoleum in a heap. Good thing you’re one to take a fall well. It’s a matter of ease to roll against the tile, taking care to tuck the scepter and satchel against your chest. If the hat’s a little flattened, at least Mr. J will have it in one piece.
You find your footing, one knee still bent, as Batman finds you. One of his great arms rockets down as you sap your weapon up through the air, against him. You can’t help but feel a degree of satisfaction as you watch the barb of the scepter slick against the armor.
There’s a terrible, discordant noise as he seizes his arm back on basic instinct. But your ploy worked—it’s enough time for you to retrieve your footing, and leap to your feet. The reprieve lets you permit yourself one careful, circuitous breath.
“Pretty nice, huh, Bats?” You expel the question more than articulate it. But that’s all that you manage before he advances again, and you’re forced to heft yourself back. His fist snakes out again, but not at your face—at your arm. Specifically, the one that holds your weapon of choice.
There’s a bursting flare of pain that shocks up your bicep as he finally connects, but it's not enough to make you lose your grip—just loosen it.
You’re momentarily stunned, taken off-balance, so you don’t have enough wherewithal to retreat from the muscular leg that pushes between your stance. When he strikes out with a follow-up jab to your shoulder, this is what makes the scepter finally fall from your hand.
You don’t have the chance to watch it clatter to the ground, corkscrewing across the floor out of reach. You have far more pressing matters at hand; mainly, the two that shove against you, knocking the breath from your lungs.
Before you can grace this with a reaction, one of his hands grabs your wrists with ease in the wide span of his fingers. What little air you possess chuffs out as he drives you up against the wall.
You struggle against his grip, but it’s an exercise in futility. He’s had stronger than you in his grasp, and your center of gravity is upended, your defenses eliminated. You aim your knee out at him in a final case for freedom, but this is useless. His body swallows up the remaining space.
He’s pressed up against you now, and it’s hard to ignore the dense wall of muscle that makes it clear the fight is over. But you try anyway, even though it’s clear you’re outmatched. Even though it’s clear that you’re totally trapped underneath him and the sheer…strength of his body.
You huff through your teeth, summoning a playful glare that you levy up his way. All the while, his face maintains that immutable stoicism, regarding you.
“Guess you got one over on me, Bats.” You admit jovially. Wouldn’t want to let the big man know that you’re a little flustered under the heat of his body, after all—“—Take a fella to jail now?”
You know that the Dark Knight certainly enjoys his long, endured silences, but this one, as you remain pinned under him, certainly extends greater than any you’ve withstood. Even though as he stares down at you, you are offered ample opportunity to drink in that handsome face. Then he speaks.
“My offer still stands, Jester.” He asserts towards you. Since the chips are down and it’s clear you’re going up the river, you can’t resist the opportunity to play back a little bit.
“Which one?” You inquire coquettishly. “The one where I go to Arkham—”—You don’t resist the chance you have to wriggle your hips against him—“—Or the one where you buy me lunch?”
Ever the unfettered, he doesn’t rise to the bait that you offer him. The only thing he returns is a monotone, “I don’t take criminals out to dinner.”
That’s not a no, you think to yourself, and since he is continuing the banter—a rare privilege—you decide to keep it going. You can’t help but worry your bottom lip between your teeth as you consider your next conversational play.
“Wonder how long it’ll take me to convince you to give up on that rule.” You retort. You’re about to say more to add fuel to the fire, when you feel something. To be specific, the press of a hand that traces up your side, fingers firm and exploratory.
It’s instantaneous, the flutter of heat that the sensation brings. And still his hand rucks up, palming the fabric as though insistent to find the supple flesh underneath.
There’s no way you can misinterpret this—this is beyond heavy-handed interrogation. Your heart is practically humming in your chest as the touch goes from domineering to pleasurable, and rises higher up your body.
When you speak, it’s a shaky, breathy inquiry—“—Oh—Batman?”
You could swear there’s the ghost of a smile on that chiseled face, but it’s dark—you can’t be certain. What is undeniable is the rugged huskiness to his voice as he leans close, the words meant only for your ears alone. You’re not even struggling against him anymore—they’d have to drag you away from this moment.
“I’ll only change my mind for someone who’s willing to reform, Jester.” Batman maintains, and his hand clenches possessively about you. You can’t help but let out a little whine as you arch into the touch, greedy for more.
He’s closer now, close enough that he could lean forward and have his way with you. His voice is a subdued growl that makes you weak in the knees, sends a shudder up your spine. “And I don’t like asking twice.”
“You—you sure do have a way with words.” You reply, because you’re practically overheating, at the proximity, the touch, the domination of your senses. That hand drapes up your chest and a thumb slinks over the column of your neck, prompting a needy, “Ah!” from you.
“That’s because I don’t intend to repeat myself.” He states. That glove, which you’re comfortable associating with brutality, with violent, sheer strength, is markedly gentle as it curves around your jaw. As it tilts your head up to him, directs your wide-eyed face towards him.
You can barely find the words to speak. “It’s okay. I hear I’m a good listener.”
He finally laughs, probably the first and last time you’ll ever hear it—it’s a throaty, low hum. Something in you melts.
“Good.” He says. As he closes the distance to you, you can’t help but close your eyes.
There’s a click—you know that click. You know the feel of that cold steel around your wrists, you’ve memorized the unyielding grasp around you time and time again. You don’t stop the slump of your shoulders, the gusty sigh that breezes out of you as you open your eyes. You already know what you’ll see the second you look up.
“Oh—that’s a dirty party trick, Bats.” You groan as you lower your arms, cuffed together once more in as many times as you can remember. You take care to give him your most piteous expression as he stands back, unafraid of the threat you pose. Not that you could go for a round two—all the fight’s leached out of you. And you didn’t even get a kiss, dammit.
“You can tell Commissioner Gordon how much you like it when you see him.” Batman retorts. As if on inconvenient cue, there’s the familiar dappled blue and red light that floods through the yawning museum window. A siren already sings across the air towards the two of you—you droop as you realize what a long car ride you have ahead of you.
Something makes you perk up, though, as you turn back to the man of your fraught, perilous dreams. You don’t resist the thrill of adrenaline that floods through you as you realize he’s been watching you this whole time.
“So does your offer still stand?” You ask slyly. “Or was all that groping just for show?”
He smiles—not that anyone will believe you back at the Asylum. The memory of his voice when he replies, “Why don’t you find out?” Is going to occupy a great deal of real estate in your brain for a long, long time.
At least, until you can find out if the Batman is a man of his word.
Dividers provided by the wonderful @/toxisyddy and @/cafekitsune
