Chat Log Name : I'm never going to treat you like I should
chat log description : Thomas Wayne doesn’t expect that you would show up at Wayne Manor on the anniversary of the accident. He tries his best to bring you back to him the only way he knows how.
online users : Thomas Wayne/Flashpoint Batman, Joker! Reader
‼️ CONTENT WARNINGS : 18+ MDNI, Smut, Cockwarming, Overstimulation,Blowjobs, Dominant! Thomas,Second POV, Slight Angst, Reader takes the place of Martha/Joker, No description of reader’s genitalia, Former established relationship/Unhealthy relationship, Slight Canon references to the Flashpoint universe, OOC! Thomas Wayne, Violence/Fighting, Minor injuries. ‼️
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His body ached, heavy boots that trudged around the empty manor that once was filled with every sense of joy but now destroyed of everything sweet and kind. Revealing the insides of what could have been—the memories that had been long erased out of grief.
He peeled off his cowl and placing it down on a nearby leather armchair as his footsteps almost tangled together to rush towards the hallway of the kitchen—he smelled it, your cologne/perfume. He should have hated you for what you had become—his blue eyes stared at your back; that familiar purple waistcoat that had been riddled with different color threads holding together the waistcoat.
“Its you,” he said.
“It’s me.” You turned around in the red swivel stool chair at the countertop. “Did you think I would miss today?”
“I didn’t think that you would be stable enough.” He strolled in and sit down in the red swivel stool chair next to yours. “What changed?”
“It’s the anniversary, Thomas.” You poured yourself a drink in the old fashioned glass. “I didn’t think that you would remember what happened to my baby—“
“He’s our baby.” He turned to face you. “He’s our baby. He was mine and yours not just yours…”
You had turned your back to him, your purple gloved hands that still reeked of gunpowder and the latest toxin that you had attempted to create earlier on the countertop wooden. His hand gently grabbed your shoulder, his thumb always rubbing in circles on your back.
“Sweetheart.” He turned you around, his face was no longer young; weathered by age and soft scars that you occasionally created. “Come back to us. To me.”
“You know I can’t.” Your face plastered a smile that bordered on being distraught. “We changed, Thomas. We are not the same people anymore.”
“But what if—“ he pleaded.
“We. Aren’t. Going. To. Be. Happy,” you stated, bluntly. “There are no more what ifs, Thomas. We are gone—We were destroyed when you—“
“When I what?” He spouted back. “We both gave up on the marriage when…when that happened.”
“Right.” You looked at him. “I will never forgive you, Thomas.”
“I know you won’t,” he replied. “I will not forgive you for what you did to her.”
The sound of the kettle screaming echoed throughout the quiet kitchen. You had assured him that you were going to pour the hot water into the mugs that he had chosen for the both of you and you looked at the silver reflection of the kettle, holding the black handle and staring intensely at the two mugs—
Your spare hand looked for another mug because the repeating thought that encircled throughout your mind was how was Bruce going to drink his hot chocolate. You huffed a sigh of relief when you found a spare mug—putting it in front of the two mugs.
“Sweetheart,” he said, softly.
“What?” Your eyes looked over to him. “You forgot to—“
He got off of the stool, strolling over to you as he grabbed the spare mug and placed it back in the cabinet. His calloused hands held your painted face—
“It’s just the two of us,” he said. “Remember? He’s not here anymore…”
“Oh—“ you replied.
His hands now rested on your shoulders as you brushed his hands away.
“Thomas,” you said.
His blue eyes stared at you like they always did—staring into the delusion that he could fix together with his hope that he swore died with the innocence of marriage.
“It’s raining,” he said. “You already made your drink. You can stay here today…Remember our promise?”
“I broke it earlier—with the toxin,” you rambled. “And threw you out of the window…”
“We both broke it,” he stated. “We always use each other as punching bags…don’t we?”
His calloused hand cupped your cheek, his thumb grazing rubbing away the portion of white face paint on your cheek. He looked at you—seeing your tired expression underneath the white face paint that coated your face.
“Let’s relax?” He inquired. “I think we both need that…”
You pulled away from him, grabbing your mug with one arm crossed. You gestured to him to lead the way despite you knowing every single crook and cranny of Wayne Manor before and after the death. Your footsteps echoed the creaking hallways of the manor, dust coated items on the long rows of shelves that Thomas once sought for.
Your footsteps stopped in front of the empty space, your hand extended to touch the empty space. The portrait was gone. You stared at him—
It was only moments till you both were back into that old cycle that ensnared you both. It was so familiar but you didn’t know when to stop, when it was too much… Your nails dug into his exposed wounds while wind being escaped from your lungs—
The hallway was in ruins; old photographs of the past were scattered on the floor with broken frames, antique vases that you both had collected were now shards on the wooden floor that groaned underneath your aching bodies. Your eyes watered, holding your bloodied nose for a moment and pulling one of artifacts from its shelf and using the rusted metal pipe to smack him upside his head.
Through the blood that dribbled down your nostrils,smelling his kelvar glove pressed against the lower half of your face and the blood that dribbled down his forehead in different directions. Your shaking hand grabbed a glass shard from one of the broken glass cases—stabbing it into the exposed cut in his batsuit on the side and the glass dug into your back—scalp that dribbled blood down your face.
You had crumpled on the intricate rug, your blood stained the back of your white blouse.Thomas groaned softly, holding his bleeding side—slumping down next to you and his spare calloused hand cupped your jawline, rubbing your exposed face that had no longer had the white face paint on.
“Truce?” he groaned, softly.
“Tr…Truce,” you wheezed.
You sat in the shower with your knees tucked against your chest, watching the grime, stench, white face paint coming off of your nude body. Your legs felt the tingling sensation of the hot water splashing against the wound that Thomas had stitched up moments earlier—
Your fingers slithered between your legs, the calloused pads of your fingertips grazed against your hole and carefully inserted inside your hole—thrusting it in and out. Your hand covered your moans—the tight ball in your abdomen grew and grew as the thoughts of pleasure became overwhelmingly delicious. The droplets from the shower coated your skin, you looked down at your palms and saw that they had become pruny.
You dried yourself off with a towel and put on some spare clothes that still fit that Thomas had kept for some unknown reason.
Thomas loosely tied his black robe, he looked out to see Gotham in its shining glory. Seeing the glimmering lightbulbs of casinos that he created to keep a tight leash on organized crimes even if it meant getting the occasional threat— his hand ran through his white hair, turning at the sound of bathroom door opening and seeing you…
God, he had forgotten how breathtaking you were…
Your face was weathered by age, hints of white were scattered across your hair follicles. The rough kisses of age had only made you more handsome/beautiful despite you causing his heart every sense of ache and pain—the tormentor of his heart but god, he still loved you.
His eyes watched you—how your body moved fluidly towards him and seeing how you looked slightly flushed.
“Hey,” he said.
“Oh…hey,” you replied back.
His hands enclosed your face, holding both sides as he looked at you.
“You could’ve asked.” He pulled one hand away to hold a glass in his hand from the bedside table. “Now?”
“Yes,” you answered.
You straddled him, your legs on both sides on his inner hips. You looked at him as his back against the wooden headboard, his black robe was discarded onto the floor and you got a look at him—his muscular chest that was littered with scars and still healing bruises that made you want to press on to see if his face was going to change.
You pulled down his underwear, his calloused hands kneaded your ass while feeling the light wet handprint from the condensation of the glass. His thumb teasingly ran over your wet hole—adding a bit of pressure. You bit down on your bottom lip trying not to moan out but it was like the marriage never left.
It felt that he knew every inch of your body despite being gone for so long. You held his cock; veiny and dribbled down with precum and your scarred hand began to stroke it.
Your mouth sucked on his cock, his hand holding the back of your head to ease down the bobbing of your head. As breathy groans and moans escaped his lips with praises while you carefully inserted his throbbing cock into your hole.
You tilted your head back—moaning and your scarred hands gripped the elastic waistband of underwear. His calloused hands kneaded your ass, thrusted into you.
“Tom…Thomas,” you moaned.
You started to match his pace, your head started to get clouded from the pleasure that scattered around your head. Your face was buried into his inner palm, hot breaths plastered on the scars and sensitive skin that was still healing.
“ ‘m…’m gonna change position.” He thrusted deep into you. “Okay, sweetheart?”
Your hands dug into his scarred back while the room echoed with consistent harsh thrusts of him, squelching noise of him going in and out. Your legs were loosely wrapped around his waist as the tingling sensation only flooded throughout your system—overwhelmed with this touch that had been long forgotten.
His hand gripped your thigh, feeling it trembling as he hitched it up to his hip to gain further attention to the spots that he had neglected before. Your nails dug into his back as incoherent moans escaped your lips while through your blurred vision seeing him crack a smile that you haven’t seen in ages.
“There you go...” His lips kissed your sweaty neck. “You always did take me so good…”
His sweat dribbled down onto the creases of your inner hip while his thumb gently rubbed on the stretch marks that were littered around your abdomen alongside the gunshot scars and bruises that had the proper time to heal.
His mouth had already made itself home across your neck, marking it with kisses and hickeys. He saw you, the real you—underneath every single layer of the facade that had twisted you into someone unrecognizable.
His chest pressed against yours, the tingling sensation exploded in your walls but he didn’t stop. He needed to see you, the you that he missed—the you that kept haunting his very presence.
“Thomas…Thomas,” you mumbled out.
Thomas held you close to him, felt like you and him had almost been fused together. His cum had started dribbling down your legs and onto the bedsheets that now had tear marks revealing the mattress underneath. Ripped bedsheets that had stains of dried blood due to stitches reopening but the waters of pleasure was overwhelming and it had drowned the both of your bodies into infinite pleasure—
Even if it meant that Thomas continued scrambling your brain with each thrust for the truth in the pleasure that seemed almost painful now.
He gently wiped the sweat from your face with a rag and lied down next to you—his face grew in a tight grimace as the white bandages on his side had spread the soft red irritation on the area.
Thomas gently tugged you back to bed, his hand felt his cum dripping from your hole and reinserted himself back in. He heard your breathy and exasperated moans escape from your cracked and scarred lips while the thin layer of sweat began to drape across the both of you like a wet blanket.
“Stay,” he said, breathlessly. “Just for today…”
