OMG I love your latest oneshot! It's so hard to come across amab content and your blog is a goldmine!
I was wondering if you'd do a part two of 'an unhealthy obsession' with smut? Reader feels isolated and lonely, which gives Bruce a perfect opportunity to swoop in. Maybe some size difference, manhandling, and overstimulation? Bruce is taller/bulkier, plus he has a massive amount of stamina and strength cause he's literally Batman. Maybe during aftercare Bruce lowkey just drops the bomb that reader is going to marry him and move into the manor. Oh, and Bruce's army of children are also obsessed with reader.
𝐀𝐍 𝐔𝐍𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇𝐘 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐥𝐥
bruce wayne x m!reader
𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐒 ! ── 5.3k words. it’s been a while since bruce gave you an apartment, since you realized something about him is.. wrong. now lonely, he finds his mission, to make you love him, even easier.
꒰ warnings. invasive behavior. psychological control. coercion and ownership. dub-con smut scene; slight manhandling(?), dumbification - reader forgets he didn’t want intercourse, slight breeding kink. ꒱
Months blur.
Then seasons.
Then you realize you’ve been measuring time not by holidays or paychecks—but by how often Bruce stays the night and how often you cancel plans you never rescheduled.
It’s almost a year.
You don’t remember the exact moment your world shrank. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Messages you never answered. Invitations you said you were “busy” for. Coworkers who stopped trying.
Now your phone barely lights up unless it’s him.
The apartment feels bigger these days. Quieter. Emptier. And Bruce fills it effortlessly. He doesn’t have to force his way in anymore. The door still unlocks without him knocking, but now you don’t flinch the way you used to. You just look up from wherever you’re sitting—usually the couch, sometimes the floor—and wait for him to speak first.
“You’ve been alone all day,” he observes one evening, setting his coat down. It isn’t a question. He already knows.
You shrug. “I didn’t feel like going out.”
“You never feel like going out,” Bruce says gently. There’s no accusation in it. Just confirmation.
He crosses the room slowly, eyes scanning you the way he used to scan the apartment—cataloging posture, mood, exhaustion. “You look tired,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
Bruce crouches in front of you, close enough that you can’t avoid eye contact unless you deliberately turn away. You don’t.
“That’s the problem,” he says quietly. “You’ve convinced yourself that this is fine.”
“You used to think people wanted you around,” Bruce continues, brushing his fingers lightly along your jaw. Not affectionate. Possessive. “You used to exhaust yourself trying to be enough for them.”
His thumb traces the curve of your cheek, slow. “And what did that get you?”
You don’t answer. He does.
“Nothing.”
Bruce shifts closer, knees almost touching yours. His voice lowers, intimate and certain. “I’m the only one who’s stayed,” he says. “The only one who didn’t get frustrated with your anxiety. Your indecision. The way you spiral when you feel unwanted.”
Your throat burns. “That’s not—”
“It is,” he interrupts softly. “And I see past it.”
He tilts your chin up again. Just enough to keep you still. “I see past your flaws. Past the parts that push other people away.”
The apartment feels unbearably quiet
.“No one else has the patience,” Bruce continues. “No one else would have invested this much.”
Invested. The word makes your stomach twist.
“I built stability around you,” he says. “I protected you from your worst instincts. I gave you space to exist without judgment.”
You think of the cameras. The texts. The rules.
Bruce leans closer, voice almost tender. “And you’re still here.”
Your heart stutters.
“Do you know why?” he asks.
You shake your head slightly. “Because some part of you understands,” Bruce says. “No one but me can give you what you need.” He brushes his lips briefly against your temple—not a demand this time, but a reinforcement. A seal. “No one but me can show you what love actually looks like.”
The word love echoes strangely in the room. You feel hollow. Lonely in a way that aches. And he knows it. Bruce shifts so he’s sitting beside you now, arm sliding around your shoulders. It’s firm, grounding, almost warm.
“You feel isolated because you stopped chasing people who were never going to stay,” he murmurs. “That’s not loneliness. That’s growth.”
His hand tightens slightly against you. “You don’t need them,” he says. “You have me.”
Your mind flickers with old memories—laughter at work, late-night messages, the version of you that had options. It feels distant. Unreal. Like it belonged to someone else.
Bruce’s fingers tilt your face toward his again. “You think anyone else would tolerate you the way I do?” he asks, voice calm, almost curious. “Anyone else would handle your moods? Your doubts? Your neediness?”
“I don’t mind it,” he says. “I like that you need me.”
The words are soft. Sincere.
Terrifying.
“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” Bruce continues. “You don’t have to perform for people who can’t see your value.”
His thumb brushes your lip, lingering there. “I already do.”
The apartment doesn’t feel empty when he’s this close. That’s the problem. The silence fades. The loneliness dulls. And Bruce knows exactly how to time it—how to appear when the quiet starts hurting the most. “You’re not alone,” he whispers. His grip tightens just slightly, possessive, anchoring. “You’re mine.”
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Bruce isn’t shy about his feelings. He never was. But now? He has even less shame.
The next day feels heavy from the moment you wake up. You wake up before your alarm, staring at the ceiling. You try not to think about him at all.
That doesn’t last long.
The lock turns mid-afternoon.
You close your eyes for a second before looking over. Bruce steps inside with the same calm certainty he always does, gaze landing on you immediately.
You’re on the couch, half-curled into the cushions, TV playing something you’re not watching.
“You look bored,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“You say that a lot.” He removes his jacket slowly, draping it over the armchair like he intends to stay awhile. He doesn’t ask how you are. Doesn’t ask what you’re doing. He simply crosses the room and stands in front of you. Too close.
“You didn’t answer me last night,” he says quietly.
You frown slightly. “About what?”
“When I said you were mine.”
Your stomach tightens. “I didn’t know I had to answer.”
Bruce’s jaw shifts subtly at that. “You don’t,” he says. “But silence usually means doubt or hesitation.”
He sits beside you on the couch, the cushions dipping under his weight. The space shrinks instantly. His thigh presses against yours—not accidental. Deliberate. You stiffen.
“You still react like I’m going to hurt you,” Bruce murmurs.
“Aren’t you?”
The question slips out before you can stop it.
Bruce turns toward you fully, one hand coming up to rest on the back of the couch behind your shoulders. It isn’t touching you yet—but it’s there. Surrounding.
“I’m the only person who hasn’t,” he says evenly.
Before you can respond, he moves. His hand slides from the couch into your hair, fingers threading through it, gripping—not painfully, but firmly enough that you feel the lack of choice. He tilts your head toward him.
“Bruce—” He kisses you. Hard.
There’s no testing pause, no gentle introduction. His mouth presses against yours with clear intention, claiming space, claiming compliance. You gasp, hands coming up instinctively to his chest. He takes that as something else.
His other hand closes around your wrist, guiding it down—not violently, but with strength that reminds you how easily he could overpower you if he wanted. “Relax,” he murmurs against your lips.
You try to pull your face back. His grip in your hair tightens just enough to stop you. Your pulse is frantic. Panic crawls up your throat.
“I said relax,” he repeats, quieter now. Dangerous in its steadiness.
He kisses you again—longer, deeper, unhurried. Like he has nowhere else to be. Like this is owed to him.
Your resistance falters—not because you want this, but because fighting feels pointless. His body crowds you into the couch cushions. “There,” he murmurs when you stop trying to turn away.
“See? You make it worse when you tense.”
Your breathing is uneven. Your hands hover again, unsure. Bruce releases your wrist but keeps his hand in your hair, thumb brushing slowly along your jaw.
“You’re lonely,” he says softly. “I can feel it.”
His lips press to yours again—shorter this time, almost punctuating the statement. “I’m the only one who comes back,” he continues. “The only one who chooses you every day.” Another kiss. Slower.
“You think that’s an accident?” Your chest feels tight. “You need this,” Bruce murmurs. “You just don’t like admitting it.”
He leans in once more, mouth capturing yours in a way that feels less impulsive and more… instructional. Like he’s teaching you how to respond. His grip softens slightly when you stop resisting altogether.
“That’s it,” he whispers. “Don’t fight me.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark but composed. “I’m not ashamed of wanting you,” he says. “And you shouldn’t be ashamed of needing me.” His thumb brushes your swollen lower lip. “You don’t have anyone else,” he adds quietly. “And you won’t.”
You sink into the couch when he finally leans away, heart racing, mind spinning. Bruce adjusts his sleeve like nothing significant just happened. “You’ll thank me eventually,” he says calmly. And the worst part?
A small, exhausted part of you wonders if he might be right.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
The room is quiet except for your breathing.
The sheets are tangled low around your waist, the air still warm, thick with the aftermath of something you’re not sure you were ready for but didn’t stop. Your body feels heavy. Used. Not in a painful way—just… claimed. Not that it wasn’t the first time this had happened.
Bruce lies beside you on his back, one arm draped loosely across your stomach like it belongs there. His breathing is steadying faster than yours.
You stare at the ceiling. It’s strange how quickly he shifts back into composure. Even now—skin bare, hair slightly mussed—there’s something controlled about him. Like even this was earned. You don’t know what to say.
Bruce breaks the silence first. “You’d like my children,” he says casually.
For a second, you think you misheard him. “…Your what?”
“My kids,” Bruce repeats, as if mentioning business partners. “I have four.”
You turn your head slowly to look at him. “You have kids?”
He glances at you, mildly surprised by your reaction. “Yes.”
“You never told me.”
“You never asked.”
Bruce shifts slightly onto his side, propping his head up with one hand so he can look down at you. His other hand remains where it is—resting over your stomach, possessive even in stillness. “They’re grown,” he continues.
Names come next, like an afterthought. “Dick. Jason. Tim. Damian.” He says them evenly without hesitation. You blink at him.
Almost a year.
Nearly a year of this and he never thought to mention he had four children. Your chest tightens. “Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask quietly.
Bruce’s thumb traces a slow line against your skin. “It wasn’t relevant.”
Not relevant?
Your mind flashes through the last year—his obsession, the cameras, the threats disguised as structure, the way he cornered you on the couch, on the bed, in every room of an apartment he calls his.
Do they know? you wonder.
Do Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian know how he looks at you? The way he talks about ownership? Or are they just another set of people who learned not to question him?
“You look troubled,” Bruce observes.
“I just… didn’t expect that,” you admit.
“Why?” he asks calmly. “Did you think I only had room in my life for you?” There’s no teasing in it. No softness. Just assessment.
You hesitate. Bruce’s gaze sharpens. “You don’t like the idea of sharing me,” he says, almost thoughtfully.
“That’s not—”
“It’s fine if you don’t,” he interrupts smoothly. “You don’t have to.” His hand presses slightly firmer against your stomach, anchoring you. “They don’t see this side of me,” he adds.
Something in your chest twists. This side. As if it’s compartmentalized. As if you’re the only one allowed to see it—or the only one subjected to it.
“You’re different,” Bruce continues. “They needed guidance. Discipline. Structure.” His fingers slide up slowly, resting flat against your sternum, right over your heartbeat. “You need something else.”
Your pulse jumps under his hand. “And what’s that?” you ask, barely above a whisper. Bruce leans down, brushing his lips lightly against your shoulder. “Correction,” he murmurs. “Stability. Someone who won’t abandon you because you’re difficult.”
The word sinks in deep. You stare at the ceiling again, mind racing. Do his kids know how much of a creep he can be?
Do they know he installs cameras?
That he isolates people?
That he calls coercion protection and calls control love?
Or are you the only one who sees it this clearly because you’re the one under it?
Bruce studies your silence carefully. “You’re thinking too much,” he says softly. His hand slides back down, settling possessively at your waist. “They don’t matter here,” he continues. “This is separate.”
You realize, with a cold clarity, that he truly believes that. That in his mind, this—what he does to you, what he builds around you—is justified. Earned. Even generous.
“You’re still here,” Bruce reminds you gently. “After everything.”
It isn’t comfort. It’s proof.
He presses a slow kiss to your temple, then settles back into the pillow like the conversation is over. You lie there beside him, bare and breathless for entirely different reasons now, staring into the dark and wondering—if four other people grew up under this man… what did they have to survive to get out?
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
You didn’t expect it to happen so soon.
When Bruce mentioned his children, you assumed it was one of those distant facts—filed away, theoretical, something that wouldn’t touch you unless he decided it should months down the line. You thought you’d have time to process it. Time to decide whether you even wanted to exist in the same orbit as them.
You were wrong.
The next week, Bruce tells you plainly. “Clear your evening,” he says over the phone. Not asking. “For what?” you reply, already knowing the answer won’t be optional.
“You’re coming to the manor.”
Your stomach drops.
“You’re meeting them.” There’s no buildup. No softening. Just a decision already made.
He makes you wait at work until he’s finished with his own meetings. You linger outside your building long after your shift ends, watching coworkers leave in pairs and groups, laughing, making plans you’re no longer invited to.
Your phone buzzes once.
“Stay where you are. I’m five minutes out.”
You don’t respond. You just wait.
The car pulls up exactly when he says it will. Black. Polished. Tinted windows that reflect your own nervous expression back at you.
Bruce steps out himself instead of sending a driver. That detail shouldn’t matter. It does.
He looks composed as always, like this is just another business arrangement. “You look tense,” he says, opening the passenger door for you.
“I didn’t think it would be this soon,” you admit. Bruce studies you for a moment before responding. “There’s no reason to delay what’s inevitable.”
The word sits heavy in your chest as you get into the car. The drive is quiet. Too quiet. Bruce’s hand rests casually on your thigh at a red light—possessive, grounding, reminding. You don’t move it away. “You don’t need to impress them,” he says as the gates come into view. “They already know about you.”
Your heart skips. “What do they know?”
“That you’re important.”
The gates open without hesitation. The manor is larger than you imagined. Not just big—imposing. Old money and legacy carved into stone. You suddenly feel painfully small.
Bruce parks and steps out first, coming around to open your door again. His hand brushes your lower back as you stand, guiding you forward. “You’re overthinking,” he murmurs.
“I just don’t know what they expect.”
“They expect me,” he says calmly. “And I expect you.”
That’s somehow worse.
The doors open before you can knock. Someone inside must have been watching. Bruce doesn’t hesitate as he leads you in, his hand firm at your back. The interior is warm, lit softly, but there’s an awareness in the air—like you’ve walked into a room where everyone already knows your name.
Footsteps echo from deeper inside. Four figures emerge one by one.
Dick is first—easy posture, sharp eyes that assess you far more carefully than his faint smile suggests. Jason follows, leaning against the banister with a look that’s less welcoming and more… intrigued. Tim stands slightly back, studying you in silence like you’re a puzzle piece he’s been waiting to examine. Damian is the last to step forward, gaze unwavering, calculating in a way that feels eerily familiar.
None of them look surprised.
You realize, slowly, that Bruce didn’t just mention you. He prepared them.
Bruce’s hand tightens subtly at your back as he steps fully into the foyer with you. “Boys,” he says evenly. “This is him.”
Not your name. Just him.
The four of them look at you in a way that makes your skin prickle—not hostile. Not dismissive. Intentional.
Dick steps forward first, offering his hand. His grip is firm, lingering half a second too long. “We’ve heard a lot,” he says lightly. Jason’s gaze drags over you next, something almost protective flickering there—except it doesn’t feel like it’s for your benefit. “Yeah,” Jason adds. “Dad talks about you.”
The word feels strange attached to Bruce.
Tim tilts his head slightly, eyes sharp. “You’re smaller than I expected,” he says thoughtfully.
Damian doesn’t smile at all. “You look nervous,” he states.
Bruce’s hand slides up from your back to your shoulder, possessive and unmistakable. Bruce’s fingers tighten subtly.
“They’re just protective,” he says calmly. “They get that from me.”
It doesn’t sound like reassurance. You suddenly understand something horrifying; they’re not surprised by you. They’re intrigued. Like Bruce brought home something rare. Something to be examined.
Dick moves closer, just a step too near for comfort. “You really nervous?”
You nod before you can stop yourself.
Jason’s lips twitch faintly. “You should be.”
“Jason,” Bruce says mildly. But there’s no real reprimand in it.
Tim’s eyes flick briefly to Bruce’s hand at your shoulder. Then back to you. “You live alone?”
“Yes.”
“For now,” Damian mutters under his breath. Bruce doesn’t correct him.
The room feels smaller. Tighter. Like invisible lines are being drawn around you.
Dick reaches out suddenly—a light poke at your chest, testing. “Relax. We don’t bite.”
Jason’s gaze darkens slightly. “Depends.”
Bruce’s hand moves again. From your shoulder to your hip. Firm. “They understand boundaries,” Bruce says evenly. “And they understand what’s mine.”
The words hang there. Not corrected.
Something shifts in the room. Dick’s smile sharpens just slightly. Tim’s eyes narrow in interest. Obsessed isn’t the right word. Focused is. And the worst part? None of them look shocked by Bruce’s tone. None of them question it. They just look at you like something newly introduced into their ecosystem—something their father values.
And if Bruce values you—
They will too. In their own way.
Bruce leans slightly closer to you, voice low enough that only you hear it. “See?” he murmurs quietly. “You’re not alone.”
You look at the four sons watching you with unsettling focus. And for the first time, you’re not sure if that’s reassurance—or a warning.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
It doesn’t take Bruce long to notice.
He sees it in the way Dick lingers too close when you speak. In how Jason watches the room instead of you—like he’s guarding the exits. In the way Tim memorizes your routines after one visit. In how Damian stands at your side without being asked, chin lifted slightly, daring anyone to look at you wrong.
It’s territorial.
And Bruce recognizes it immediately—because it mirrors something in himself. He doesn’t correct them.
If anything, he encourages it.
“You made an impression,” Bruce tells you a few days after that first dinner at the manor. His tone is almost pleased.
You frown. “They barely know me.”
“They know enough.” That’s all he says.
Not long after, he invites you back. “Dinner,” he says simply, already expecting you to clear your schedule.
The second visit feels different. Less like an introduction. More like… initiation. The moment you step inside, Dick is already there to take your coat. Jason claps a hand on your shoulder like you’ve been coming here for years. Tim asks about your week with unsettling precision. Damian sits closer to you at the table than before, correcting your posture quietly as if it’s his responsibility.
You laugh awkwardly once or twice. They don’t.
They watch you eat.
They listen when you speak.
When you excuse yourself to the restroom, you swear the hallway feels shorter than before—as if the house is learning you.
Bruce sits at the head of the table the entire time, silent, observing. Satisfied.
After dinner, Dick suggests a movie. Jason offers to show you the gym. Tim asks if you’ve ever seen the cave beneath the estate—said too casually. Damian simply says, “You should stay the night.” It isn’t a question.
Bruce stands. “That’s enough,” he says evenly.
Four pairs of eyes shift to him immediately.
“He’s coming with me.”
There’s no argument. Just a quiet, collective understanding.
Bruce’s hand settles at the small of your back as he guides you upstairs. You feel their stares even after the turn in the hallway hides them from view.
“They like you,” you murmur, unsure if that’s good. Bruce hums softly.
“They’re protective.”
“Of me?”
“Of what’s mine.”
The bedroom door shuts behind you with a soft click. His room is massive—dark wood, heavy curtains, the kind of space that feels insulated from the world. From consequences.
You hover near the center of it, unsure where you’re supposed to stand. Bruce removes his jacket slowly, watching you the entire time. “They’ll get attached,” he says calmly. “It’s how they are.”
“That’s… not normal.”
He steps closer. “Normal is overrated.”
Your pulse picks up as he closes the remaining distance, tilting your chin upward with two fingers. “They see what I see,” he continues. “Someone who needs structure. Stability. Protection.” His thumb brushes your jaw thoughtfully.
“And they’re right.”
You swallow. “I didn’t ask for all that.”
“No,” Bruce agrees quietly. “You didn’t.”
His hand slides to your waist, firm, grounding. “But you didn’t refuse it either.”
There it is again—that subtle twisting of choice into inevitability.
Downstairs, faintly, you can hear movement. Doors. Footsteps. The house settling around you. Or watching.
Bruce leans down, his voice low against your ear. “You don’t have to worry here,” he says. “You have all of us.”
All of us.
It should feel comforting. Instead, it feels like roots wrapping around your ankles—slow, deliberate, impossible to untangle. And Bruce holds you a little closer, as if he already knows you’re realizing that.
His fingers slide from your waist to your jaw again, tilting your face up. He studies you like he’s assessing a reaction, not seeking one .“You don’t have to be afraid of being wanted,” he says.
“That’s not what this is,” you breathe.
His brow lifts slightly. “No?”
You don’t answer. Because you don’t actually know what this is anymore.
Bruce’s thumb drags slowly across your lower lip, not quite rough, not quite gentle. Testing. “You get overwhelmed,” he says quietly. “You spiral. You doubt.”
His other hand moves to your hip, steadying you when you instinctively lean back. “I make decisions so you don’t have to.”
The words should alarm you.
They do.
But they also sink in.
His mouth brushes yours—not fully a kiss yet. “You’re tense,” he whispers against your lips. “Relax.”
“I—”
His hand tightens at your hip. “I take care of you,” he continues. “I give you a home. Stability. Protection.”
His mouth presses properly to yours this time. Slow.
“And you let me.”
Your hands hover uncertainly at his chest. Not pushing. Not pulling him closer either. That’s enough for him.
Bruce deepens the kiss, controlled and deliberate, like he’s proving something rather than losing himself in it. His palm slides up your side, under the fabric of your shirt, warm and possessive.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs against your mouth. “As long as you don’t fight me.” Your heart pounds harder at that. His hand flattens against your stomach, thumb brushing just beneath your ribs. Not rushed. Not frantic. Measured.
“You think too much,” he says softly. “You always do.” His lips trail briefly to your jaw, then lower to your neck, not biting—just pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses that feel more like marks of ownership than affection.
“You’re here because you want to be,” he continues quietly.
“You came back.”
The implication hangs heavy. His fingers hook lightly into the hem of your shirt. “You could’ve said no.”
But you didn’t.
He pulls the fabric up slowly, giving you time to stop him.
You don’t.
The shirt drops somewhere onto the floor. Bruce steps back just enough to look at you properly, eyes dark—not frantic, not uncontrolled. Certain.
“See?” he says almost gently. “You let me.”
Your chest rises and falls unevenly. His hands move to his own shirt next, unbuttoning it without breaking eye contact. It feels less like seduction and more like demonstration. Like he’s showing you how inevitable this is.
“You don’t have to pretend you don’t need me,” he murmurs. He closes the distance again, guiding you backward a few slow steps until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed.
You freeze.
Bruce doesn’t shove you down. He doesn’t force you. He simply presses forward until you sit. His hands settle on either side of your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. “I take care of what’s mine,” he says quietly. “And you take care of me.
Another kiss—deeper this time. Slower. His control never slips. Your fingers curl into the sheets instead of into him. He notices that too. And instead of stopping, he leans into it—into your hesitation, your uncertainty—like it’s part of the dynamic he wants. “You’ll learn,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ll learn to want this the way I do.”
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Your back forms an arch as you gasp, Bruce’s thick fingers curling deep inside you. “That’s it..” he whispers as he works you open, relentless scissoring motions and sudden thrusts.
“Bruce!”
He pulls his fingers out with a pop! and gets straight to business. He scoops his hands under your thighs and pulls you close, causing you to squeak like a startled mouse.
“Think you’re ready?” He asks.
“No, n- need more time..”
His hands move anyways. One goes to your hip and the other lines up his thick cock to your hole, pressing enough for you to feel just how big he was.
He almost immediately sinks in with a deliberate thrust. “M- Mmh!” You moan involuntarily.
He picks up the pace without letting you adjust, his rhythm already becoming more relentless. The bed creaks beneath you both, the only sound besides your shaky breathing and his groans.
“Feels so good..." He whispers, his hips snapping against you.
He pulls back slightly before slamming into you harder, his thrusts becoming more aggressive. His free hand comes up to wrap around your throat, not choking, just holding.
“A- Ah.. Bruce, it—” You whine, clenching around his throbbing dick. He ignores you for now.
He pants, “You're so tight... so fucking tight..” His other hand suddenly wraps around your erection. Whether it was a voluntary reaction or not didn’t mean anything to him. His thumb finds your sensitive head and circles it slowly.
“F- fuuck..!” You cried out and dug your nails into his shoulder blades, bucking your hips in the process. “Slow.. d- down! Please— Ah!”
He feels you getting tighter around him, your body responding to his dual assault of cock and hand. And before you could cum..
He pulls out with a wet sound, cock glistening with pre, leaving you shaking but undeniably empty. You didn’t even want to do this but you were so, so close to feeling pleasure..
He was intentionally trying to make you reliant on him for that feeling.
Why was it working so easily?
“D- Don’t leave me like this..” You whined softly.
“Already?" He chuckles darkly, his hand still wrapped around your cock, applying just enough pressure to keep you on edge without bringing you over. "You're being more needy than usual."
He leans down, his mouth hovering near your ear as his free hand slides up to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him.
"You're gonna hold that load for me, understand? You're gonna be a good boy and wait until I tell you to."
Bruce lets go of your cock and flips you over in one swift motion, positioning you on your hands and knees. He forces your legs wider apart and holds you by the waist.
Before you can even process what's happening, he's already plunging back into you with brutal force.
“H- Haa …ohh goddd!” You moan loudly, back forming a deep arch and legs twitching.
Bruce’s grip on your waist tightens as he adjusts his angle, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. You’re practically seeing stars, his cock dragging along your inner walls with each brutal thrust. The wet, obscene sounds of him fucking you fill the room, mixing with your desperate noises and his grunts of exertion.
“Ngh- yesyesyes!”
“Come on.. give me that cum," he demands.
“M- Mmhnn!” You sob as cum spurts from your cock.
Your knuckles are white, hands clenching the sheets underneath and your legs absolutely shaking. Even after you cum, Bruce doesn’t stop.
The room is still filled with squelching sounds, mixing with the repetitive fwop! of his hips against your ass. Your body jolts forward with each thrust, mattress muffling your cock-drunk noises.
Although it’s a few hours until his stamina finally runs out, when he cums, he collapses onto your back, his body trembling as the last waves of his orgasm wash through him. You can feel his cock pulsing inside you.
He stays there for a moment, his heavy breathing hot against your neck, his muscular body pressed flush against yours. Neither of you move, both simply catching your breath.
“Fuck..” He groans. He slowly rolls off you, his softening cock sliding out with a wet sound. A thick strand of your combined fluids connects you briefly before it snaps.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Steam curls softly toward the ceiling, blurring the edges of the room. Bruce insisted on the bath. You hadn’t argued—not when his hands are steady and guiding and not when the water is already running at the perfect temperature.
Now you’re sunk into the warmth, back resting against his chest. His arms are wrapped around you loosely, one draped over your stomach, the other lazily tracing slow circles against your thigh beneath the water. It’s quiet. Calm. Your muscles ache in that dull, heavy way that follows intimacy. Your mind feels floaty, disconnected. The tension that had coiled in your chest earlier is gone—or at least muffled by heat and exhaustion.
Bruce presses a slow kiss to your shoulder. “You did well,” he murmurs. The praise settles strangely in your chest. You don’t even question it. You just nod faintly, eyes half-lidded.
His fingers glide through your hair, careful, almost tender. He tilts his head slightly, watching your expression soften as the bathwater keeps you warm and pliant. “You’re relaxed now,” he notes quietly.
You are.
Your thoughts feel slower. The earlier hesitation—the small, stubborn voice that had whispered you didn’t want this tonight—has been dulled by comfort. By the way he holds you steady. By the way he makes it feel inevitable, natural. Safe.
He shifts slightly, adjusting you so you’re more fully leaning against him. “I take care of you,” he says, not as a question. As a fact. Your fingers drift lazily through the water. “Yeah,” you murmur. His chin rests briefly against the top of your head.
His grip tightens—not painfully, just enough to remind you where you are. “With me,” he continues softly, “you don’t have to think. You don’t have to decide.” Your eyes flutter closed. It sounds… nice. For a moment.
Bruce’s lips brush your temple. “You’re going to marry me.”
Your eyes open slowly. “…What?”
He doesn’t repeat himself immediately. His fingers continue tracing slow patterns against your skin, like nothing significant has just been said.
“You’re going to marry me,” he says again, calm, steady. Certain. Your heart stutters, the haze beginning to thin.
“Bruce…”
“You’re already mine,” he continues smoothly. “This just makes it official.”
The warmth of the bath suddenly feels too heavy. Too close. You shift slightly, but his arm tightens around your waist, keeping you in place. “And you’re going to move into the manor,” he adds, voice just as even. “There’s no reason for you to stay in that apartment anymore.”
Your stomach drops. “T- That’s not…”
Your thoughts scramble, sluggish from everything that came before. “We didn’t talk about that.”
“We are now.” His tone isn’t harsh. It’s worse than that.
It’s decided.
“You belong here,” he says. “With me. With the boys.”
Your breathing grows uneven.“I didn’t agree to that.”
Bruce’s fingers tilt your chin slightly, forcing you to look at him. “You don’t need to worry about agreeing,” he says gently. “I’ve already handled the details.”
The details? Your pulse pounds in your ears.
“I’ve spoken to the necessary people. The apartment lease will be terminated. Your things will be moved by the end of the month.” You stare at him. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” he interrupts softly. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, slow and possessive. “And you know I can.”
The bathwater laps quietly around you both. “You’ll be happier at the manor,” he continues. “You won’t be alone. You won’t struggle. You won’t have to wonder what happens next.”
You swallow hard. “I didn’t say yes.”
Bruce studies you for a long moment.
“You didn’t say no.”
Your chest tightens.
He leans in, pressing a slow kiss to your mouth. “You’ll learn to want it,” he murmurs against your lips. “You already forget you didn’t.”
That’s what makes it worse.
Because part of you had. Until now.
His hand settles firmly at your waist again, anchoring you against him as the steam thickens around you.
“Don’t look so frightened,” he says quietly. “I’m giving you everything.”
Your reflection wavers faintly in the bathwater.
“And you’re not going anywhere.”
© 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐬 — do not copy my work.
