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You’re still half-asleep under the covers when you hear the key in the lock.
Most people would panic. You don’t even twitch, because the rhythm of those footsteps is one you’ve come to know better than your own heartbeat. But the sound of them, not the soft thud of his patrol boots or the muffled scuff of his incognito sneakers, makes your brows lift.
No, these are dress shoes. The kind that belong in boardrooms, not in your tiny apartment.
Did he…?
When the faint scent of cologne hits you before he even reaches the bedroom, you peek through the window to confirm: yeah, there’s a sleek black car parked outside, drawing looks from the pedestrians.
Did he just drive here straight from a meeting? In daylight?
In the past few months, your relationship with Bruce Wayne had officially gone from we-don’t-even-know to let’s-call-it-what-it-is. His visits, which were brief and straightforward at first, gradually became more casual as you reassured him that, sometimes, you simply wanted to see him. No big reason needed.
You wondered if giving him the spare key had been too pushy, but considering how he was usually reluctant to visit you, even under the cover of night, seeing him here in broad daylight was proof that your efforts were paying off.
Or maybe he just missed you terribly.
You hear him pause somewhere in the hallway. The sound of keys being dropped onto a surface.
So, no hoodie disguise, no scarf over his face, no sneaking through the back door. Just… Bruce Wayne, billionaire, walking through your old front door like he lived here. You snort, sinking back into the pillow. Well, the neighborhood’s gossip mill will love this. Mrs. Caddel, two doors down to the right, is definitely going to tell everyone she’s finally figured out how you’ve been paying your bills lately.
“Real subtle, Bruce,” you murmur as the door opens.
Wow. The sight of him is even better than you imagined.
“I tried calling.”
His eyes scan your bundled figure under the sheets like he’s caught you red-handed. Your phone is definitely lost somewhere on your vanity.
“I was sleeping.”
He eases the door shut behind him.
Under the golden light spilling through the blinds, just looking at him sends a warm rush spreading in your chest. The pastel blue dress shirt brought out the blue in his eyes. The beige tie hangs elegant and steady down his chest, drawing your gaze lower to his waist. Cream-colored slacks cut just right, lengthening his frame, tracing each line of his thighs like they were made just for him.
God bless Alfred (or maybe Bruce himself?) for getting him into something that wasn’t black or charcoal. You had no idea if his attempt at taking on more corporate responsibility was paying off with shareholders, but it was certainly doing wonders with you.
“Thought you were supposed to be at work, Mr. Wayne.” You sit up, leaning on your arms.
The slow way he walks toward the edge of your bed makes your mind hum with anticipation, triggering certain memories.
“I wanted to ask you out.” His fingers twist the little gold pinky ring in a tiny self-regulating gesture.
“At this stage?”
“For lunch.” He gives a sheepish smile.
You don’t answer. Instead, you watch as he leans forward, the mattress dipping under his weight when he kneels on the bed, his shadow falling over you.
You meet his eyes in a playful challenge, sinking slowly back under the blankets.
“C’mon, baby.” His voice drops low, soft with pleading.
A giggle slips from you before you can stop it. The nickname is new on his lips, stolen from yours, and you light up like a kid every time he uses it.
“No.” You whine lazily, muffled into the pillow, curling deeper into the covers.
That doesn’t stop him.
He tugs the blanket back slowly, fingers brushing your skin with a reverence that makes you shiver. His mouth follows close behind, soft kisses scattered across your shoulders, your collarbone, the curve of your neck. Each one a tender coaxing.
“You’re not gonna have lunch with me?”
A kiss against your neck.
“No.”
Another at your jawline.
His scent sinks into your sheets, wrapping around you as he presses closer, as if even the fabric surrendered to his presence. A crisp top note with hints of cinnamon, a base of sandalwood, layered with the clean freshness of his expensive deodorant, discreet, and the faint styling pomade you’ve come to recognize whenever he dresses for something important. Every detail seems deliberately chosen to tempt you.
His tie brushes your cheek as he bends closer, the silk cool against your skin compared to the warmth of his lips traveling up your throat.
Your hand finds his hair, tugging until the perfect styling collapses into something wild. He looks more like himself this way.
“You look handsome like this.” You breathe, your voice breaking as his teeth graze your skin.
“You like it?” His words hum against your neck, followed by the sting of a hickey.
“Mhmm,” your eyes flutter shut, soaking in his smell. “You’re beautiful.”
His lips curl into a grin against your skin.
Instead of answering, he pulls back just enough to kick off his polished shoes and drop into the mattress beside you. You shift to make room, arms looping around his back instinctively, dragging him closer until his body heat presses firm against yours.
Your hips brush against his just once. Inviting.
Your fingers twist in his shirt, wrinkling the pristine fabric. You want to strip away the last layer of formality clinging to him.
“Thought you came here to drag me out of bed.” You tease, though you can’t hide how eager you already are.
“Is that what you want?” His loose tie brushes your skin again as his piercing blue eyes lock on yours.
“I want you.”
The air is thick with the tension between you.
He leans in until your foreheads nearly touch, and the way his eyes map every inch of your face makes your heart pound hard.
You don’t dare move as he memorizes you. Lashes, nose, cupid’s bow, every tiny detail. It’s impossible not to grow shy under his gaze he's like this. How many times have you caught him cataloging your moles even from across the room?
It’s almost petrifying to be seen like this.
You close the distance between your lips before it overwhelms you.
Your lips meet, soft and hungry, shaping themselves into a rhythm that makes the whole room shrink into a single pulse. His dress pants stretch against his thighs as he slides a leg between yours. His hands roam, hot, slipping beneath your shirt, fingers spread wide across your ribs.
Everything goes white in your head when his thumb starts tracing slow circles across your stomach. You lose yourself in the faint dampness of shared breath, in the softness of his lips, in the subtle clash of teeth when your tongue pushes deeper into his mouth. A low moan slips out of him.
His hands move down slowly, caressing every inch before reaching where you want him most. He pauses, fingertips trembling as they graze the waistband of your panties.
The faintest touch sparks a wave of anxiety in your belly, and the anticipation alone makes your body hum with need.
“Please…” he murmurs, low, raising those beautiful blue eyes to meet yours. “Can I…?”
How sweet it is that he still asks, even if you’ve been together for months now. Even when your body language couldn’t be clearer, even when every signal you’ve given so far has been nothing but encouragement. Yes. A thousand times, yes.
“Yes.” Your hand slides across his chest, loosening his tie, undoing a couple of top buttons. “Please, baby.”
You bite his lower lip just as his fingers slip under the fabric.
His fingers against your folds knock the air out of your lungs in a shaky gasp. When he finds your clit, a hot jolt races through your entire body, making your hips grind against his hand, chasing for more.
The small sounds spilling from your throat, broken and urgent, echo between you. His fingers start to move, slow, steady, drawing out waves that build with every touch, every press, every slide, as if your body were being shaped by his rhythm.
You don’t even care how desperate you must look, rubbing against his fingers, both to encourage him and to try to ease the growing urgency in your body. Sweat beads on his forehead and neck while he focuses intently on your hips, determined to keep the rhythm that makes you unravel.
His fingers circle the top of your clit again and again in steady motions, until he drags down, using the sway of your hips to slide toward your entrance.
You hiss through your teeth when he pulls his finger back, spreading your wetness over your clit.
“Bruce…”
He shifts on the mattress, propping himself on his left arm while his right hand slides up to tug your shirt higher.
The fabric bunches over your chest, exposing patches of bare skin. His hungry gaze settles on your breasts with an obscene glint, and he presses sweet wet kisses over your nipples.
You reach for his belt buckle, pulling the leather away while he nibbles your breasts delicately.
When he starts sliding your panties down your thighs, you lift your hips slightly — past your knees, calves, heels — until he tosses them into some corner of the room.
You barely have time to tug down his zipper when his big hand covers yours, guiding your fingers to the hard bulge under his pants. The way he forces your hand to squeeze harder only confirms what was already obvious.
“Fuck…” The word slips out of you when he releases your nipple with a pop. He frees his cock in a clumsy motion.
“Come here.” His arm curls around your waist, squeezing your soft curves.
His cock slides against your thigh, stiff as if he’d been holding back all day. The friction sends a sharp pulse through you, and you shift to press your hips flush to his, both of you moaning when he pushes into you with desperate urgency.
“Bruce, ah.”
The slide is obscene, no barriers left between you, just the deep pressure of him inside you until your hands clutch at his shirt like you could tear it open.
His rhythm is agonizing at first.
You lose your mind at his grunts every time your hips crash together, again and again, each thrust to the hilt. You have to bite back curses every time he pulls out slowly, almost all the way, in a torturous, delicious pace. Your cunt throbs for more, more, more.
And, god, he looks unreal like this. Still half-dressed, blue dress shirt wrinkled, sunlight striping across his broad shoulders through the blinds, tie loose, sleeves rolled up, his hair messy from your hands.
There’s something so obscene about it, having the prince of Gotham shamelessly fucking you into the mattress, that you ache to tease him. You want to say something about how desperate he must have been, coming straight here in broad daylight just to feel you. But you can’t.
The words catch in your dry throat, your body too caught up in how good he feels, how hot he is, how he’s all yours.
“Jesus Christ,” he hisses, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged, “You’re so—”
He cuts himself off with a growl when your hips lift to meet his.
“Baby—” His voice cracks as your hips collide again, again, again, forcing the pace faster.
His heavy breathing above you is intoxicating, every clench of your cunt around him dragging guttural moans from his chest, every drive taking him closer to the edge.
You purr his name once, twice, countless times.
He groans frantically, burying his face against your cheek like it’ll help him hold onto his last shred of control.
You try to wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, but his nails dig into your hips, pinning you down. You fight against his strength to keep fucking yourself on his cock.
"I, I can't—"
It’s fast. Faster than either of you meant.
His rhythm falters. He bites your shoulder to hold it back, but it’s useless.
He spills inside you with a muffled sound. You clutch at the back of his shirt to steady him as his body trembles with intensity.
“Sorry,” his voice is hoarse, almost a whisper.
“It’s alright.” Your arms pull him close. “Don’t pull out yet.”
For a long moment, the only sounds in the room are ragged breaths and the faint creak of the bed when he finally lets his full weight collapse onto you.
You run your hand through his hair, brushing back damp strands from his forehead.
He closes his eyes when your nails lightly scratch his scalp, a relieved sigh leaving his lips. You take the moment to memorize every softened feature of his face — so rare, so different from the usual stern intensity. Your gaze traces every detail worn by effort, now surrendered to rest.
You could drown in the raw intimacy of having him like this.
He stays inside you, body pressed against yours with his weight, like he needs this bond just to anchor himself in this moment. His breath fans over your neck in warm waves, chest rising and falling slowly.
It’s almost enough to trick you out of the ache still burning low in your core. Almost.
When he finally slides out, the slow motion draws a sigh from you. Heat spreads wetly between your thighs, and the sudden absence of him inside you leaves a painful ache of tension left unresolved.
He slumps lazily beside you on the mattress.
His tie is crooked, half his shirt buttons undone, hair messy, pants hanging halfway down his thighs. You smile at him.
"So much for getting me out of bed."
He groans, tugging you against his chest.
"You'll never get out of bed again."
You laugh against his chest, fingers idly playing with his loose tie. Twisting it, curling it in your hand, then smoothing the silk against him while both of you catch your breath.
“So,” you begin, and his head turns slightly toward you, listening. "How's this thing going?"
"Most of the time, I just need to smile and shake a few hands." His eyes drop to your fingers playing with his tie.
“Two of your favorite things,” you tug the tie lightly. He hums softly.
His gaze drifts from your playful hands to the shelf in the corner of your room.
A pile of papers rests on your printer, held down by a bright orange pencil case to keep them from flying away. Below, a modest collection of books whose titles he’s mentally listed over and over during quiet moments where you’ve dozed off on his chest.
A Frankenstein with exactly five colorful tabs sticking out. A bilingual edition of Inferno (not the whole Divine Comedy, just Inferno), which made him wonder if you knew Italian or were planning to learn. A clearly well-loved copy of Nightwood, if the spine was any clue. A Princess Diaries tucked away, which piqued his curiosity too much for him to ignore — the discrepancy was too funny —, and made you tell him about your grandmother writing a inscription on the inside cover before gifting it to you when you were eleven, and now you have to keep the book forever.
He did liked it here. Maybe more than he realized. Sometimes, after patrol (when it was just the tiring kind, not the martyring kind), after slipping into some corner to swap the cowl for a helmet and cover the suit with a jacket and jeans, he would ride the bike straight to your neighborhood instead of Wayne Tower.
At first, he told himself it was just to check in. You had a messy sleep schedule, so it’d only be fifteen or twenty minutes. Just to say hi, make sure you’re safe, see if the neighborhood is quiet, and then leave. No harm in that. You said you liked seeing him.
He doesn’t know if it was pure naivety or selfish indulgence when he started ignoring the signs of where this was heading.
Minutes stretched into an hour or two, with you insisting he at least shower and eat something. Touches that would linger too much.
He sealed it when he kissed you one cloudy dawn, too tired to lie to you, or to himself, that this was just a friendship anymore.
Maybe the real selfishness was denying you for so long just to appease the anxious voice in his head.
The guilt still slips through, though. Especially in moments like this, when everything is quiet and peaceful, and he wonders how much longer you’ll have together. But then comes the sound of your steady breathing, the weight of your body against his, the strong clutch of your arms around him, and it anchors him back. He learned to let the thoughts drift in and out, refusing to disturb your peace.
And he really does like it here. Your place was small, rented, but every detail was chosen and arranged by you, which for him was fascinating in itself.
He’d ask more about it, if it didn’t feel… invasive. About every object, bought or gifted. Which you liked most. What you’d change if the place were truly yours.
He thinks about your question. How was it going? He’d moved past the aversion he used to have about putting himself out there publicly. It was necessary, after Riddler and the flood.
He didn’t had the right to retreat into his selfish comfort zone anymore, alternating between cave days and street nights. He could do more. But there was a big difference between attending charity galas once or twice a month, and playing CEO on a regular weekly basis.
“Feels pointless sometimes." His fingers brushes the spot on your shoulder he’d bitten minutes before. “I’m not sure if that's really the direction I should go. But I know that… I can't not be there.”
“Yeah? Why do you think that?” Your head tilts slightly, looking at him.
He sighs. How does he put it into words? How can he explain it to you?
“I don’t care about spreadsheets or stock prices, let alone pleasing shareholders. But I know that… Someone who cares about what really matters has to be in that room.”
All of this was because of you, if he’s being honest. Charity galas were uncomfortable, and he’s still skeptical about the effectiveness of philanthropy, but at least it felt like doing something.
Working at the company (working… he barely felt entitled to call it that) was a whole other thing.
The corporate jargon, the chess game of maneuvers among the stiff suits who occupied the office his father once had, the talks about laying off as many employees as needed, doubling the work hours, doing whatever it took to ‘close the books in the black.’ All of it disgusted him.
He would erase every trace of his connection to Wayne Enterprises if he could.
But orbiting your life, watching you work past hours to meet demands, spending your supposed rest days trying to organize everything else, terrified of getting sick and losing your job — that made him see things differently.
As much as he wanted to tell you to quit, he never felt in a position to say that. What did he know about paying rent or going to job interviews?
Even after you did quit (and he was beyond relieved, more than happy to support you until you don't need it anymore), he still thought those companies should offer better jobs, not that workers should endlessly scavenge for decent offers.
It made him rethink his own accountability in all of this.
How many people worked at Wayne Enterprises today? And how many families relied on those jobs?
If it’s his name on that building, how could it not be his responsibility to sit in that room and fight for better working conditions?
“I thought… if everyone in that room only cares about numbers, and I have the power to be in there, I need to be. I need to remind them that people deserve a living wage, health coverage, safe working conditions, diversity policies,” Even here with you, just speaking about it tenses him. The cynicism of those middle-aged wolves in suits made his blood boil in a way few nighttime enemies ever did. “Even if it’s just to annoy them until they give in. They can’t just dismiss me.”
“They think you’re naïve and idealistic.” You sit up, your shirt falling back down. He scoffs, nodding.
“I’m persistent.” His lips twitch into a thin ironic line. “They’ll figure that out.”
You nod slowly, studying his expression.
Under your gaze, he suddenly becomes hyper-aware of how he must look right now. Disheveled, sweaty, wrinkled clothes, caught up on his own thoughts... Not too awkward, he hoped.
Were you… satisfied?
“Like you said. They can’t ignore you.”
He makes the faintest sound of agreement. His brow furrows lightly.
“Hey,” your hand touches his gently. “You’re doing good, Bruce. It’s the right direction.”
“It’s not—I wasn’t thinking about that.”
“Oh. You want to go for that lunch?”
“No,” he tilts his head slightly toward you. “I want… to make you come.”
“Oh.” A grin spreads across your face, blushing from cheeks to nose. “You do?”
“Obviously.” He pulls you by the waist until your body leans over him. “Come here, love.”
Your giggle sends a warm rush through his chest as he tilts his head to take your lips. Your hair falls like a halo around his face. Adorable.
His fingers roam your back beneath your shirt for a moment, before pulling it off entirely and tossing it aside.
Your face heats up as his eyes roam over your bare body. From collarbones to the dip between your breasts, the curve of your stomach, down to your thighs.
“You’re beautiful,” he sighs, gently pulling you on top of him.
You steal a quick kiss in response as you shift your weight. He watches as your fingers undo his shirt buttons one by one.
You pause at the last few.
“What?”
“Can I… use this?” You nod toward his tie.
Fuck. He bites his lip, nodding.
He leans in to help you pull off his shirt and tie, fingers fumbling at the buttons. In an impatient move, he pushes his pants down himself. No striptease tonight.
You smirk at him while your hungry eyes devour every bit of exposed skin — taut muscles, scattered moles, scars you know by heart. He lets you look. He learned fast not to hide from you, not when your greatest joy seemed to be witnessing him whole.
Your hands rise slowly to his, tie between your fingers, guiding his wrists to the headboard.
He obeys silently, eyes fixed on your concentrated expression as you tie his wrists.
You pull tight, testing the knot. As if he’d even want to free himself.
He smirks, watching you sigh anxiously.
“Liking it up there?” He shifts his legs wider to give you better access.
“Shh,” you wrap your hand around his cock, pumping a few times, coaxing him to full hardness. “You’re all mine now.”
His jaw clenches as your hips settle over him.
You don’t sink onto him right away. No, you torture him. Still slippery from the first round, you drag your wet folds along his entire length, slowly, rubbing yourself on him from base to tip, feeling every inch without giving him the relief of being inside.
His abs tense under you, air caught in his throat, head falling back, teeth gritted in frustration.
When he’s rock-hard again, you finally guide your hips just right and sink down on him fully.
You both gasp at the same time — at how easily your body takes him in, at how deep he fills you all at once. The wet sound echoes between you, drowned out by heavy breathing.
You start slowly, your body rolling over him in circles, testing the perfect fit, stretching out the feeling. Your hand presses against his abs for balance, feeling the muscles flex with every move.
Each slow grind makes his cock slide in and out, dragging hoarse groans from his chest.
He tries to hold it back, but the wet heat clinging around him with every stroke gives him no escape, producing broken sounds he can’t hide. Good. This is the version of him you love most.
His body shudders with excitement. Fuck. He has to focus to let you have your fun with him. Slow breaths. Think of something neutral. Not the heat of your thighs, or the wet sounds, or your palm on his stomach.
What’s he doing when he gets back to the Tower? Shower, down to the cave, log the meeting into his journal. Go over the latest case files. Wait, he still has to take you out for lunch first. Where’s he taking you again?
A groan tears from your throat, filthy and loud. Fuck. His mind scrambles. Would you... would you like it if he got you the other two volumes of the Divine Comedy? Should he ask first? He could write a inscription inside. Would you like that?
“So pretty like this… So good for me… Fuck, I love seeing your face…”
You drag your nails across his skin, moaning his name in that whiny way that makes his whole body shiver. You were really fucking enjoying this.
His whole face is burning red.
“You like it, baby?” He watches you bite your lip, nodding your head.
His cock throbs inside you. The sight of you, flushed, messy hair, sweaty, sends a whole swarm of butterflies through his stomach. “You gonna come for me?”
“Yes,” you purr softly.
You shift, planting your palms on his thighs now, your head tipping back, eyes half-lidded, lips parted.
From that angle he can watch your breasts bounce as you pick up the pace, fucking yourself on him in a frantic rhythm. He bites the inside of his cheek, breathing deep. He almost regrets letting you tie him up; the tip of his tongue tingles with the urge to tease your hardened nipples right now.
You use him like your personal toy, setting the pace, every move designed to wring more pleasure for yourself. He's just the anchor, the solid heat that keeps you full, the delicious stretch that responds to every grind of your hips.
His chest rises and falls beneath you, jaw tight from the effort of holding back while you use him as you please.
Then you find it. That exact angle.
You roll your hips forward and suddenly a spark goes off inside you, flaring like fire.
That perfect spot. Oh.
Your mouth falls open on a trembling moan, your spine arching before you even notice.
Stopping is impossible. Every time you move that way, the sensation bursts deeper, sharper, building in layers, a hot ball growing at the pit of your stomach.
Your hips start moving almost on their own, chasing that spot over and over, restless. Each stroke drags a broken breath out of you, your gasps coming in short sobs, like your body itself can’t handle the rising tide of pleasure.
Your hand slips down to your clit, circling yourself while you ride him.
He loses his mind.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh God—” he squeezes his eyes shut, drowning in the sound of your moans, in the heat of your thighs clenching tight, squeezing his cock.
You bounce faster, thighs trembling, voice breaking with stuttering, desperate thrusts.
Your nails dig into his thigh for leverage as the tension coils tighter and tighter in your center, ready to snap at any second.
And it does. With a sharp cry, he watches you come undone.
His blue eyes stay locked on every spasm of your body. Your pussy clenches tight around him, your body pitching forward as you ride out your climax.
His hands twist against the silky fabric, determined not to break free, no matter how badly he wants to hold you right now.
You only pause for breath a few seconds before starting again, speeding up even while you’re still pulsing around him.
Each drop of your hips smashes him with waves of heat, each squeeze milks his cock mercilessly.
He gasps loudly, body rigid, like the very air’s been ripped from his lungs. You’re gonna kill him.
The overstimulation drives him straight to the edge in no time. His head drops back on the pillow, composure unraveling under your persistence, sweat glistening on his skin in the dim light.
His hips jerk helplessly against yours, trying to keep up, trying to resist, trying to let go, he doesn’t even know anymore.
“Please, please, plea—”
He comes hard, deep, his whole body arching beneath you as pleasure tears him apart from the inside.
His face twists with ecstasy, mouth open on a shattered moan. His head presses into the pillow, neck stretched, veins standing out. Every muscle seized by the inevitable wave.
His hips spasm in short, erratic thrusts. Every involuntary pump is coaxed on by the soft, pulsing grip of your pussy, sucking him, milking every drop until nothing’s left. You feel each hot spill spread inside you.
Within seconds, exhaustion swallows you both, and you slide off to the side, collapsing onto the mattress next to him.
Wetness spreads over his groin as you finally let him go. He breathes deep, panting like he’s run a marathon, and you match him — breathless, overheated, still trembling from the shared climax.
In the heavy silence of the room, you lazily lean in and press a slow kiss to his jaw, tasting the salt of sweaty skin.
He tilts his face slightly toward you.
“I’ll untie you in a minute.”
A laugh rumbles low in his chest, his lips pulling into a smile that makes his cheeks ache.
“Take all the time you want.” He licks his lips, amused.
You tilt your head toward him, the sparkle in his eyes making your lips mirror his grin.
“Happy?”
He nods, a little snort of laughter escaping him.
Your hands stretch to undo the knot.
He rubs his wrists for a second, then wraps his arms around you, pulling you close. You rest your head against his bare chest. There you go.
“Should we get up and get ready?”
“In a minute,” he presses a kiss into your hair, and you hum softly in response. His thumb strokes your cheek with gentle care.
Your eyes grow heavy, lids falling, and he feels your breathing slow against his chest; each cycle deeper, steadier.
His gaze drifts, as it always does, to that usual spot on your bookshelf. Where his eyes rest whenever he lets the silence of this room sink in.
For one suspended moment, between the warmth of your body and the golden slivers of sunlight filtering through the blinds, he lets his eyes close with yours.
He feels at home.