#Christian bale x reader

[makeyoumine69]

Farewell Serenade (Memory Reboot Epilogue)

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Patrick Bateman x gn!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You and Patrick are finally reunited, but there are still so many secrets the two of you have to unravel, and some of them could be dangerous, especially when the echoes of the past are still haunting you like ghosts.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Tainted love vibes, blood kink, oral sex, penetrative sex, body worship, hand jobs, anal fingering, cum shot, spanking, marking, teasing and humiliating, dirty talk and slurs, pet names, praise kink, dark themes, angst, hurt/comfort, obsession, self harm, mental issues, Patrick and reader are switches. I might have forgotten something because this chapter is long, so forgive me if I really did.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 14k

𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐄𝐂: VØJ, Asketa — Farewell Serenade; Vowl.,Sace — 2000; FM-84,Ollie Wride — Running in the Night.

𝐀/𝐍: Hello everyone! I don't even know what to say except that I will miss this story so much, but it will always be in my heart. I want to thank everyone who supported me on this journey, I love you all!💕

𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒: [MASTERLIST]; [SERIES MASTERLIST], [CHAPTER 5].

When was the last time you traveled outside of America? You didn't really remember because you never really felt the need to, but after all the stressful things that had happened in your life lately, your subconscious told you that you definitely needed a break—a reboot that would give your life a fresh start. So after the drug case was over, with the help of Vincent and your lawyer, who came to New York almost immediately when you needed them, you and Patrick didn't think much about going abroad—somewhere far away where no one could find you. And so it was that Vincent's random story about his last vacation in Germany, to Stuttgart to be exact, became the deciding factor in your choice of where to go. 

The flight to Stuttgart went as smoothly as possible, since Bateman couldn't stand anything but a private jet or the most expensive seats in first class, and although it wasn't your first time flying first class, this time it felt so different, so special and memorable. The thing that surprised you the most was that you didn't really talk much about all the shit that happened between you two. Although Patrick tried to bring it up several times, but after you asked him not to dwell on it and just enjoy the fact that the two of you were finally... Finally what? Together? 

At first this new reality was very strange and confusing.

All the negativity, anger, and despair began to disappear as you realized that happiness and the freedom to follow your own desires was the memory reboot machine you both were looking for. That only by accepting your true selves could you finally break the chains of depression that had been biting at your skin for so long.

A soft, barely perceptible breeze fanned your face and the sun shone brightly over Stuttgart, the scenery unfolding before your eyes more like a picturesque frame from a romance movie than reality. Even after spending several days in Germany, you couldn't believe that all these things around you were not a dream, but your new life. The villa you stayed in was absolutely amazing, as it had two floors and a huge outdoor terrace with a large pool—Patrick enjoyed swimming in it so much that one day he told you he was going to buy this villa. At first, you didn't believe him until he took you to the bank to close the deal. Was that necessary? Was it an act to show off his wealth? You never really asked, because you were taught that sometimes asking too many questions could only complicate your life, and you didn't want to spiral and start the cycle that you managed to break.

Sitting on the edge of the pool, you splashed the water with your legs. The sun reflected off the water, making it shimmer as if someone had poured a bucket of little diamonds into it, and little ripples appeared here and there as Bateman swam around, ass naked, and you couldn't really remember how you'd imagined seeing something like that, nor did you imagine that one day things that happened in real life would outshine your fantasies.

"What are you thinking about?" Patrick's velvety voice stopped your train of thoughts, and before you could even react you felt him grab your ankle—he was half in the water, hot and pumped up after his heavy workout. "You seem...worried?"

You frowned, but then chuckled as he tickled your inner thigh. "Nothing special," you replied, looking at him and leaning down to stroke his wet hair. "It's just... don't you think it was a bit imprudent to buy this house?"

The man chuckled. "Why not?"

"Patrick," you cupped his face with both hands, forcing him to concentrate on what you were about to say. "You don't have to pretend...you don't have to throw your money around like you're trying to buy everything and everyone...you don't have to do any of that...not with me."

Bateman didn't say anything, his prominent eyebrows knitted together, and you already knew what that meant—he was already overthinking, overreacting, overstepping his own emotional boundaries.

"Hey," you tried to pull him out of his stupor. "I didn't mean..."

"It's my money," Patrick suddenly blurted out, still frowning. "And I can do whatever I want with it."

God, this man always made trouble out of nothing.

But he was right. After all, his money was his to spend, and you could only give him advice or opinions he would never really care about—such an attitude only irritated him—having the last word was something he couldn't live without. He was addicted to being in control of the situation, of the person he was interacting with. It felt as if he had the chance to control the whole world, he would, but who were you to judge him when you had already promised yourself never to try to change or fix him. Just because Bateman never really needed someone to fix him, he needed someone to accept him for who he was while he tried to fix himself.

"You're not listening? Again?"

Patrick let go of your leg and swam away from where you were sitting. Sometimes his childish behavior really got on your nerves, although you imagined you were in his place, acting like a fucking teacher trying to explain such basic things as being more human to a bratty kid who never really wanted to know��what it was like? Being more in touch with humanity.

"Oh, God," you almost cussed, splashing water with your foot. "Don't be like that! I didn't say anything..." a palpable irritation erupted from your chest. "Well, maybe I did, but you know I didn't mean to insult you."

Watching him swim as smoothly as a fish in water, you gasped without even realizing it, your eyes catching every glimpse of his toned muscles, his firm ass sinking under the water, but you could still see the outline of it—you wanted to fucking get a bite of it—but the moment was probably ruined by your rather offensive remarks.

"We're not in a school," Patrick answered suddenly from a distance. "And I'm not a schoolboy to be offended," his grumbling caused a soft, barely audible chuckle to fall from your parted lips, and at some point you caught yourself thinking that you were ready to admit that you were wrong, just to end this caricature conflict. "Will you swim for once? Since the first day, you just sit on the lounge chair or something, but you never go in the water," he added, and you crossed your arms in defense. "Are you afraid of water or what?"

Don’t even start it.

"I... I don't really want to talk about it," you stammered nervously, brushing your hair, hoping he would catch your eloquent gesture and change the subject. "The scars are still fresh..."

"Scars?" He repeated your words and swam closer to you, placing himself between your open legs. "This is getting interesting."

"No-"

"Oh, yes," the man snickered amusedly, stroking the inner side of your legs with his wet hands, causing you to shiver. "You can tell me...I promise not to...uh...I promise to take it seriously."

This liar.

With a heavy sigh, you took a moment to think about whether you should have opened up to him completely or if it was not the right time. Were you really ready for this?

"When I was a kid, I almost drowned," you confessed openly, but curtly. "And, you won't believe it, but I can't even remember the last time I talked about it with anyone...because...it's not the kind of thing you want to talk about."

Patrick didn't interrupt you. He listened carefully and rested his chin on your knee. You didn't even notice how you cradled his face and stroked his cheek, then the top of his head, how his brown soft hair was soaked in water, making it look even longer than it usually did.

"Was it..." he began to speak, cautiously, as if afraid to say the wrong thing—it amazed you. "Someone's fault or..."

You shook your head. "No! It was nobody's fault... I was just a reckless kid, but after that I have a terrible phobia of anything that has to do with water."

"You don't take baths?"

Rolling your eyes, you wanted to push him under, but his cocky, boyish smile made you stop, and instead of doing what you thought would teach him a lesson, you wrapped your legs around his shoulders, pulling his closer, the man purring in return, nuzzling against your skin.

"Of course I meant open water," you almost whispered, your voice getting deeper, softer, laced with not just arousal but pure affection. "That unfortunate day I was in LA with my family and there was a storm or something...but it didn't stop me from wanting to find some starfish...I literally ran away from my parents and got into the water...before I was washed away by a huge wave."

"I never thought you were such a bratty child," Bateman murmured, grazing the sensitive flesh of your thigh, his lips sucking the little marks his teeth left. "But now I'd remember that you can be even more foolhardy than you already are."

Bastard...my bastard.

Still amazed at his unnatural concern, you bent down to peck him on the forehead, but the moment you did, you almost slipped into the water, and Patrick, instead of preventing it, only helped you to literally fall into his arms, and once you were in the water, you squealed.

"Oh, GOD!" You panicked and began to wriggle nervously in the water. "WHY DID YOU DO THAT?"

To your irritation, Bateman just laughed and held you closer. "Shh, I've got you," he grinned and wrapped his hands around your waist, lifting you up a bit. "You don't have to worry when I'm around, you know?"

Reluctantly, you wrapped your arms around his strong neck and let him press you against his chest. "Really?"

"Any doubts?"

The water was so warm, but his body was much warmer, you could practically feel the tightness of his muscles as he swam to the side, still holding you close; his question was hanging heavy in the air as you didn't know what to say. Did you really feel safe in his arms? 

"Do you really care what I think?" You asked him back, your eyes wandering down to his parted lips.

"Answering a question with another question..." he whispered above your ear, his nose brushing gently, almost sensually, along your cheek. "...is a thing I hate so fucking much..." With that, Patrick grabbed your ass, his mouth so close to yours. "Have the guts to tell me you don't trust me..."

"That's not....what I wanted to say," you gasped into his lips as the two of you became more and more aroused, twirling in the water like a couple of swans. "I trust you, I really do!" 

"'But something's wrong anyway?"

"No..."

"Do you think I'll hurt you again?" Bateman asked, looking intently into your eyes, his arms wrapped around your shaking body, although you were no longer panicking. "Leave you? Fool you?"

With a loud exhale, you tried to push him away, but he wouldn't let you.  "Stop it," you replied curtly. "Stop putting words in my mouth, okay?" 

For a brief moment, the two of you just stared at each other, at your intertwined limbs, your naked flesh, the way your breath mingled in a rapid flow—you were more connected than either of you could truly imagine. But if you were about to admit it, you couldn't be so sure that Bateman felt the same way about you.

"Look, we never really talked about it," you continued after a pause. "We never talked about us."

Now it was his turn to turn away and distance himself from you, but as soon as he let you go, an icy fear paralyzed you and made you cling to his shoulders, no matter how pathetic you looked.

"For God's sake...you're not going to drown...it's a fucking pool!" Patrick's words hit you like a high-speed train, but you didn't let him go.

After a short sigh the man leaned his broad back against the wall of the pool, your hands were still on his shoulders and he didn't take them off—a good sign, you thought as you slowly and carefully squeezed his muscles. Patrick let out a shaky gasp, you smiled at his reaction, but you were still not ready to let go of the current conversation.

"Patrick," you began in the sweetest voice you could muster before gently kissing his temple. "I just want to know-"

"Know what? Do you really want me to... confess or something?" His face broke into a wry, nervous grin. "In that case, I've got some bad news for you."

Why can't he shut up for a few seconds?

Annoyed, you suddenly put your hand over his mouth, shutting him up completely, causing his eyebrows to arch in shock at your audacity. "I don't need any confessions, believe me," you muttered, pushing him harder against the marble wall behind him, completely forgetting that you were both still in the water. "I just want you to stop talking for me... and giving my words the wrong meaning. Is that too much to ask?"

When you removed your hand, you didn't really expect him to say no; you just crushed your lips against his, not even giving him a chance to react and take control back into his hands. But to be honest, Bateman didn't really struggle, on the contrary, he made a muffled sound as you sucked on his tongue, your mouth so eagerly dominating his hot one.

"Fuck," he cursed between kisses. "You're driving me crazy."

"I know," you replied, wrapping your legs around his waist under the water, his strong hands resting on the edge of the pool, watching you tilt your head back and almost immediately taking it as a call to action, leaning forward to kiss your neck. "Mhmm-we're not going to count that as a confession, are we?"

You could hear him moan softly in response, his soft lips pecking at your skin, sending tingles up your nerve endings, setting them on fire, but you did your best to keep yourself together, not wanting to give up first—not when you had another fight... or maybe this wasn't a fight at all?

Patrick didn't leave you much time to think, to breathe, to resist when his hands found their way to your body again, but this time he acted much more possessive, groping your curves with such a strong excitement as if he was doing it for the first time. Panting softly, you hugged him and pulled him closer to you so that you were literally hanging on to him with your hands and legs. The water supported both of you from underneath, giving you a strange feeling of weightlessness. It felt surreal and incredible. For a second, you stopped doing everything to just look at him, to make sure he was real. 

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" He asked as soon as he noticed your confusion. 

Damn all the nicknames he used, as well as his ability to use them. "Nothing...just making sure everything is real," you chuckled a bit shyly. "That I'm not sleeping."

"You're not," Bateman sneered, pushing his hips against yours to grind along your pubic bone - you almost lost it. "Because I'm going to make you feel much better than you can imagine in your dreams."

"That's very arrogant of you," you teased him back, but in the next second you moaned as the man subtly slid his hand between your bodies to rub your most sensitive spot between your legs. "But I... I like it..."

A low, soft chuckle escaped his chest. He was playing with you again, but only because you let him. At least you wanted to think so—it made you less embarrassed, but after all, there was nothing wrong with being obedient to a man you thought you were in love with. Especially if he didn't mind being a little submissive for you as well. 

A bit later, when your lips were puffy from the kisses and you were both so drenched in water that you were starting to cool down even though your bodies were radiating an immense amount of heat, Bateman lifted you out of the water without saying anything and placed you on the edge of the pool while he still remained in the water.

"Huh?" You huffed and looked down at him, confused. 

"Relax," he winked and spread your legs, stroking them as if preparing you for something bigger. "Told you, I got you. Always."

Always.

That one word stuck in your mind like an engraving you never asked for, but now you couldn't even imagine your life without him: his walnut eyes, his deep baritone and all those little moles that covered his perfect body... Everything about him was too much, it was overwhelming. If you could fucking drink him up like some kind of medicine that would flow through your system, if you could become one with him in the most direct sense of the word, to know his thoughts, to understand his mind...

It was never enough—you always wanted more, but now, when he was right between your spread thighs, his mouth exploring your tender flesh, inch by inch, his lips sucking and kissing you here and there, forcing you to shiver and grab his hair to bring him closer, and he didn't protest or scold you for pulling his hair—maybe you had a mental connection, an invisible thread connecting your brains, because Patrick could literally know exactly what you wanted. He knew where to pull and where to push, everything he did felt amazing, like he was inside your head.

"Patrick...fuck...it f-feels so fucking right," you whimpered before bringing a finger to your mouth and then having to bite down on it to stifle the moans as Bateman increased the pace of his caresses, his mouth relentless and his hands holding you in place—spread out and open for him. "Oh shit, keep going...please..."

Smirking, the man let out a wet pop as he pulled away from your core to look at you. "You don't have to ask," he licked his glistening lips, savoring the taste of you on them. "Though I do like it when you beg for me."

Of course you do, slut.

You didn't say it out loud, your finger was still in your mouth as you balanced on the edge of falling apart as Patrick went down on you again, helping himself with his hands as you trembled more and more—he wanted to see you unravel under his touch, collapse right into his mouth and you were more than happy to give it to him.

"A-ahhh...Pat-Patrick...mmm-yes...keep using your mouth like that," you encouraged him, quivering and barely breathing, your teeth almost sinking into your skin from how hard you were biting your finger. "Fuck...I'm so fucking close..." you pinched your hard nipple, your legs shaking in his grip. "Mmm...I love it...a-arhhh-fucking love it so much..."

An overwhelming pulse coursed through your veins, you thought you were going to faint, but Patrick's raspy voice became your anchor to reality amidst this madness, your heartbeat pounding against your eardrums like a hammer. One second—his mouth so hot against your flesh; two seconds—you couldn't control yourself anymore as his growl sent little vibrations that pushed you over the edge and then you finally imploded, letting a shock wave crush you. Bateman didn't stop even when you grabbed his hands from being too overstimulated, as he literally drank you dry. 

"Damn it, Bateman!" You yelled, staring down at him. "Slow down... do you want to kill me or what?"

Just as you said it, the man stopped and blinked several times—there was something off about his reaction, but when you tried to pull away, he shook his head as if trying to fight the sudden delusion.

"Are you okay?" Your voice was so shaky when you asked him that, but you were really worried.

Panting, Patrick wiped his lips with the back of his hand and finally got out of the pool to hover over you, lifting your legs with a practiced motion and bending them to press against your chest. "If I wanted to kill you," he said suddenly, aligning himself with your tight opening. "I'd kill you already...I've had so many chances."

"What? W-what are you talking about..." You wanted to ask him what the hell it was, but he never let you; the man was as selfish as ever when it came to fucking you.

Bateman pressed you harder to the floor, leaning on his hands, his biceps flexing as he began to move inside you, slowly at first, but with each passing second his thrusting became harder and faster, as if he was trying to lose himself in you. There was nothing gentle about it—you were facing the whole other side of him—you could tell by the way he was grinding his hips against yours. The level of penetration was so deep that you could feel the curve of his dick brushing mercilessly against the walls of your inner channel, causing you to literally writhe under him, not really knowing if you wanted to push him back or pull him closer.

At one point, his thrusts were so painful that you had to claw at his skin, but that didn't stop him, it just made him go faster. You could hear his balls slapping against your ass with such a loud noise that it made you close your eyes in embarrassment, and you weren't usually a shy person, but... dear God, this man was like a barrel of power and you never knew when it would explode and if you would survive.

"Patrick...mhmm...so deep...fuck!" You couldn't help but moan, your legs lifted so high that they almost floated over your shoulders. "Wait..."

You tried to call out to him, but he seemed not to be listening, his brain clouded with a crimson fog of rage, violence, brutality, and God only knew what else. But here, with you, he didn't dare to hurt you the way he always loved to hurt people and it made him sick that you became his personal kryptonite and if someone dared to touch you even with a finger—he would fucking destroy that person.

"FUCK," the man cursed loudly, as if he had finally come back to reality. "Why are you like this?" Patrick snuggled against you even tighter, pinning your wrists above your head and jackhammering into you with reckless abandon. "Why do you let me... do this to you... fuck... you're so fucking... mine... that it hurts..."

"Pat!" You squealed as you felt him push too deep into you, his dick definitely hitting your belly. "I want you to... listen to me," you blurted out in a breathless voice, the words coming out like a broken record. "...and calm down. Please!"

Bateman let out a guttural growl and wrapped his hands around your neck, not squeezing it, at least not yet. Whimpering, you wanted to claw at his flesh, even though you knew he hated any marks on his perfect skin, but now, when he was about to lose his mind for sure, you thought it was the right choice. Without hesitation, you grabbed his hands that were still around your neck, almost scratching him, and he hissed, but never really stopped pounding into you.

"I love you," you blurted out abruptly, losing your own breath as you realized what you had just said, but you didn't hesitate to repeat it again, more confidently. "I love you so much that I can't even find the right words to express my feelings!"

And now you finally managed to reach out to him through the red veil of lust that clouded his consciousness—the man stopped, his eyes searching desperately for yours only to look somewhere behind you—he was shocked, frightened and speechless. 

Maybe this was not the right time, but you couldn't rewind time.

After a short pause, Bateman shook his head as if trying to wake up. "These... sentiments..." he murmured barely perceptibly, still deep inside you but not moving. "I never thought you were capable of them."

"Why? Am I inhuman?"

"No-"

"So are you," you cupped his face, his skin literally scorching your hands with its heat - he was burning from the inside out, but you didn't care. "You're more human than you think...believe me."

For a gliding second, the two of you just stared at each other as he suddenly removed your hands and pulled away from you—it all happened so fast you didn't even have time to think. One moment you were one, and the next you were lying alone, naked and soaked with water, watching the love of your life walk into the house without saying a word.

Why does he always have to be like this?

Barely holding back your tears, you slowly stood up and, unlike Patrick, took the towel and wrapped it around your aching body. How could he leave you like that? You decided to open up and he just left? Without saying a word?

Crybaby. 

Your first thought was to follow him and confront him for acting like a fucking schoolboy, but you stopped yourself and decided it wasn't worth it—you would let him have it his way, because you didn't want to stoop to his level, you weren't pathetic. But if he wanted to be pathetic, you wouldn't interfere— being a babysitter wasn't appealing to you.

Later that day, as the sun began to set and it became a little cooler, you were still sitting outside, not really wanting to go inside, even though you were about to freeze to death, you preferred to be alone. Sitting on the soft lounge chair, you wrapped yourself in a white fluffy robe, even though you dried yourself, you still felt uncomfortable, as if Patrick's last words stuck to your skin like something slippery. Something you couldn't scrub off even if you wanted to. 

Trapped in your thoughts, you found yourself thinking about just going back to America. Yes, you could just leave this place without even talking to him and pay him back with his methods. The question was, would that make you feel better? You doubted it.

A short, refreshing breeze blew around you, making you curl up on the chair like a cat. Too overwhelmed with various ideas, thoughts, excuses you could find to somehow escape this whole situation, you didn't notice an approaching figure. Gracefully as ever, Bateman appeared right next to where you were resting. He was wearing nothing but white sweatpants, his hair still wet and slicked back. When you spotted him, you were not surprised—on the contrary, you expected him to come back, because this man was impatient and always craving attention, but this time there was something strange about him—you examined his posture only to see two glasses in his hands.

"Here," the man offered you a glass with a golden liquid in it—probably whiskey. "This will help you warm up."

Devoid of any emotion, you turned away from him, demonstrating that you didn't want to talk to him, didn't want to see him, and didn't feel like having a drink.

"Listen, I want to tell you something," Bateman continued his attempts, even though his agenda was still unknown to you. "You're going to need this." With that, the man placed a glass on the lounge chair next to your feet, before nestling into the chair on the other side of you. "One day I decided to go to the Tunnel, where I met a girl," he paused and took a sip of his drink, not really looking your way, as if afraid to meet your gaze. "She was pretty... not really beautiful, but pretty. And she was young, I could say she was very young...but already so wrecked."

The way he chuckled—the dark edge in his voice—made something heavy fall into your stomach and you took the glass of whiskey, your hands suddenly shaking, cold shivers running down your spine. The pause was getting too long, but you had no intention of rushing him. 

"So I took her back to my place, and she was drunk as hell by then," you could see his fingers tighten around the glass until his knuckles turned white. "The bitch couldn't keep her mouth shut for a second. And then we fucked, but I didn't feel anything until I finally got my hands around her neck."

Eventually, you were glad that he had given you a moment to digest everything he had said. A sudden numbness washed over you, making it difficult to bring the glass to your lips, but when you managed to take a sip, the sharp alcohol burned your throat. But it didn't help. Not even a little.

With a shaky gasp, Bateman dared to look at you. "The thrill of the kill... was the only thing that could make me feel anything, but when I thought I was going to end her here and now... I realized she wasn't fighting," he paused again to finish his glass in one quick gulp. "She was fucking begging me to kill her... can you imagine that?"

You didn't know what to say, you were literally at a loss for words as itching tears began to well up in your eyes, and it had nothing to do with fear, it was all about the pain—you could feel it in every word he had just said. The unbridled, raw pain of a desperate man you happened to fall in love with.

"Why... why did you tell me all this?" You asked in a raspy voice.

"Because," he turned suddenly in your direction, almost getting up from the lounge chair, his breathing labored and uneasy. "I want you to know who you're dealing with... since you said you loved me..." Every word he said sent a shiver down your spine, adding to the already cold air surrounding you. "It's not too late to take back your words..."

"No. Not gonna happen," you cut him off, sipping more whiskey. What the hell was he talking about, how could you take back your words when you were absolutely sincere when you said them? "Even if I had the chance to erase your memory or use a time machine and go back in time... I wouldn't do it. Because I meant it when I said it, I really did, and you know it! That's why you're trying to push me away now, right? With all these spooky stories?"

Bateman didn't flinch even when you literally snapped at him, towering over his seated form and nearly splashing the contents of your glass right into his blank face. And now he decided to act as if nothing had happened? Now? After he literally dumped all that emotional mess on you like a bucket of cold water?

"I know it was stupid of me to even mention love... feelings... but instead of all this nonsense, you could just tell me that you despise me," you croaked through the tears that were stuck in your throat like a lump. "Because what you said...it's not funny to speculate about it!"

"It's never supposed to be funny!" Patrick retaliated and stood up as well, now standing very close to you, your lips just inches away. "Nobody takes me seriously! I'm so fucking sick of it!" His furious temper seemed to finally take over, revealing the true side of his personality, and you risked being drawn into its darkness. "Believe it or not... but that day when you called me from Paul Allen's place... I was ready to kill that bastard if I found out he touched you with his finger!"

Bateman's cruel words triggered the memories you never really wanted to remember—that fucking party you went to at Paul's apartment, those fucking hookers or models...or whatever they called themselves. Those fuckers who drugged your drink and tried to get their hands on you. That one moment when you rushed into the dimly lit living room to pick up the phone and dial the only number you could think of to hear the voice of a person who hated you the most, but at that moment felt like the only lifeline you could dream of. And when Patrick didn't pick up, each beep was agonizing and heavy—you thought you would die without hearing his voice.

Astonished, you nervously fixed your hair and let out a heavy breath. "You would...you would do what?" Your question wasn't supposed to sound like mockery, but it probably did, because the next thing you heard was a muffled crunch. "What..."

You didn't finish your sentence because you simply couldn't comprehend what had just happened—that crunching sound was the glass that Patrick simply crushed in his hand while you tried to call out to him through the depraved prism of his twisted mind—crimson drops of blood painted the floor in intricate ornaments, forcing your stomach to churn.

Why... Why are you doing this? Why do you want to hurt yourself so badly?

"Holy Christ!" You finally managed to blurt out, taking his injured hand in yours to open it and see the wound. "Why did you do that?!"

"And why do you care?" Was all he replied, staring at you through his half-lidded eyes. "You think everything I say is bullshit. Maybe this is not real either?"

And then, all of a sudden, he grabbed your hand with his bloody one, you could feel the shards of glass almost sink into your flesh, and even though they never did, you could feel the pain—his pain.

Pain. Everything is about pain.

"Please, Patrick," you almost begged, but didn't take your hand away as you watched the scarlet liquid cover more of your own skin. "Let me help you."

Bateman's cheeks flushed, a thin sheen of sweat covered his beautiful face, but he didn't even hiss, as if he didn't really feel any physical pain—that was terrifying, but you didn't falter. Carefully, without any hasty movements, you forced him to follow you into the house, avoiding the broken glass on the floor. 

The man didn't say a word, he was in some kind of trance, you couldn't even remember seeing something like this before, but now was not the time to ponder about it, not when he was bleeding like this. You had to use the sleeve of your robe to keep him from gushing out and staining the house.

As you dragged him into the bathroom, you opened the mirror cabinet to retrieve the first aid kit and found some bandages, antiseptic and tweezers. Humming something to yourself in desperation, you glanced into the mirror to see him suddenly slide to the floor with his eyes closed.

"Patrick!" You yelled and ran to him. What if he had damaged the veins? What if you could not stop the bleeding? "Look at me, don't close your eyes!"

As soon as you touched his face, the man brushed your hand away as if swatting an annoying fly. "I'm fine," he said, gritting his teeth, but no matter how hard he tried to hide the tremor in his voice, you could hear that nerve—he was crying. "Just... give me the damn bandages. I'll take care of myself."

"Are you...crying?"

Gently, as if he were made of porcelain, you tilted his chin up and brushed his wet strands away, his usually sparkling eyes so dull and empty it made your heart shrink in pain, but you didn't give up. Ignoring the overwhelming fear, you unpacked the bandages and soaked one of them in the antiseptic before pressing it against the wound, but then you just poured the liquid all over his bleeding hand when you realized there were too many small shards embedded in his flesh.

Embarrassed, Bateman could only sob softly, and he didn't even try to pretend that his defenses weren't down with the first tear that slid down his cheek. "I'm sorry," he murmured abruptly, sniffling and shaking his head from side to side. "I didn't want it to end like this."

"Shh," you stroked his hair with your free hand. "Let's talk about this later." As you blew on his wound to soothe the itchiness of the antiseptic, you didn't even notice the way Patrick was looking at you under his messy bangs—he was looking at you like you were some kind of miracle—if only he could go back in time and not say all those things about him being a fucking psycho. But then again, would it be fair to keep that from you, knowing how dangerous it could be for you? "Uh, I'm not sure I can pull out all the pieces...maybe it's better to go to the hospital?

"Fuck that," Bateman snapped, swallowing his salty tears. "Not an option."

With a weary sigh, you took the tweezers and began to pick the pieces of broken glass out of his hand—if someone told you one day that you'd be sitting on the cold bathroom floor covered in Patrick's blood because that idiot forgot how to use the glasses, you wouldn't believe it. 

"You're the most stubborn man I've ever met," you said with a wry smile. "The most arrogant and self-centered and selfish..."

"Okay, okay!" Bateman held up his hand as a white flag. "I get it. No need to keep repeating it-uh!"

As soon as you heard him squeal in pain after pulling out the large shard of glass, you stopped in your tracks, barely holding the tweezers in your hand. "Oh, sorry!" You quickly apologized. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I'll be more careful!"

As you leaned down to better concentrate on your task, the man suddenly pulled you closer with his uninjured arm to press his heated mouth against yours. The kiss was nothing like the ones you had shared before—you could taste his tears, the saltiness of them, the agony and despair. At first you wanted to break away and scold him for being reckless and foolish, but he was the first to break the kiss, only to bring his bloody finger to your parted lips. On the verge of losing your grip on reality, you closed your eyes and allowed him to push his finger inside.

What is this madness with a copper-like taste?

Maybe this man was really a demon sent straight from hell to torment people and find out their most depraved desires, their true nature, which turned out to be something sinful and deranged?  Who else could he be if he could make you do such twisted things? If he could make you lose control and forget what the word "normalcy" even meant?

While you were busy processing the questions that would never be answered, the two of you were still pressed tightly together, the bloody kisses on your lips and then your neck only increasing the risk of losing your sanity here and now. However, the tweezers you held in your hand became your anchor to reality as the cold metal almost bit into your skin with its sharpness. 

"Patrick," you purred against his red lips, catching your breath. "Are we crazy? I know it's a stupid question, considering everything that's happened between us..."

"I guess you could say I've plagued you with my craziness...but I'm not sorry for it," he crooned in a mischievous voice, his lips curled into a slight smirk. "And I don't want you to take it as a joke or romanticize it."

How could he say that after he literally made you suck his bloody fingers? But wasn't it you who allowed him to do it? Who craved that in the first place? That thrilling aura of danger, mystery and darkness that always surrounded Bateman like a second skin. 

"I'm not gonna leave you," you said briefly, continuing to clean his hand of the shards. "I've lost too many people I care about."

Patrick listened intently without arguing, ignoring the urge to hug you again, to comfort you, to reassure you that you would never lose him, because this was not about him, this was about your safety. Your words about him being selfish stuck in his head like an obsessive melody. 

Selfish, egocentric, unsympathetic—a perfect bundle of traits for a psychopath like him.

The day you were about to leave and go back to New York, you couldn't sleep. When you woke up early in the morning, you rolled onto your back. The birds were chirping peacefully in the distance, and you were somehow jealous that you couldn't be as serene as those cute little creatures. Unlike you, Bateman slept like a baby on his side, holding a pillow and sometimes jerking slightly—probably having a vivid dream or something—his right hand was still healing, but thankfully the wound wasn't bleeding anymore. Although you were not well rested, you thought it would be more productive to get up and finish packing your things since you had a flight in the afternoon. Quietly, you pulled down the blanket and sat down on the side of the bed, but then you heard Patrick's muffled whimper, which startled you a bit.

Oh, no, not him having another nightmare.

Concerned, you crawled back onto the bed and hugged the shivering man from behind. "Shh, it's okay," you whispered into his ear, pecking the back of his head before nuzzling his neck—the mixture of his cologne and aftershave hitting your nostrils like an intoxicating haze. "This is just a bad dream."

Noticing that he was relaxing a bit, you slowly began to roll back onto your side of the bed, but suddenly his strong hands cupped yours, causing you to hug him tighter in a silent plea. This was not something he usually did—it stirred a deep feeling of affection in you—even in his sleep, Patrick seemed to have control over everything, including you, but now it was different.

For a moment you weren't sure if it was right to wake him up like that, but then you thought it was better than just shaking him and telling him he was having a nightmare. Also, how many times did Bateman not care if you were sleeping or not when he just got on top of you and started fucking you mercilessly? Well, you never protested or complained about it, but after all, you were not him.

When the man made the same sound again, you had to push all thoughts away—you would have plenty of time to think about things—now all you could think about was the softness of his skin, the shallowness of his breathing, the strong grip of his hands on yours. Patrick needed you, and that was the most tempting thing of all.

With a quick movement, you slid your hand under the blanket to caress his perfect tiddies one by one, the tip of your finger teasing his nipple with feathery touches. God, the things you wanted to do to this man frightened you in ways you never thought you could even imagine. 

Now was the time when you could finally agree with his statement about plaguing you with his insanity, for how else could you describe it? 

"Mmm," Bateman's low gasp that fell from his parted lips echoed through the bedroom as you lowered your hand and stroked his hard bulge in his Calvin Klein briefs. "I didn't kill her...I didn't," his mumbling was growing more and more erratic. "I just...wanted that bitch to shut her mouth..."

You couldn't hear it anymore. "Patrick, Patrick!" You called his name and shook him slightly. "It's just a nightmare! Please come back to me!"

Just as you said these words, his body went limp in your embrace, some cold buds of sweat sliding down his forehead as he opened his startled eyes and looked up at you. Bateman remained silent, his hands unclasping yours only to grasp the sheets in a violent grip. 

"What time is it now?" He asked as if nothing had happened.

"'Too early for you to worry about that," you tried to hug him again, but he pulled away. "You had a bad dream. Maybe it was not the best idea to watch horror movies before bed last night?"

Patrick sneered into the pillow, and although you couldn't see his face, you knew he was smiling. "I... I didn't mean to wake you."

"But you didn't-"

"I hate it, I fucking hate seeing any dreams," the man suddenly replied through clenched teeth, then Patrick looked at his bandaged hand—he was trembling. "Do you... do you see them too?"

"Most people do," you replied, planting a light kiss on his temple, his soft hair tickling your nose. "I think you just miss New York and your familiar surroundings. When we get back, you'll feel better, I'm sure. But for now, is there anything I can do to help you relax?"

Damn, that probably sounds so cheesy.

Finally, Bateman turned to look at you. "You can finish what you started," he replied with that classic boy-next-door smile that was his favorite and most useful weapon in seducing people, and you were no exception. Sometimes you hated being so weak to it, though. "I think I missed the moment when you became so bold, darling."

The air in the room was thick with tension, the little electric impulses cursed through your system by his raspy voice, which was nothing but a testament to his arousal and it only fueled your desire to make him moan, writhe like a caged bird, to make him cum on the sheets and still ask for more.

"Oh, I forgot the last time you called me like that," you droned, wrapping your hands around his waist and pressing against his tight ass. "Was it when I fucked you with that dildo I found in your little secret box?"

Meanwhile, you used the moment of his confusion to dip your palm into his underwear—his tender flesh was burning like fire—you had to use all your willpower to stop yourself from biting his neck. Patrick's panting became more uneven with each passing moment, but when you began to rub his swollen tip, smearing his thick pre-cum around it, he literally arched his back like a bowstring.

"You like it when I take care of you?" You licked his earlobe, then grazed it a bit, causing a low moan to erupt from his chest, but you needed more—you craved it like oxygen—the power he allowed you to bear was too addictive. "Talk to me... I want to hear my sweet boy."

Patrick groaned louder as you gave his dick a long, hard pump. "Damn," he closed his eyes and blushed uncontrollably. "Feels good... so f-fucking good."

Impulsively, you drowned out his moans with a lingering kiss, your tongue slipping along his in a relentless battle for dominance until he let you have your way and you sucked on his tongue with all your might, your hand massaging his tight sack, then switching back to rubbing his shaft and then his red-hot tip again. Eventually Bateman began to thrash around on the bed, thrusting into your hand, and you picked up the pace, jerking him off more vigorously, the wet, sloppy sound driving you both crazy. Each time the two of you had sex, the outside world ceased to exist; there was just the two of you, your inflamed bodies, your most sinful desires...

"Fuck," Patrick cursed, gripping the edge of the bed with one hand and pulling you closer with the other as you kissed again and again until your lips began to hurt. "How did you get inside my head... so fucking easy?"

It was not easy at all.

If only he could understand that.

With a mischievous grin, you nipped at his Adam's apple, then moved lower to his chest, flicking your tongue around his taut nipple and sucking on it with undisguised greed, but then you had to shush him with your mouth when he became too noisy.

"You've got a lot of secrets to unravel about me, baby," you sneered condescendingly and pinched his engorged peak, making him whimper so pathetically that you began to regret not taking that dildo with you. "Uh, you're shaking so bad already. Do you want to stain these expensive sheets again?" You teased him, your grip like a tight ring around his balls, squeezing them so perfectly that you could feel his dick pulsing in desperation for release. "Not that I care, but... I remember you telling me that you love to keep every drop of your cum inside me..."

With that, you gave his thick cock several quick strokes before letting go and moving your hand from his groin to his toned butt for a squeeze and then, before you knew it, you were outlining the rim of his puckered hole.

"Oh shit," Bateman bit his wet lower lip, his face flushed like fucking tomato juice. "You're not going to get away with this...you know that?"

You just giggled in reply. "Don't you think that's kinda irrelevant to say when you're lying here all splayed out for me like a bitch in heat?” You slapped his ass without a second thought. "I know what you're made of..." Another slap that made him moan. "I know what you want..."

"Oh yeah? And what is that... what do I want?"

By this time you were almost on top of him, grinding against his muscular body, but not afraid of him snapping at you, it took you several seconds to lubricate your fingers with your saliva before you plunged them into his tight inner channel, sending shivers right through his core, and it was fucking delirious to see him trembling like that and to know that you were the reason for it.

"This... this is what you want," you explained, pushing your fingers deeper before pulling them out and repeating the motion, stimulating his prostate with precise accuracy. "You're tired of being in charge all the time...and you wanted someone to take care of you without finding it your weakness."

And you were not even going to ask him to accept it—you just knew it was true—it was written in his every moan, every jerk of his hips as you were fingerfucking his ass. Everything was perfect the way it was—you were perfect for each other, no matter what flaws you both had, because ultimately these flaws were what made you you.

When there were no more words to be said and the sun began to rise, the two of you were still following the electrifying momentum of raw, unbridled lust. Moaning into each other's mouths, you continued to thrust your fingers as deep as you could, finding the best rhythm, while Bateman couldn't hold back any longer as he desperately jerked off in sync with your fingers until his whole body was strained to the point of exploding like a bomb. A loud moan of pure satisfaction pierced the room as he finally erupted in thick ropes that covered his flat stomach, but he never stopped pumping himself, not even when he began to suffocate.

"Good boy," you watched him convulse like a leaf shaking in the wind. "You're such a good boy to me. I love you."

For a brief moment, your heavy breathing was the only sound in the bedroom, as if everything outside it was nonexistent. There were no barriers, just you and him—his hand in your hand—his soul intertwined with yours.

Huffing, Patrick gasped greedily for air, but then, when your eyes met, he seemed to stop breathing again—the inner conflict could be seen behind those two dark pools that were his eyes. "I love y-you too...but if you ever dare to leave me again...I promise I will find you...and kill you."

Later that day, you took a cab to the airport. And even though you personally didn't care which class, business or first, you flew, Bateman grumbled the whole way, arguing that he hated being crowded.

"Next time we'll take a private jet," he grumbled, his hands crossed over his chest, the Rolex shimmering in the sunlight. "Why did I ever follow your advice?"

Rolling your eyes, you wanted to reply with something cocky, but then you noticed the way he fiddled with his fingers, nervously trying to hide his wounded hand. "Just because you have a lot of money doesn't mean you have to spend it like crazy," you explained, gently taking his injured hand in yours. "But next time, I won't give you any advice. Deal?"

From the confusion you could read in his face, it seemed to you that Bateman hadn't expected anything like that from you, and you were so damned pleased with yourself, because you were finally on the right track to understanding how to treat him properly, so that he would reciprocate with the same attitude. But even the most perfect mechanisms could break down sometimes.

"Oh, well," he sighed, looking down at your clasped hands, but not removing his own. "I didn't mean that I don't like your advice..."

"Forget it," you cut him off, smiling as you frowned at your words. "Really, it's nothing. I'm not your Mommy or Daddy to lecture you about your money.” 

"I think I've heard that before."

"Maybe."

"Mommy and Daddy," Patrick suddenly laughed like a maniac. "You know... I can be your Daddy if you want..."

"Jesus Christ, Bateman! Don't even start!" You nudged his shoulder slightly, but it only emboldened him to scoop you into his arms and seal your lips with his soft, loving ones. "How do you manage to say the cringiest things at the most inappropriate times?"

"Cringiest things?"

Dear Lord, have mercy.

Just as you were about to answer, the taxi driver suddenly turned around and gave you both a cheerful, genuine smile. "Wir sind fast da." (We're almost there)

Confused, Bateman narrowed his eyes before averting them from the cabbie, pretending to look in the window. As much as you wanted to laugh and tease him for his childish behavior, you returned a friendly smile to the driver and murmured: "Vielen Dank! Was kostet die Reise?" (Thank you! How much for the ride?)

The driver pointed to the meter, you nodded, and pulled out your wallet. "Bitte sehr. Behalten Sie den Rest." (Here you go. Keep the rest)

The longer Patrick remained silent, the more he looked like a small child who was offended that no one was paying attention to him. When the car pulled up at Stuttgart Airport, you thanked the driver and got out of the car before Bateman could say anything.

After taking your luggage, the two of you entered the busy area of the airport, people were rushing here and there, which of course made Patrick even more annoyed.

"I didn't know you could speak German," he managed to get the words out, but he still looked insulted. "Was it necessary to act like that?"

Hello, my name is Patrick Bateman and I'm a 27-year-old kid who can't stand being ignored for five fucking minutes.

Irritated, you stopped abruptly and he almost bumped into you. "First of all, I studied German in college, and since the company I worked for in Chicago did business with a lot of German partners, I needed to revive my knowledge," you blurted out, extending a finger in a stay-the-fuck-up gesture. "Second, I've been speaking German a lot since we got here, and you never bothered to notice! Really, Patrick? And what do you mean, was that necessary? Paying the taxi driver and thanking him for the ride? Are you serious?"

"I was talking to Bryce." Bateman's sudden words hit you like an avalanche of rocks.

For a fleeting second, you didn't even know what to say. What were they talking about? Had Bryce told him about the night you had spent together? Or rather, the nights. Shit, oh shit. That was bad. You knew it was going to be so bad for you because you kept it a secret and hid it from Patrick, but on the other hand, it wasn't cheating because, fuck it, Bateman married Evelyn just to make you what? Jealous?

"When did you ever find the time to do that?" You asked, trying to shake the anxiety off your shoulders.

"When you were in the shower before we left," Patrick's eyes scanned your face with a mysterious interest that made you swallow hard. "He invited us to Shinnecock Hills Golf Club, the one on the eastern tip of Long Island. A fucking golf club, can you imagine? That blonde bitch has already changed him so much."

"Blonde bitch?"

"Evelyn Williams."

"Uh, oh, yeah, Evelyn," you made a thoughtful face as if you could hardly remember who it was, when in fact you knew everything all too well, starting with the fact that Tim and Evelyn had been fucking behind Bateman's back before they got divorced, since Bryce had told you about it when you met several times after Patrick and Evelyn's wedding. You and Timothy used to fuck until you witnessed Bryce's meltdown over his fucked up relationship with Evelyn Williams. "It's just... you talk about it as casually as if you weren't married to her once."

"Was I?" Bateman arched his eyebrows theatrically and rubbed his chin. "I don't remember."

"We're going to miss our flight if we keep rumbling like this," you complained, pointing to the large information board. "And...I didn't know you guys loved golf?"

The two of you exchanged a few sly glances before heading for the gate where your plane was waiting for you. A plane that would take you back to the crazy city life of New York, the city you swore you would never visit again, but as the saying goes—never say never. 

My life was like a comedy that turned out to be a drama and I was the director who screwed up the script.

Imagine yourself praying that today would be bad weather, rain, thunderstorm or fucking snow (even though it made absolutely no sense) and you wouldn't have to go to the golf club to see Tim and Evelyn and pretend that nothing happened. If Patrick could pretend that nothing happened between the four of you, why was it so hard for you, almost impossible? You also had to take into account the fact that Patrick still didn't know about you and Bryce, and you had serious doubts that he would be as indifferent about it as he was about Timothy and Evelyn's affair behind his back, or maybe it wasn't even behind his back and he knew everything from the beginning? This did not make it easy for you to understand how you all got into this situation. Why did he marry Evelyn in the first place? 

"Hey, are you okay?" a familiar female voice pulled you out of the swamp of thoughts and when you raised your eyes you saw her—Evelyn Williams in the flesh. Even though the last time you had seen her was at her wedding with Patrick, which seemed to be so long ago (but wasn't), the woman didn't seem to have changed at all. "The boys asked me to bring them some drinks... Do you know how to call the staff here?"

Stunned, you looked around—the two of you were standing under the big tent that was located not far from the big golf course where Patrick and Timothy were practicing their shots, because there was a rumor that Paul Allen was about to join your little 'golf party', and of course nobody was really happy about it—especially you, but not because you didn't like Paul, you just didn't want to dig into the dirt, preferring to keep it all in the past.

"Uh, I think Patrick has a phone," you replied a little awkwardly. "I can go ask him."

As soon as you started to move, the woman stopped you with a polite hand on your shoulder. "Actually, they asked us not to bother them for a while."

"Oh," you stammered, chewing nervously on the inside of your cheek. "'Something wrong?"

"No, not at all," Evelyn grinned brightly and poured herself a glass of orange juice from the large decanter that stood on the narrow table. "Want some juice? Patrick told me about your little trip to Germany! I tried to convince him to travel when we were... well... never mind, he always refused!"

The blonde let out a nervous chuckle and took a sip of juice, your eyes never leaving her slightly embarrassed face. There was something wrong with this whole situation, but you couldn't reveal your fear. 

"I wonder what exactly he told you, but... I don't mind talking about it," you crossed your arms and leaned against the table with the non-alcoholic drinks. "Ask away."

Meanwhile, two rich men, dressed in the most expensive polo shirts and shorts of some famous brand from the latest fashion week, were discussing the latest news of the financial world.

"Those bastards we had a meeting with last week are a fucking bunch of freaks and believe me when I say they're so deep in the shit they're going to fucking drown in it one day. Now watch and learn," Bryce finished his expressive monologue with a practice swing of his club. As the ball fell into the hole, the man lifted his sunglasses to wink at his friend. "See that, Bateman?"

"Nice shot," Patrick mimicked Tim's actions, adjusting his sunglasses as well. "Although I still don't understand why you chose a fucking golf club out of all the places we have?"

Leaning on his club, Bryce turned to look at the tent, and the moment he did, Evelyn began waving at him as if she were the most ardent fan and Tim the worldwide golf star.

"It was her idea," the man replied, stepping back to place the next ball for Bateman. "She was bored with regular dinners and going to some nightclub was out of the question after that... story that happened at Le Bain."

Patrick frowned and quickly picked up his club. "Le Bain? Really? What were you doing there anyway?"

Bryce didn't answer directly, instead he rubbed his head, marking time, and that didn't really look like the Timothy Bryce Patrick had gotten used to knowing. "What kind of shitty story did you get into this time, Bryce?"

"Nothing serious," Tim replied, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. "You got a lighter?" With a soft click, Bateman opened a white-gold Zippo lighter, and after Bryce took several drags, he looked back in Evelyn's direction before finally starting to talk. "Almost crushed some asshole's skull," he said so casually that Patrick could only smile like an idiot for a moment. "The guy asked for it, I swear."

"You did what?" Bateman questioned after a boyish giggle that escaped his throat faster than he could even suppress it. "And I thought after rehab people should be calmer and more stable."

"Oh, fuck you! That scumbag tried to rent Evelyn out like one of those hookers, well, you know, hookers, whores, you know better than me-"

"I KNOW!"

Bateman's reaction really amused Bryce, who couldn't help but grin as he watched Patrick get more and more flustered by the second. "So after this incident, Evelyn doesn't want to go to clubs...unless it's a fucking golf club!"

Now it was Patrick's time to sneer. "I didn't expect you to become a henpecked husband so quickly," Patrick joked, finally hitting a shot—two men watched as the ball flew until it landed next to the hole, but never fell in. "Golf sucks. I fucking hate it!"

"Don't cry, Bateman, shit happens," Timothy tapped Patrick's shoulder in a mockingly comforting way, but then the man suddenly became very serious. " So, have you had any success with your love adventures?"

"More than you can imagine," Bateman took off his sunglasses and fastened them to his polo shirt. "Why?"

"Sometimes I want to fucking sink into the ground when Evelyn starts whining that we're sitting in one place...that New York has become too stuffy and all that shit."

"Sounds like a casual day from my family life with Evelyn," Patrick started to say something else, but then he looked at his Rolex to check the time. "Is Allen really coming?"

"Oh shit, I forgot!" Tim cursed and quickly began to remove his leather gloves. "Honestly, I don't even know why he decided to come."

"I have an idea why," Bateman frowned as he heard approaching footsteps and as soon as the man turned to the side, you and Evelyn appeared on the horizon—your face was grim and tense, which spoke volumes about the complexity of the current situation and Patrick's need to solve it somehow. "And where are our drinks?"

"Sorry guys, we only have non-alcoholic drinks here," Evelyn blushed a little as the two men looked at her. "Patrick, can I use your phone? I am going to call the staff since Tim left his phone in the limo!"

Bryce finished his cigarette but didn't throw it away because he knew that Evelyn would bitch about him making a mess, blah blah blah, end of story. "'Screw this," Tim exclaimed spontaneously. "We can take a golf cart and get our drinks in the main building...and meet Allen there."

At the mention of Paul, you literally trembled, but Patrick almost immediately placed his hand on the small of your back. Slightly surprised by his affection, you didn't even say a word as Timothy and Evelyn exchanged goodbyes and walked toward the golf cart.

"Did you get sunstroke?" Bateman crooned as he stroked your cheek to get you to look up at him. "I told you to stay under the tent, not with us."

"I'm fine," you tried to reassure him. "It's just that I don't really want to see Paul right now," your voice trembled treacherously. "Not in the best mood for... social activities."

Without saying anything, Patrick grabbed your hand and led you back to the tent, where the two of you had some healthy smoothies that you never really liked, but since Bateman told you that they were pretty good for your health, you pretended to enjoy them. Afterwards, the two of you sat on the small but comfortable couch with the amazing view. The man rested his hand on your shoulders and occasionally massaged the back of your neck, causing you to close your eyes in pleasure.

"You and Allen," Patrick muttered abruptly. "What kind of relationship do you have?"

This is it—no way to run.

"Just business," you explained without a hint of doubt. "Listen...I don't want to see him, not because we had some drama...it wasn't Allen's fault that the party was messed up. Someone brought up the prostitutes...or maybe they were models. I don't know!" You paused to catch your breath. "All the memories are so cloudy...but the one thing I remember clearly is that I started to feel weird after I drank some wine...then everything came in torn frames. Some guy tried to get his hands on me and I didn't know where Allen was and some other guys from P&P but not Tim or Craig or David...I'm sorry I called you...my poisoned mind decided it was the best idea to call you."

The whole time you were talking, Bateman was stroking your back, but when you mentioned the call, he froze in place, and it looked so creepy. "You mean...you called me...that night?"

Tensing up, you gave Patrick a confused look, but instead of saying anything, you just nodded. The lingering silence between the two of you felt so heavy and suffocating that at one point you thought it was a bad idea to tell him what had happened that night at Paul Allen's apartment, but now it was too late.

"What happened next? Do you remember the person who tried to touch you?"

"Not really," you replied in a dull voice. "I think after I called you... Paul told me we had to leave and we left and... fuck!" You cursed and grabbed your head as if it could help you remember more details. "It all happened so fast...I'm sorry I bothered you with that call, that was really stupid of me."

"You really did call me," he repeated over and over, repeating the phrase like a broken record. "You really..."

Confused, you turned to face him, only to see his pupils dilated and his face covered in a thin layer of sweat. "I did," you said curtly. "But...what's so special about that?"

But your question seemed to fall on deaf ears, Bateman blinked several times, his hands trembling a bit as he removed them from your back, and then you finally realized why he was asking you these particular questions, but the way he smiled in relief, delusionally thinking he had found all the answers he was looking for, who knew for how long, it hurt so much.  But what could you do now? You both had already come to the conclusion that Patrick needed help, that he would soon start seeing a psychiatrist recommended by Timothy, and that he would also resume taking pills to help control his impulsive temper. So the choice was yours.

After taking a deep breath, you glanced at him again—the man was looking back so expectantly, there was a spark of happiness in his eyes—a long forgotten spark, but there it was, and you didn't want to ruin it, even though you knew that the bitter truth was always better than the sweetest lie.

I hope one day you will forgive me for this, my love.

"Everything will be fine," your reassuring words were not for him, but for you. "You will be fine," you took his large palm in yours and gave it a gentle squeeze. "But... there is one more thing I have to tell you."

"What is it?" Patrick asked almost immediately.

"I..." you stammered as his grin widened, making him look so boyish and... cute? Fucking hell, why do you always choose the worst timing? "I fucked Bryce...several times...after you married Evelyn...but that was just sex...I mean..."

Even though he was still smiling, something changed in the way he looked at you now. The man took a moment to process the information you had just given him.

"That didn't mean anything! I swear," you were the first to speak again. "We... we both just found ourselves in one of the most fucked up moments of our lives..."

"Listen-"

"Wait! Let me finish!"

With one smooth move, Patrick brought you closer, so that you were sitting on his lap, and the suddenness of it left you speechless, which Bateman used to his advantage.

"See," he began, hugging you tightly. "You didn't say anything I didn't already know."

What? WHAT?

He was bluffing, no way Bryce told him everything, he would never do that to you, but on the other hand—why were you so confident that Bryce wouldn't tell his best friend to save their friendship? Even though you and Tim were close, Patrick and Timothy had a much closer bond.

"Tim told you everything?" You asked, feeling defeated and devastated.

"Not directly, but enough for me to understand the hidden meaning of the references he used whenever we talked about you."

You talked about me?

"I'm sorry," you laid your head on his shoulder before hiding your face in the crook of his neck and wrapping both of your hands around it. "I should have told you sooner."

"You told me when you were ready," he murmured softly, rubbing invisible circles on your back to soothe you. "I suppose you and I are finally even now."

"I guess you're right."

You cupped his face, pecking his temple, then the bridge of his perfectly framed nose, bathing his jawline with small kisses until you reached his lips to kiss him as lovingly as you could, wanting to convey all the emotions you felt for him through that kiss. 

This moment seemed too perfect, so when you heard a loud laugh that belonged to someone you knew quite well, you weren't surprised at all, because things couldn't be that good—not in real life.

"Oh, there they are, look at these lovebirds," Craig chuckled and then added. "Long time no see."

And of course McDermott was not alone, soon you noticed Van Patten and Bryce. "Where's Evelyn?" You asked, dismounting from Patrick and taking the seat next to him instead. "And Paul?"

Bryce smiled mischievously and pulled two bottles of alcohol out from behind his back. "I told Allen there was no alcohol in here, so he changed his mind," Tim said, placing the bottles on the small table next to the couch. "And Evelyn...she told me that she actually hates golf and that she'd rather go to the spa with Courtney—I didn't interfere. So are you just going to sit here or will you give me glasses?"

"You know, I was starting to like this new version of Bryce," David joked, rolling a cigar between his fingers. "Still a bitchy asshole, but with new functionality in his arsenal."

Everyone except Timothy began to laugh, Patrick being the volunteer who had decided to bring the glasses from the table on the other side of the tent terrace. 

"Have you lost the last of your brains or something?" Tim growled, smoothing back his hair, which was blacker than charcoal. "That chick you're with now will be the death of you, remember my words."

Bateman returned with glasses in the middle of the most intense part of the conversation about David's new girlfriend, who turned out to be the daughter of a very influential politician, and who had just returned from Cuba with a limited collection of cigars that Van Patten was so arrogantly bragging about. And somehow, you could finally admit to yourself that you missed the old days when you were a part of Wall Street life, even though sometimes you really hated it. But now, sitting among your ex-colleagues and your lover, you felt like you were in the right place, and that feeling was the most tranquilizing thing you had ever experienced.

Almost six months later, you and Patrick went back to Germany to attend Vincent and Andrea's wedding. This time, you didn't stop Bateman from taking a private jet for the trip, and it was your first flight on such a luxury aircraft—its interior looked even more lavish than in glamour magazines about the rich and famous. 

Sitting in the comfortable beige leather seat, you looked out the porthole where the clouds looked like a creamy dessert—the sight was mesmerizing and breathtaking, even though you weren't a fan of flying, but at the same time you couldn't say that you were aerophobic—you were definitely somewhere in between. While Patrick was away talking to the crew about something you didn't know, you had already finished counting the number of diamonds or other jewels that were used like a fancy decoration—there were about a hundred small gems all over the interior and it was insane because why would you need all of them in a damn plane? It wouldn't get off the ground without them, or what?

"What are you thinking about, sweetheart?" Bateman's soft baritone echoed off the walls of the plane's interior. "You sure you don't want something to drink?"

"Yes," you replied and quickly adjusted the sleeves of your shirt. "I'm just wondering if Vincent and Andrea will like our gift."

"Who wouldn't? Everybody loves money," the man chuckled and sat down across from you. "I still don't understand how they decided to get married so quickly after dating for a few months?"

Frowning, you grunted. "They've been dating for more than six months now and they knew each other since childhood....Did you forget?"

The man just rolled his eyes and yawned tiredly. "Honey, I don't even remember Sean's birthday and he's my brother. What did you expect?"

Yeah, right, what did I expect?

"Uh, just don't say anything that will embarrass me at the wedding, okay?"

"I can keep quiet the whole wedding, it's no problem for me," Bateman winked at you and swirled his glass of scotch. " As long as someone decides to ask me some stupid questions."

"Like what?"

"Mmm...something Wall Street related," he purred in a sweet tone that was such a stark contrast to what he was actually saying. "’Oh, sir, are you really from New York City? I've heard a lot of stories about the bankers from Wall Street.’"

The way he tried to imitate a German accent made you slap his hand and shake your head in disapproval. "All the guests are educated people, stop acting like Europeans are less educated than Americans."

"I'm not gonna start this polemic," he chirped, suddenly standing up. "Sit here, I'll be right back."

And then he disappeared behind the elegant door, made of red wood, its surface shimmering from how polished it was, you could even see your own reflection, but you didn't see any reasons why Bateman was leaving somewhere again. Was there something wrong with the plane? Were we going to crash? A cold shiver ran down your spine at the mere thought of it.

Shake it off…just shake it off.

While you desperately tried to calm down, the door opened again, but you couldn't see anyone behind it. "Close your eyes."

Patrick's sudden order made you blink nervously in shock.

"Why?"

You heard him sigh in irritation. "Just do what I say. Is it so difficult?"

"Fine, fine! Just don't do anything crazy!"

"You'll like it, trust me," the man replied, closing the door behind him before coming closer. "Put your hands out in front of you."

Shit, shit, shit, why am I so nervous? What else can he do? He could just kick me off the plane... Jesus, what am I thinking?

Closing your eyes tightly, you obeyed and reached out to feel something soft, fluffy and warm. "Oh my God...WHAT IS THAT?" And then you heard a distinctive sound that you would never mistake for anything else—a meow. "Can I open my eyes? PLEASE?"

"Now you can."

As soon as you opened your eyes, you saw a little fluffy pile of black fur looking back at you with a pair of tiny blue eyes—you could barely keep yourself from bursting into tears. The black kitten meows louder as you bring it closer to peck its head and hold it gently.

"Patrick, I..." you could barely speak. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything—your reaction is enough," the man commented, sitting back in his seat. "I know we talked about you wanting a kitten...about you wanting to adopt a child," he paused, taking a moment to just admire your happiness at having one of your dreams come true. "I thought we should start with something."

This kitten was the most adorable creature you'd ever seen, so small, so vulnerable, that you would do anything to protect and care for it. "That's...you can't even imagine how much it means to me," you pecked the kitten again when you noticed something on its collar—something round and shiny—a ring...with a large diamond. "What an interesting collar decoration."

"Told you you'd like it."

"Wait," you stopped him. "Wait...is this...for me?"

"What exactly?" Patrick sneered teasingly and opened his arms. "This jet is for you...everything around you...is for you," he slowly got up and walked to your seat. "Including the ring. Will you marry me?"

Another meow pierced the room around you, and while you were still in a state of shock, Bateman didn't miss the chance to pet the kitten, whose little paws curled up to catch his finger.

Will you marry me?

This question suddenly reminded you of the countless times you had imagined him asking you this, and even though in your dreams you knew exactly how to act to make everything look perfect, when it finally happened in real life you were caught off guard, shocked, paralyzed.  With every second of your hesitation, Bateman grew more and more nervous. 

"Honey?" He called to you, tilting your head with his gentle touch to make you look at him. "Is something wrong? Don't you like the ring?"

"No..." you nuzzled against his palm, holding the kitten carefully in your hands. "It's perfect...everything is so perfect," and then you collapsed, letting the sparkling tears run down your cheeks. "Are you...really...sure you want this?"

To be fair, he was ready for anything, even rejection, but this—such a reaction was something beyond his understanding of human emotion—scared him to the point where he thought he might be doing something bad, something that would turn you away from him.

Still holding your chin, the man knelt down beside your seat. "How can you question my decisions after everything we've been through?"

"Patrick," you ran your hand through his slightly disheveled hair. "I just want to know that you're not doing this for me, but because you really want to."

The man paused and sighed. "Of all the decisions I have made, this is the most conscious," he murmured in a raspy voice. "Allow me to prove it."

Speechless, you could barely breathe, and when you nodded, Patrick carefully removed the ring from the kitten's collar and gently took your hand in his to place a ring on your index finger, then the man pressed a soft kiss on the top of your palm as if to seal the vow. 

"I love you, Patrick Bateman," you said as he stood and towered over you to press his forehead against yours, your noses rubbing against each other. "You are my greatest tragedy and blessing." 

With a soft chuckle, Patrick pressed you against his chest, hugging your shoulders with one hand and stroking the kitten with the other. "I'll take that as a compliment," he smiled, burying his nose in your carefully combed hair. "What are you going to name your new little friend?"

You hummed and looked down. "It's a boy, right?"

"Yeah."

"Mhmm...what if we name him Memento?" You asked, looking up at your fiancé. "Memento means memory-"

"Memento mori—remember you must die, I've heard it many times."

"Uh, yes, that remark about the inevitability of death. But before we die, we will make a lot of different memories...memories you will never want to forget....memories you and I will remember when we grow old."

You sobbed at your own words and Patrick had to shush you, pulling you closer into his warm embrace. "Shhh," he kissed the top of your head. "You're so full of sentiment, darling. That would be enough for both of us."

"We're going to live together for a long time, aren't we?"

"Of course," Bateman reassured you, stroking your hair. "And we will die on the same day. But before that, as you said, we would have a life to remember."

"And... if there is an afterlife?"

"Then I'll find you there," Patrick's voice was as calming as a mantra, enveloping you like a soothing mist. "But you don't have to think about it today. Or tomorrow, or fifty years from now. Right now, you better think about our speech at the wedding, because I hate the very idea of it."

Human memory is a very complicated thing—sometimes you want nothing more than to reboot your memory and erase all the bad memories from your head, but then you have amnesia, and people who suffer from it will do anything to get their memories back. Because memory is what makes us who we are, every little thing that happened to you in your life forms your personality, and sometimes a missing memory can feel like a black void inside your soul when you have a feeling that you forgot something, but you couldn't remember what exactly. After all, life is a kaleidoscope of ups and downs, a complex mixture of dark and bright colors, where every little detail matters. When you feel depressed, when you think there's nothing left for you to keep going—never give up fighting for your love and following your dreams, because we have only one life, and death is inevitable, but while you're alive, you're capable of doing anything. 

Memento mori, but never stop believing and living your best life.

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my writing community to know when I update!💞

[hanasnx]

hip to be square.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ WARNINGS: themes similar to the movie | allusions to violence and murder | sexual content | sexism | fiancée!reader | dumbification | degradation | rough sex | anal play references | anal fisting reference | drug references | allusions to asphyxiation.

“You’ve worked up quite a sweat.” PATRICK BATEMAN notes in thinly veiled repulsion. Those cruel hands on your hips restrain themselves, and you can feel that tension against you. Instead, he pours his ample strength into yanking you back on him, choked sounds emit from your gaping mouth. In a way, this is an obligation, he can't really enjoy the way your cunt squeezes him, or how his thumbs fit those perfect back dimples—not in the way he wants to. If it were up to him, he'd squeeze the life out of you while he screwed those lifeless brains to pieces. Finally a bitch like you would be put to good use, eyes rolling back as the lack of oxygen grows black dots in your vision. You'd claw at his grip around your neck, easing in to crushing your windpipe, the light would die as he watched, and he wouldn't even falter in his pace. Those hips would still be fucking you, like he is now.

Hard and rough, it hurts. Abusing your cervix as you're bent over the perfect white covers of his California King. You bounce on him like you want more, but in reality you're limp as he directs your body the way he wants it to move. An irrefutable force against you that you are powerless to soothe, unbeknownst to you your only line of defense to protect you from his wrath is the ring on your finger.

You're engaged to him.

In his eyes it was an unavoidable tragedy. All his friends are your friends, you live in his area, and you're a ten minute commute from work. If he's looking to blow off steam during lunch, he'll pop in for a visit and use you up with a pillow covering your head. You don't catch on to the fact he doesn't want to look at you while he ravages you, never question why he insists on hitting it from the back if he can help it. It aids that you've got a nice ass, plump and round and fits in his palms when he handles it. When you aren't being a priss, sometimes you'll let him slip a finger into your asshole. At one point he managed to convince you to let him fist you, but he'd slipped you one to many things that night, narrowly avoiding a messy emergency room visit. There was no way he was going to wait up for you in such a place so late at night. What would he have told everybody? That his fiancée was some junkie? Absolutely not.

Nails dig into your skin at the memory, the salt of sweat burning that raw that makes you mewl. He steels himself from demanding you shut up, instead assuaging the urge by smacking your hand away when you reach back to hold his in a petty attempt to get him to let up. Cruelly, he drills you. Those pathetic noises release in pain, you don't even sound human. "What are you to me?" he spits, looming over your little body as his every muscle contracts fucking into you at a reckless pace. You're sore from his weight, but you can't do a thing about it when being treated like shit never felt so good. A ring of cream foams at his base, taken from you as your cunt confuses punishment for desperation, your expression twisting so hard you'll get wrinkles early. He'll have to divorce you before that happens, otherwise people will think him vain. "Answer me, you idiot, you're supposed to answer me."

Somehow, you don't notice how he's talking to you. How it's different than the cold and distant nature you're accustomed to in public. "Nothing." you breathe out. "I'm nothing." You chase whatever you can get your hands on, scrambling for whatever stupid response you can muster in this state. Apparently, it pleases him, a sea of moans flowing out through his deep voice as he satiates himself using you like a sock with your name on it in his room.

[fear-is-truth]

𝐇𝐈𝐌 & 𝐈 𝜗ϱ . . . 𝓟𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝓑𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍

tags — fem!reader﹒sfw + nsfw﹒headcanons﹒drug use﹒kinda toxic relationship﹒ p in v﹒handjobs﹒choking﹒use of the word “daddy”

SFW

has a habit of disappearing without explanation, sometimes for days at a time. when he returns, he acts as though nothing happened, brushing off your concerns with dismissive and cryptic responses.

extremely critical of appearances as he doesn’t handle flaws well—patrick fully expects you to mirror his aesthetic standards. even the slightest imperfection, such as chipped nail polish or an out-of-place hair, will piss him off. you’re basically his personal doll at this point—he buys you designer clothes, ensuring you wear the “right” brands to fit his ideal of a partner. he notices everything, from your choice of perfume down to the shade of lipstick you wear. if you switch brands, he’ll immediately make a comment on it.

prefers to keep conversations shallow and detached, as deep emotional topics make him uncomfortable. he constantly rambles about his niche obsessions—pop culture, business cards, and the “superiority” of certain types of suits. that being said, patrick talks at you rather than with you. he can yap on for an entire dinner about the fabric quality of valentino suits or the importance of a tie that “truly complements the suit’s structure.”

a walking encyclopedia on serial killers. in the middle of any conversation, he’ll start spouting facts about ted bundy or ed gein. he expects you to be thoroughly impressed by his knowledge and gets viscerally disappointed if you don’t show interest.

genuinely believes his opinions on music are groundbreaking. he’ll pull out albums and spend a good thirty minutes explaining why genesis or huey lewis and the news are masterpieces, analysing lyrics and production with the passion of a critic.

talks about dorsia as if it’s the holy grail of fine dining. if he’s lucky enough to get a reservation, he’ll spend days before and after the meal casually hyping it up to everyone, making sure they know he managed to get a table. however, if he fails to secure a reservation, it completely ruins his week. you sometimes wonder if he’d cry over it. (as a matter of fact, he does)

frequently asks if you think his business card is better than “so-and-so’s,” as if it’s a critical matter. if he gets even a whiff of another guy’s success, patrick becomes obsessed with one-upping them. you’ve had to sit through countless complaints about paul allen, his dorsia reservations, the fisher account. he can’t handle criticism, especially if it challenges his idea of “perfection.” if you casually mention you’re not a fan of his music taste or his suit choice, he’ll literally sulk about it for days.

when patrick gets jealous, you’ll catch him clenching his jaw, his hand gripping your waist a bit too tightly. sometimes he’ll try to act indifferent, but the slight sweat on his forehead or the vein throbbing in his temple gives him away.

lives by his routines and gets annoyed if anything disrupts them. you’re expected to adhere to his exact schedule when you’re with him, from gym time to dinner to his beloved skincare regimen. if something goes off-plan, he becomes irritable, even if it’s just because you suggested a new restaurant.

although he appears to be emotionally distant, he’s highly hypersensitive to how he’s perceived by you. an offhand comment or anything less than admiration from you makes him noticeably on edge.

obsessed with acquiring materialistic items that showcase his success. he’ll bring up these possessions repeatedly, and when he buys something new, for instance a painting or a stereo, he’ll practically drag you to admire it with him, giving an extensive monologue on its artistic value or technical specs.

constantly trying to impress you with his wealth or his “connections.” he’ll drop the names of people he “knows” (sometimes with questionable authenticity) or go out of his way to show you his credit card just to emphasise how wealthy he is. patrick assumes his looks and material success is inherently attractive to you, and if you ever show interest in something less superficial, he’s truly baffled.

always subtly fishing for compliments, but he wants them to sound like they’re coming from you, not just because he’s prompting you. if you mention anything flattering about another human, you can see his jaw clench as he makes a mental note to find something he’s “better” at. if you don’t give him the attention he craves, he becomes passive-aggressive until you finally give in and tell him how handsome he is.

if you so much as hesitate before complimenting patrick, it eats at him. he starts nitpicking his own looks, spending even more time obsessing over his skincare routine, gym sessions, and hair products.

to patrick, relationships are transactional. he’s constantly buying you lavish gifts, partially to impress you, but mostly to keep you “tied” to him. he would be genuinely insulted if you didn’t wear or display his gifts, taking it as a personal rejection, even though he never explicitly says this. instead, he’d pout or go into a passive-aggressive silence until you “make it up” to him (usually with sex)

loves the fact that you’re both attracted to and a little intimidated of him. what he doesn’t know is that you also think he’s a pathetic loser.

insecure about whether you actually love him or are just with him for his wealth and status. he craves reassurance but would never directly ask for it, so instead, he does things to elicit compliments from you or waits for you to say something affirming.

secretly torn between wanting to keep you as a sort of trophy and feeling an actual attachment he doesn’t understand. on more than one occasion, he’s imagined what it might be like to marry you—he’s even purchased a 7ct diamond ring on impulse. the thought terrifies him, though. he’s afraid of real intimacy, of anyone truly knowing who he is. still, he sometimes drops hints about “the future,” gauging your reaction to see if you might even consider it.

likes it when you adjust his tie or fix his collar. there’s something about your delicate hands on him, perfecting his appearance, that makes the blood rush to his groin as he reminisces the same pair of hands wrapped around his cock. he’ll even purposely wear his tie a little off or leave his collar slightly askew, just so you’ll step in to fix it.

whenever you say goodbye before he leaves, patrick insists on making eye contact, as if daring you to look away first. it’s his way of ensuring that he’s the last thing on your mind as he walks out the door. expects you to fix his lapel, straighten his tie, or give him a quick peck on the cheek. if you forget or rush the routine, there’s disappointment on his side.

patrick insists on every detail being pristine and coordinated, and he takes pride in the aesthetic of matching “his & hers” items. towels, robes, toothbrushes etc. he doesn’t necessarily see this as sentimental but as a way to project his status to anyone who might see it—like a small, smug reminder that you belong to him. he’ll also make a point to keep these items perfectly aligned on the bathroom sink or kitchen counter, internally congratulating himself when he sees them.

adores watching you in the kitchen, especially if you’re wearing something skimpy or nothing but one of his button-ups left undone just enough. he’ll lean in the doorway, watching as you busy yourself slicing fruit or preparing his bran muffins for breakfast. he often finds himself admiring the delicate curve of your neck, the swell of your ass as you move, though he’d never voice anything genuine about it.

his nicknames for you : “kitten”, “bunny”, “sweetheart”, “doll”, “hun” or “honey” in public, “fuckdoll” in private.

your nicknames for him : “daddy”, “sir”, “pat”

super meticulous when it comes to your wardrobe, especially lingerie. he’s obsessed with victoria’s secret and demands that you wear sets he’s chosen—lace and silk, only in shades he deems “fashionable.” as a way to elevate his experience. he’ll sit back with a drink in hand, watching you with an air of smug satisfaction as you parade around the bedroom like it’s a runway.

has certain… kinks that he knows you wouldn’t approve of. this is when sex workers come in handy. sometimes, he wonders if he could somehow desensitise you or change your mind about these things. he drops hints, gauges your reaction to certain acts, and tests boundaries. if you outright refuse to engage in his fantasies, he holds it against you, making passive-aggressive comments about your “prudish” nature or implying that he “puts up with it” because he “cares about you.”

NSFW

his dry cleaning bill has spiked noticeably ever since you started dating. nearly every other day, a new suit or bedsheet stained with cum is dropped off, patrick never looks the dry cleaner in the eye.

patrick’s version of aftercare is incredibly minimal. he’ll be content to simply roll over or give you a lazy kiss on the shoulder but that’s about as soft as it gets—he’ll immediately head off to the en suite to freshen up. if he’s feeling particularly generous, he’ll hand you a bottled water and that’s that. if you need anything more, he’ll listen, but the faraway look in his eyes suggests he’s already moved on mentally.

very fond of kissing your neck or collarbone, especially before you attend social settings—leaving hickeys and bruises. kisses from patrick can be surprisingly sweet and sensual when he’s in a rare moment of vulnerability, but it’s always short-lived.

he’s become addicted to the sound of your voice, so much so that he has tapes of you—masturbating while saying filthy things. when he’s stressed at the office, he’ll slip on his walkman, listening to your sweet whimpers and moans echo in his ears.

gets a thrill every time you say his name—whether it’s a soft “good morning, patrick” or a “mghm-ahh patrick!” when he’s jackhammering his cock into your cunt. he’s especially weak to hearing you coo or whimper his name, and he’ll go out of his way to make you say (scream) it repeatedly.

has a ritualistic routine for doing coke—spreading a neat line along your stomach and the valley between your breasts, admiring how good you look beneath him. when he leans down to snort the line, he often allows his lips to ghost over your hard nipples.

has no problem dropping obscene amounts of money on you—high-end jewelry, designer clothes, perfumes, he loves the way you look in everything he picks out. “only the best,” he’ll mumble as he fastens a diamond necklace on your neck. but his favourite part is admiring the pieces when he has both hands wrapped around your throat while fucking you.

he’s particular about which rings he picks out, envisioning how they’ll look on your fingers while you jerk him off. there’s something erotic about the way they catch light and glitter against your skin.

you’re kneeling in front of him, the hardwood floor cool against your knees as you stroke his thick, angry cock. patrick reaches down, thumb brushing over the 18k rose gold ring he’d recently bought for you. “looks nice on you,” he mumbles, almost distracted. you watch him for a moment, noticing the way he’s staring at your hand, like the ring is something precious he’s put a part of himself into. “you think so?” you ask, trying to read his expression as you continue to jerk him off. patrick clears his throat, dropping his hand a little too quickly. “of course. wouldn’t have bought it otherwise,”

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[anitalenia]

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𝒄𝒘: sexual content ahead, husband!bale!batman, fem!reader on top, riding, some dirty talk, soft sex, not my best writing but fr fr don’t come for me im just trying to post things okay? ahhhhhhh 😔🤚🏻 maybe some typos 😚 i oughta be ashamed of myself fr fr 😔😔🤚🏻🤚🏻 ₊˚⊹♡

₊˚⊹♡ 𝒃𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆; eccentric billionaire, former eligible bachelor, orphan boy, son, rich playboy.

Labels. These were all just labels Bruce never particularly cared for nor paid attention to, monickers used to try and simplify who he really was so he could be easier understood. Labels used to better classify him because rich men like him supposedly didn’t have depth or purpose beyond what the media claimed him to have.

They were just labels, words that barely scratched the surface of who he really was.

Bruce had been called many things in his life, too many awful and offensive things he had quickly learned not to pay attention to. Caring gave them meaning, he was told so early on, caring gave them significance. Now, he really couldn’t care less.

Throughout the course of his life, throughout all the tragedy and grief, Bruce had learned to ignore it all; the names, the judgments, the looks, the labels. His indifference had become second nature, an innate response to anybody trying to provoke him.

He didn’t really have a choice anyway. There were too many people praying on his downfall since his birth, too many people biting at the fruits of his labor to see if they were ripe enough for the taking. Selfish, greedy, money hungry men desperate for his demise.

Sharks lurking in untamed depths ready to snatch him up if he swam too far, hiding in the black shores with their sharp teeth bared and beady eyes hungry.

Despite what many people believed, Bruce didn’t have it so easy in the sense of work and spirit. When you were rich like he was, famous like he was, as powerful as he was, everyone believed you couldn’t possibly be burdened by anything.

That he was too spoiled by the grandness of life that it had gradually bled into a lack of work ethic, that it was his last name that gave him any status at all, that it was his reputation that gave him everything he had without him having to ask for it.

He had the money to fix any problem, the influence to hide any scandal, the face to get him out of any situation he needed to get out of.

He was CEO of Wayne Enterprises for gods sake, son to Thomas Wayne, a man that was great and beloved all in his own right. Yes, people had doubted Bruce’s ability to lead, to run a business after so long of being away from it, but then he came back and proved them all wrong as he usually did.

Being someone so honorably renowned in Gotham City, someone that carried the Wayne name at that, it came with its own barrel of familial obligation and responsibility outside of his own personal commitments. He couldn’t disappoint anyone, could never fathom disappointing his late father.

Working by day a normal man with a bullet on his back, a price on his head to any hungry buisness man willing to do whatever it took to get to the top. Then working by night as Batman with the bruises and scars to show for it. Someone every criminal and lowlife in Gotham City wanted dead.

Batman, not so much a label as he was a separate being entirely. It was Bruce, but he couldn’t find any similarities between the polite buisness man wearing a suit by day and the other man wearing a blood stained mask by night. One was forced to coerce with society in the manner of business and passive aggressive smiles, another undertaking the grueling task of removing the grime from it.

Bruce Wayne was all expensive cologne and hand shake deals, money hungry tabloids and self absorbed white collars. It was a life always on display, always the center of attention, always everyone else’s focus.

Batman was purely mystery and intrigue. Hidden from sight yet found in every shadow, heard in the trembled whisper of every breath. No one knew who he was yet he had somehow gotten all of their attention. Everyone eager to know who was behind the mask but no one ready to answer for why he existed in the first place.

The only similarities they shared were the cause for conspiracy. Whether it was Bruce or Batman they stole every headline — always someone trying to figure them out, bring their true identity to light and spread more moral quandary about whether they were right or wrong for every choice they made.

Pure opposite lives he juggled in the same two hands.

No, he did not have it easy. Always more enemies than friends and more snakes than family. Every hour, every minute, every second he spent left exposed there was always someone right behind him ready to push him if he faltered.

He had to be careful; always be passive and nice, diplomatic and respectful to those he knew wanted him gone, to the people who wanted his seat at the head of the table and the money in his bank. Bruce had to be the CEO his father wanted him to be, the one he was destined to be, the one etched into his history before he was even born.

He had a reputation to uphold, a legacy to live, a job to do.

But no, it was not always easy.

Being rich and handsome like he was did have its downsides, as meager as they may seem to less fortunate individuals. Many people hated Bruce Wayne just for those simple, superficial things alone. His looks, his status, his job he was so rightfully given. Apparently this made him an asshole, arrogant, narcissist.

It was looks of hatred and envy from men he’d never even met, women he’d abandoned after a steamy two hour hookup (not that he did those anymore but women loved to hold a grudge), businessmen who cursed him to hell and back for his amount of wealth and fame he had no control over.

He didn’t care about these people anyway. These rambunctious, single minded people who preyed on the weak and ate the hopeless. They were all self centered, arrogant, narcissistic. Self absorbed scum unwilling to put in the hard work necessary to be as successful as he was.

On the opposite side of the spectrum, Bruce was often regarded as someone lonely, someone lost, someone desolate and pitiful. He was a coward, hiding in his soulless black mansion under thick piles of money ever since the fatal death of his parents. So sad, an orphan, just depressing.

That was hushed whispers behind his back and somber stares, awkward, harrowing smiles from coworkers and the front pages of newspapers. Bruce Wayne back from hiding after all this time… living on his father’s name… will he fail or carry on the legacy of the great Wayne fortune… yada yada yada.

Just more words. Pointless and purposeless, written to appease the swill of Gotham with no real substance behind them. Gossip, false news, attention grabbing headlines that were purely speculation.

However, as much as he hated labels — more so his — whatever names he got called behind his back, Bruce couldn’t find it in sensible reason to argue that they weren’t pieces of who he really was. Fabrics of his character torn out thread by thread and poked and needled at by societies curious hands.

They were just pieces, stretched and torn so far from the truth but yet the original strings were still there, hanging on in remembrance of what he truly was chaotically intertwined in the lies and deception of what people thought him to be. Too shredded to be properly understood but still thriving in the undercurrents of whatever he was now being labeled as and people were now foolishly believing him to be.

Yes, they were just labels. But labels that were not so far from factual truths.

However again, none of those words mattered to him as much as this did, as much as the one label that he truly cared about.

Husband.

Your husband.

The only title he held in the same esteem as Batman and Wayne Enterprises CEO, perhaps even higher. It was one of the only labels that carried a semblance of true meaning, one he didn’t shy from.

Husband. It was the only honorific that mattered to him, one of the only sentiments that made him feel actual pride in who he was. Husband was something real, concrete, not some anonymous opinion in a paper or a cruel murmur in a hallway.

It was the label that pierced him through and through especially in moments like this, moments when your hips were rolling deeply on top of his and he was buried balls deep inside your warmth.

He couldn’t think about anything in this moment. Nothing and everything at the same time as your finger nails, freshly manicured and glittering, gripped into his shoulder blades as you rolled your hips once again.

Bruce winced pleasantly, jaw clenching as his head leaned back into the softness of his black silken pillows. Brown hair frazzled and stringy, his smooth skin alight with a soft, lovesick glow.

You rolled your hips once more in a soft soothing motion, nothing too rough and nothing too fast; the evening had called for something more sensual in the delicacy of Bruce’s touch and the softness of his words just an hour prior.

“Oh Bruce…” You sighed dreamily, hands pressing into his bulky arms as he sighed out a trembled breath from his nose.

Your thighs tightened around his waist, his heavy hands squeezing your hips but not as to pressure you, only to keep you connected to him at the hilt so he was never too far out of you.

“That’s good, sweetheart, get it just like that… mmhmm.” Bruce swallowed heavily, voice low and raw as his eyebrows furrowed over darkened hazel eyes. Fingers thrumming on your skin as you pulsed around him, wetness seeping out of your full entrance and gliding down his length until it could leave a memorable darkened patch on the sheets.

You whined quietly, voice high pitched and greedy as the length of him filled you up and pressed into every soft wall surrounding him. He was always thick, always perfect, always felt so fucking good it made your muscles tense and spasm.

You rolled your body in that delectable way he liked once more, barely moving yet every part of him felt the sparks of pleasure thrum through his skin and make his thighs lock up.

Bruce groaned hotly at the action, eyes flickering down to the wet mess of where your pussy was sucking him in. It was messy, glistening, shared arousal in white strings of mutual attraction. His fingers dug into the flesh of your ass from where it sat perched on his strong thighs.

“Mm, fuck, honey.” Bruce breathed out gruffly more to himself than you when the sight of your wetness smeared all over him made his heart spike.

You didn’t respond, chin down to your chest and eyes closed as you focused on the pleasure in your own lower regions, the fullness and heaviness that filled you up and refused to part.

“Ohhh, feels so good-“ You gasped as a heavy spurt of pure pleasure sparked up your tummy, hole clenching around him tightly as an obscene gush of wetness leaked down his cock and onto his thighs.

Bruce licked his dry lips, eyes staring up at you heatedly; at the tightness of your shut eyes, the sweet moans gasping out of parted lips — lips, lips that were glossy and plush from all the needy kisses you shared with him just a mere moments ago.

He was enraptured by you, by your naked physique all soft and sweaty on top of him but he didn’t care. You were just so beautiful, pussy so perfect wrapped around him, squeezing his cock so good it made his mind fog up with indescribable pleasure.

“Yes, sweetheart, god, yesss…” Bruce agreed huskily, his head resting back on his pillow once more as you bucked your hips. His thighs tensed, toes curled, a grunt sounding in his throat as his hips rose to further dig himself inside you.

He couldn’t help it; like a soul to a light he sought you out, your warmth and tightness so snug and comforting around him he didn’t ever want to be apart from you.

You whimpered at the intrusion, nails digging into his skin in a painful sting that Bruce was too fucked out to really notice.

He swallowed hazily below you, eyes closing then opening to look down at the way your pussy molded into one with his hard cock as you rocked gently against him. Deep inside you where he was meant to be, stomach and pelvis and thick thighs soaked with your gushing arousal.

Fire shooting down his legs and tummy with every soft bounce back down on him, illicit wet noises sounding in the room with every desperate grind.

He loved that sound, your wetness mashing with his thick base. But not nearly as much as your melodic sounds gasping out every so often because his cock made you feel that good.

His mouth was terribly dry from his own grunts and moans, handsome face and muscular chest flushed pink, the air so so hot he could feel his own dark hair sticking to the dew on his fevered head.

His hands, big and clammy, dug into the soft fat of your hips to help you dig into him in that way you both liked, the one that had you both gasping hotly into each others mouths as you leaned down to give him another sloppy kiss.

You couldn’t quite get it right though, too distracted by the feel of him so deep inside you that your lips stuttered on his. Moving messily against him as you whined into his mouth once more, the tip of his cock so high up inside you it almost hurt.

He was always so big, so round and tall that the stretch alone always seemed to ache pleasurably with every short thrust he made inside you.

“That’s good, sweetheart… that’s it… just how you know I like it…”

Bruce breathed heavily against your lips from where you were leaned on top of him, naked breasts mashed to his chiseled chest and hands gripping onto the headboard now.

You needed something sturdy, something unbreakable to tether you back to him when you felt the pleasure making you float too far.

His breath was hot against your sore lips, mingled with your low moans and spoken just above the subtle creaks of the bed; sounding every time you moved above him in a sensually quickened pace that had your toes curling and thighs tensing.

“So beautiful, sweetheart, so good…”

Bruce couldn’t help but compliment you even in the most nasty of times, voice clenched yet breathy, spoken through hot breaths and pressed teeth as your wetness dripped down his length once more.

You moaned sweetly at his doting words, his voice cracked and low in that gravelly salacious tone you loved so much.

You clenched around him in response, his fingers tightening on you as he let out a handsome groan from the feeling. You watched as his head sunk into the pillow beneath him, eyes clenched shut and a heavy grunt leaving his chest.

The sight was attractive, seeing him so wrecked from just a few simple back and forth motions you were carefully orchestrating.

You felt a wave of stinging pleasure spike up your thighs and down your legs, up your tummy and into your head until your whole body was tingling. Your eyes brimming with unshed tears as sweat prickled at your skin and your legs burned from sitting for so long.

You didn’t care about the pain, too drunk on the sensations of his thickness rubbing inside the most intimate part of you, your hips rolling in desperate circular motions so he was never completely apart from you. You liked keeping him inside as much as possible, to feel that fullness and that dull burn to remind you of just how big he was.

Bruce loved it too, resting inside your warmth, comfortable, letting you take him however you wanted in whatever way you needed. He was always a giver, always a good husband when you needed him to be.

“F-fuck, Bruce, you feel so good.” You gasped wantonly, voice quiet yet fragmented, needy and breathless as your nails dug into his skin.

“Yeah, honey? It feels good?” Bruce replied just as quietly, being sure to thrust up into you just a little bit harder so you’d gasp some more for him.

It was lewd, lovely, his dirty words spoken onto your quivering lips and his meaty hands gripping your thighs to help aid in your eager movements.

It felt so good, so right, being there with him in the darkness of his room with only the sound of your shared panting and moans filling the silence.

It was hot and perfect; his hands on your thighs gripping hard enough to show you he doesn’t want you to stop, your mouths ever so often pecking together in a sweet kiss you couldn’t continue, fond gazes in darkened irises.

“Feels so good, Bruce, I can’t—“ You whimpered out all cutely, sliding up from his chest until you were sitting straight up once more. You could feel him shift inside of you, hardness still prominent and throbbing. He pressed against your walls, invading every nerve point as your clit rubbed against his naval in the new position.

Bruce gripped the flesh of your ass between his hands, helping your soft rocking motions against him as he spoke, “Yes you can, pretty girl, you always do for me. You’re doing so good, sweetheart, you have no idea…”

The praise made you smile brokenly. Your skin so hot it felt burning yet every grind against your husbands hard cock made your legs go numb. You whined and bucked above him as a tightness started to stretch in your tummy.

“Always for you, baby…” You managed to mumble shakily, lovingly, hands sliding over the abs on his stomach as you sat back on his lap so not a single inch of him wasn’t inside you.

Bruce clenched his jaw at that, hands digging into your hips as he thrust his own up to meet your soft grinds. Sparks, electricity, all of the cliche metaphors for how good he was feeling shooting down his cock and into his legs as his knees tensed up.

He felt lightheaded yet completely grounded, here to his mattress. Floating in the skies yet simultaneously stuck on earth with you, his gorgeous wife who always made him feel sane and normal.

Your hair was tangled around your shoulders and falling over your flushed cheeks as you stared down at him with a fond glimmer in your eyes, bright and burning under the lust so boldly wanting.

The stretch of him inside you was so good, his gravelly moans so good, the way he was making you feel so so good.

You exhaled as you settled your weight down on his pelvis, pussy sore yet eager as you squeezed around him once more. Love struck eyes looking down at him passionately as the moon cascaded a light gray glow behind you.

Bruce felt the air escape his lungs, lips parted as he stared up at you in utter devotion; you were so beautiful, so sweet, felt so fucking good around him he couldn’t even think straight. Brain numb and thoughtless, only you and your perfect pussy, you, you, you.

You took a moment to stare back at him. Unspoken love was whispered in the shadows of your eyes bright and glittering as your movements picked up into polite, subtle bounces that had Bruce digging his hands into you, breathy sounds escaping his lips.

“Ah, Bruce…” You mumbled weakly, voice soft and needy as you tossed your head back and moved your hips up and down so his cock was hitting that sweet spot inside you he usually loved to tease.

“Such a good job, sweetheart, so beautiful like this…” Bruce spoke huskily, staring at your heaving breasts as they jiggled and beckoned him forth, beautiful and pure as you rode him to high heaven in your most organic form.

You hummed into a delicate moan, a smile quirked on your lips at his praise as you felt his hands slowly start crawling up the exposed expanse of your waist.

Warm and big and tender as they moved up, up, gentle fingers tracing over your ribcage as your flesh prickled at the touch. He was delicate, always intent on your pleasure over his as he admired your form above him, the feel of your skin under his textured hands that had hurt so many.

You trusted him, your husband, enough to see you like this. Trusted him enough to have you like this, to allow his bloodstained hands to wash over you like he himself was something pure and untainted, bestowing him your presence like a merciful deity to their promised worshipper.

You bit your lip as his palms enveloped the fat of your breasts into them, molded perfectly into his larger hands as he squeezed and admired them in a fashion so familiar for him; he always loved your breasts, enamored with the softness and weight of them in his greedy hands.

You stared down at him with a heated tenderness, the look of a wife irrevocably in love with their husband as he stared up at you with the same fervor.

When he was here, with you, there were no labels, no obligations and no judgments. With you he was just yours, another body made of flesh and blood and bone melded to yours in the conjunction of where his body ended and yours began.

He was no one but he was your everything, hands on skin and lips on collarbones, sweat amongst sweat and heady moans breathed in the gasps of kisses shared between two lovesick spouses.

In this space, in this moment, with you on top of him and his hands all over you any remnants of shame and Wayne inspired obligation was vacant. All he needed to do was sit and let you take him, sit there and be of use when you wanted to use him.

He was a good husband, the best husband to you, his perfect and lovely wife who never addressed him as anything more than yours. He wasn’t this, he wasn’t that, he was just everything and more in the confines of silken sheets under the safety of his mansion.

No cameras, no gossip, no press and no watchful eyes. Serene, tranquil, just you and him and the great love you shared that transcended any label or common sense humanity could fathom.

Yes, he was Bruce Wayne. Eccentric billionaire, former eligible bachelor, orphan boy, son, rich playboy. But those things did not define him, did not set his reality in stone so easily as your love did. He was all those things but he was so much more.

You never judged him, looked at him as anything more than the most important thing. You regarded him with love no matter his past, his present, and hopefully and most likely your shared future.

You didn’t care for labels or surface value lies like everyone else did. You ripped him at his seams, tore him apart to see what was inside and he was ever so grateful for it, for that loving animosity that bared his soul to yours. You were straightforward, heart to heart or nothing at all because then what was the point?

There was no purpose without pain, without pleasure, without love. You suffered, you loved, and you were most definitely bringing him pleasure. All blunt and raw emotions too passionate and loud to ever try and hide or make lies about. No secrets, no deception, no labels.

This night, every night just like this one — nights spent in your arms deep inside where he needed to be most, were nights where his mind was bare and he was just yours. Nights when he didn’t have to put up a face or make up a lie or tell a tall tale.

He was Bruce, he was yours, he was just this. And most importantly, he was just your husband. The only label that really mattered and the only one he ever really cared about. ₊˚⊹♡

tagging , @little-miss-chaoss , @ghostslillady , @boobaeri , @prayingal

[billsvip]

DOES ANYONE KNOW WHERE I CAN FIND A SOUNDGASM THAT SOUNDS LIKE CHRISTIAN BALE/PATRICK BATEMAN. I'm desperate.

[plathfiles]

Wildest Dreams | BW

pairing: bale!bruce wayne x fem!reader

warnings: tooth rotting fluff, not proof read, Bruce being lovesick, established relationship. lmk if I missed anything

a/n: send me requests 🥺🥺 also lmk if you want to be on the tag list

taglist: @bumblebeesfromvenus @allysunny @junmsli

☽☽☽

Bruce Wayne had lived a difficult life. Well maybe not as difficult as one would expect. He was a rich playboy with a mansion and had a butler. But losing his parents at a young age took a tole on the man.

You were Bruce’s sunlight, guiding him away from the darkness inside him. Of course, as Batman he made Gotham a better place. But you, you made Bruce Wayne a better person.

You and Bruce had plans tonight. As his day job of being a rich philanthropist and carrying on the Wayne legacy, he must attend and host gala’s for Gotham’s elite.

Tonight was one of those Gala’s. The Williams family made a large donation to fund a homeless shelter in Gotham. This meant, a lot of the homeless population in Gotham would be properly housed instead of living on the street and resulting to crime.

Bruce was never one to like Gala’s. He thought the people whom attended them were ingenuine and cared more about their appearance instead of actually helping the city.

You tried to tell him that at least the money would help. Bruce couldn’t argue with that. You were right. Their money would help Gotham, but their attitude was atrocious.

One night, Bruce had gotten visibly jealous as he caught a man — who used to be one of this father’s close confidants — hitting on you at the open bar.

“And do you know what I said to my fellow soldiers?” The creepy old man asked.

You were not interested in the conversation. He was very clearly flirting with you and it made you uncomfortable. “No, I don’t,” you said, vaguely and uninterested.

Suddenly a warm and comforting hand wrapped around your waist. A familiar kiss pressed against your cheek. You turned and a smile graced your features. Bruce.

“Did you tell them you’re flirting with someone who is old enough to be your daughter?” Bruce said to the old man. “If you will excuse us, we have to talk to Commissioner Gordon.”

As Bruce swept you away, he pinched your side playfully. “Thank you,” you said up to his ear.

“Couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else getting close to you. Especially an old creep like him,” he said.

You liked when Bruce got possessive, although you would let him know that. You wouldn’t be able to live it down.

You were currently getting ready for tonight’s gala, standing infront of your large mirror and putting on your diamond jewelry. It was a present that Bruce had gifted you.

“You look breathtaking,” Bruce said. Think of the devil and he shall appear. He’d leaning against the wall, looking at you in the mirror. You look at him, seeing him in the glass.

“Thank you,” you say softly, a blush covering your cheeks.

Bruce is wearing a fancy suit and a navy blue tie to match the color of your dress. You fix a diamond earring and then turn around to face him. Walking, towards him.

“Your tie is crooked Mr. Wayne,” you smile, fixing his tie.

He hums in response, placing his hands delicately on your waist. “What would I do without you?” Bruce asked softly.

You smile back at him, placing a reassuring kiss on his cheek.

During the gala, Bruce pulled you to him on the dance floor. “Dance with me?” He gently asked.

You nodded in agreement and placed your hand in his. Bruce placed a hand on your waist and connected your other hand. The classical music surrounding the dance floor, enveloped you both completely.

Your head rested on his shoulder and he looked down at you with such content and happiness. “I love you,” Bruce whispered.

Bruce had never shared this information before now. He’d thought it obviously, how could he not love you — be in love with you.

You looked up at him, your beautiful eyes staring back at his. “I love you too Bruce,” you replied.

It was simple and sweet. Bruce and you deserved a quiet night in each others company.

Bruce leaned forward to kiss you. Returning the kiss you moved your arms to wrap around his neck. He pulled you close.

From across the ballroom, a photographer snapped a picture. You two looked like Gotham’s happiest couple. Bruce had found the woman of his dreams and his home.

“You’re my wildest dreams,” Bruce said softly, rubbing his nose against your own. “I’m never letting you go.”

“Good,” you smiled contently.

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

hii can you write about bale!bruce being an ass guy and just constantly grabbing and squeezing your ass whenever you’re on his lap and especially during sex, he would be doing all that and slapping it a lot? thank you sm i hope this isn’t too weird to ask!! 😭🫶

That's not too weird at all!! 🩷

This isn't exactly what you asked for, but the horny part of my brain took over, and there was no stopping it lol

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Sweet as a Peach 🍑

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Okay, but imagine this...

You're laying on your bed, turned on your stomach while reading a book or looking through your phone. It's late already, only the faint glow of the lamp on your bedside table illuminating the room.

Your legs are bare, as your usual sleep attire consisted of a top of some sort short and a pair of panties. Sleep is tugging at your limbs, your eyelids begin to droop, and your head feels heavy.

In comes Bruce, your husband, dressed in a pair of pajama pants and, fortunately for you, no shirt. He takes a moment to admire your form.

The curve of your back and your shoulders, your hips that look so soft and comfortable to grab and your legs, moving around a bit as you adjust your position.

And then, his favorite part. Your ass that looks like it was crafted by the gods. At least in his eyes. It's so perfect. He can't find a single flaw. It fades into your thighs so nicely, and the shimmering stretch marks accentuate its form even better.

Next thing he knows, he's staring at your behind with dilated pupils and a slack jaw. He's itching to take a handful, wanting to feel the supple flesh spill between his fingers. Bruce steps closer, the mattress dipping under his weight.

The tips of his fingers ghost over the curve of your ass, making a shiver run up your spine. You giggle, knowing exactly what's about to happen. As ridiculous as it sounds, Bruce was almost hypnotized, completely focused on your rear. His feather light touches turn into a gentle kneading of the fat, to digging his hands into the flesh.

You wiggle your hips from side to side with a cheeky smile, watching as he shot you a look before his lips were pressed to the backs of your thighs, trailing sloppy kisses up your leg. The soft hum that falls from your lips turns into a gasp when Bruce nips at your cheek, soothing it with a soft kiss.

He sucks hickeys and gently bites at your ass and thighs, covering them in various blooming shades of purple and blue. You could swear he spent hours worshipping your behind to his heart's content.

He hums against your skin, running his tongue up the inside of your thigh, nudging your legs to open wider. Bruce gently rubs his hands over the many marks, leaning forward to press a kiss to your shoulder before he settles back into his favorite place.

He noses the gusset of your underwear, making you instinctively arch your back, which in turn makes a wicked grin spread over his face.

He ended up eating you out until the sun rose, reveling in the beautiful sounds you made and how your body reacted to his tongue running along the seam of your cunt.

Whenever your hips would flinch away from his mouth, he'd deliver firm spanks to your ass, scolding you for interrupting his meal. He's obsessed. Your thighs clenched around his head, his cheek resting agaisnt your rear as he lazily licked and flicked his tongue over your clit.

He made you come undone so many times that you had to fend him off with a stick by the end.

Bruce loves to use your ass as a pillow. He'll collapse on top of you and use your cheeks as cloudy head support while he knocks out for a good few hours. Mainly after patrol.

Because where you see your ass, Bruce sees two perfectly good clouds to take a nap on.

<3

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

I hope it was satisfactory nonetheless!!

《tag list》: @allysunny @arkhamknightscxnt @gaozorous-rex-blog @hellonheels-x

(Lmk if you want to be added! Currently writing for Bale!Bruce, Jason Todd and Dick Grayson!)

[floralcyanidee]

ᴛʀɪᴘʟᴇ ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇ

Bruce Wayne x Reader x Jonathan Crane (NSFW)

When you notice Dr. Jonathan Crane watching you and your husband at a fundraising party, you get a little curious. When Dr. Crane angers you, he presses you to explore that anger. Will he regret it?

warnings: smut, nipple play, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (both vaginal and anal), oral sex, cock warming, anal sex, anal fingering, blowjobs, dirty talk, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, porn without much plot, masturbation, forced masturbation, threesome, male x male, male x female, male x male x female, cum swallowing, spitting, face sitting, face fucking, crying, sub/dom tones, dom!reader, sub!jonathan, kinda sub!bruce but not really, ya know, just pure filth

word count: 5254

author’s note: welcome to our one-way ticket to hell besties <3 I didn't proofread this because it just poured out of me and I was truly possessed by the writing demon today. I had an idea and literally ran with it. I don't think I've ever written something so filthy before lol please enjoy and give feedback!! READ THE WARNINGS this fic isn't for everyone tbh.

main masterlist | cillian murphy masterlist | add yourself to the taglist here

MOODBOARD FOR THIS FIC

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ, ᴀᴏ3, ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴇʙsɪᴛᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ɪɴ ᴀɪ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛᴏʀs ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʀᴛɪғɪᴄɪᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴛᴏ sᴇʟʟ ғᴏʀ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

One thing about being married to the Bruce Wayne was he had a thing for throwing parties and fundraisers at your mansion. This meant you had to dress up quite a bit, and you had to look really good as you were Bruce’s wife, of course. He always ensured you had the newest and most gorgeous gowns to show off at the gatherings. You’d spend the whole day getting your hair, makeup, and nails done, only to be at the parties for a few hours. And that was usually because Bruce had other duties in the city, he got too distracted by what you were wearing and needed you right then, or he simply let his antisocial side creep up on him. Tonight at the fundraiser he’s throwing, he seems content and has been by your side most of the night. Nothing drastic was going on in the city that demanded his action. But something was bothering him, you could tell. He’s slightly off, and you catch him staring at someone in the crowd a few times. You’re never able to pick them out, though. 

You and Bruce are by the champagne table, and you notice Bruce is gazing out into the crowd of partygoers again.

“Bruce?” you ask softly, putting a hand on his bicep, “You alright?”

Bruce blinks hard a few times before turning to you, “I’m fine, darling.”

“You sure? You seem distracted by something this evening,” you scan the room, but to no avail for whomever Bruce is focused on.

“I just thought I recognized someone,” Bruce says, sipping his drink.

“Hmm. Alright, then.”

“Have I told you that you look beautiful tonight?” Bruce smiles, letting a hand slide across the small of your back.

“Only about a thousand times,” you giggle, leaning into your husband.

You happen to look up, and that’s when you see him staring at the two of you. Dr. Jonathan Crane. He quickly averts his eyes away, but you have already caught him.

“Is it Dr. Crane that you recognize?” you ask Bruce, motioning to where he’s standing with some other rich psychologists.

“Yeah,” Bruce exhales, shrugging, “I thought he had left the city a while ago.”

“After the asylum got turned loose? I figured so, too. Oh well,” you say, looking up at Bruce, “If he’s here, then he’s donating, so maybe it’s not so bad.”

“You have a point,” Bruce raises his eyebrows, “I’m still keeping an eye on him, though.”

You knew of a few of the villains Bruce has come in contact with, including Jonathan. He had almost killed your best friend and sent the whole city insane. Who knows what would have happened to Gotham if it weren't for Bruce. But a part of you is curious about Jonathan- a deep, intellectual part of you. Why is he still here? Is he still a doctor? Your brain becomes dizzy with all the questions. If Jonathan is here acting casually on his own accord, you could, too. You tear away from Bruce without a word, drink in hand. Bruce calls after you, panic surging through him when he realizes where you’re headed.

“Dr. Crane,” you smile upon arriving in front of him and another psychologist, “Wonderful to see you here.”

“Ah, Mrs. Wayne. I wouldn’t miss a marvelous party for a good cause. Have you met Dr. Robin here?” Jonathan smiles back, not missing a single beat.

“I have not,” you look over to the tall woman in front of Jonathan, clad in a pantsuit. You reach out a hand for her to shake, “Y/N Wayne.”

“I know who you are, Mrs. Wayne,” Dr. Robin says politely, her Australian accent strong, “Your dress is quite lovely, I must say.”

“Thank you,” you reply with a smile, willing her to leave so you could speak with Jonathan alone. 

“Well, I’ll be off. Seems you two have something to discuss,” Dr. Robin announces her departure, much to your relief.

“It was nice meeting you,” you say sweetly as she walks away.

“You as well, Mrs. Wayne.”

You turn to Jonathan, who clears his throat as he looks you up and down. You’re nearly the same height as him, if not slightly taller, in your heels. 

“It’s really brave of you to be here, Dr. Crane,” you turn your head to the side, giving him a closed-lip smile.

“Please, call me Jonathan,” Jonathan responds, “And what would you mean by that?”

You take a step closer to him, leaning into his ear, “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Jonathan. Or should I say, Mr. Scarecrow.”

Jonathan doesn’t flinch. In fact, he grins at you as he exhales a laugh, “Those days are behind me, I’m afraid.”

“Uh-huh,” you cross your arms, “And why should I believe you?”

Jonathan glances behind you to look at Bruce, who is on edge and watching the entire conversation to ensure nothing is tried. A muscle in Jonathan’s jaw twitches, “You don’t have to. But if I were up to no good, why would I be in the presence of the Batman and his lover? Quite unintelligent, wouldn’t you think?”

“And why are you here, exactly?” 

“Trying to get myself back into the Gotham scene,” Jonathan looks at you matter-of-factly, “I’ve missed a lot being gone, you know.”

“Oh, I do know. And maybe you should’ve stayed gone,” you try not to snarl at him.

“Now, now, Mrs. Wayne. That is no way to speak to a donor,” Jonathan says, his voice dripping like honey with malice.

“You better be glad there are people around or-”

“Or what?” Jonathan asks, raising his eyebrows, a smirk itching at his lips.

“I’d fucking break you right here.”

“Sounds like a fun time. However, I’m not sure your husband would appreciate that in many, many ways.”

You scoff, “Don’t be crass. I’m not flirting with you. If I were, you’d know it.”

“There’s a fine line between desire and hatred, my dear,” Jonathan whispers in your ear, causing goosebumps to arise on your skin, “It’s a fun line to walk.”

Annoyance swells in your chest. You desperately wanted him to shut his bratty mouth. You also wanted to enjoy the rest of the party, but now that Jonathan had you riled up in anger, you wanted nothing more than to slam him against the wall and-

“Everything okay over here?” Bruce approaches suddenly, taking you by surprise.

“Everything is fine, sweetheart,” you place your hand on Bruce’s chest as a warning, “Nothing to worry about.”

“Dr. Crane isn’t bothering you, is he?” Bruce’s nostrils flare.

“Not at all,” you defend the doctor, “In fact, I’m probably annoying him.”

Bruce laughs humorlessly, “Oh, is that so?”

You cock your head at him, “Did you need something, dear?”

“Just want to speak with you privately,” Bruce says.

You go to say something, but Bruce interrupts you, “Both of you.”

If Jonathan is just as confused as you are, he doesn’t show it. 

“Lead the way, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce walks briskly to one of the guest rooms down the hall from the ballroom, making sure no one is following or watching the three of you. He ushers you and Jonathan inside, following suit before closing the door behind him. 

“You know,” Jonathan says, breaking the silence, “I never pegged Mrs. Wayne for the threatening type out of the two of you.”

You bite your tongue, and Bruce looks over at you.

“Say what you want to say. I brought the two of you in here so you could solve your conversation away from those nosy fuckers outside,” Bruce rolls his eyes, fixing his cuff links.

“We aren’t children, Bruce,” you scowl.

“Then act like it,” Bruce sasses back.

“I do not need two men on my bad side right now. Remember what happens when you’re on my bad side, Bruce?”

Bruce looks between you and Jonathan, a hint of nervousness in his eye, “Don’t bring him into this, darling.”

“No, no. I’m curious now,” Jonathan grins deviously, stepping closer to you, “What happens when someone is on your bad side, Mrs. Wayne?”

Now realizing how your words and threats may have sounded all night to Jonathan, you backpedal.

“Not what you think, Dr. Crane,” you cross your arms, taking a step back from the doctor.

“Oh really? So your antagonizing and threats don’t mean anything?”

“What do you think they mean?”

“As I said earlier, desire and hatred are very close to one another,” Jonathan says suavely, “And I honestly can’t tell which you feel toward me.”

You make a disgusted sound despite the growing need to pin this man down and give him what for. Not even sexually, but simply because you’re tired of him speaking. However, Jonathan wasn’t bad-looking by any means- and sometimes, you and Bruce liked to try new things. But you don’t think Bruce would want to fuck with a murderer and criminal, especially one he’s had close encounters within the city. Jonathan almost burned him alive once, so you aren’t sure about whatever he’s insinuating going very far with your husband. 

“Hatred,” you spit, “It’s hatred. Plus,” you look over at Bruce, “I don’t think my lover would appreciate me having anything to do with you anyway.”

Jonathan snorts, his eyes flickering between you and your husband, “Are you so sure about that?”

You furrow your brow, laughing incredulously at him, “I’m certain.”

“I don’t know,” Bruce says suddenly, “I wouldn’t mind seeing the fucker squirm on your account, Y/N.”

You nearly gasped, suddenly very aware of the animosity you were aiming at Dr. Jonathan Crane, now becoming sexual in nature. Not that you meant for it to, but now that it was insinuated out loud by someone other than Jonathan, you pondered your true feelings. As you’ve said, Jonathan was a looker. If you weren’t married to Bruce and the man wasn’t psychotic, you wouldn’t mind taking him for a ride. But you are married, and he is psychotic. 

Jonathan has his hands shoved in his pockets, a smirk on his face as he studies you, “You want this. Don’t deny it, Mrs. Wayne. I can tell by the look in your eyes.”

You purse your lips together, “What I want is for you to shut up and behave. All you do is act high and mighty when you’re nothing but a little rat.”

Bruce tries to hide his laugh by covering it with a cough, “I’ll let everyone know it’s time to leave. When I come back, you two better be taking care of things.”

You look at Bruce, who gives you a slight nod in approval to do as you wish before he steps out of the room. No one is in charge in the bedroom permanently between the two of you. The dominant role is shared or is back and forth, depending on the day. To your shock, Bruce gives you the complete reins in this situation. But Bruce knew how much you despised Dr. Crane for what he’s done, even if a part of you is desperately curious about him. Desperate enough to demean him sexually, even. You want to humiliate him. Make him cry and make him regret having even come here. You want him to think of you whenever he feels shame or embarrassment for the rest of his life. 

“A little rat, huh?” Jonathan chuckles, undoing his cufflinks.

“Yes,” you blink, forcing him to walk backward to the bed as he struggles to remove his blazer.

You shove him roughly onto the bed, watching him bounce from the mattress with a look of disorientation. Jonathan eventually gets his blazer off, discarding it onto the floor. You can’t properly climb on the bed with your gown on, so you reach behind your back, undoing the clasps that hold the silver dress together. You kick off your glittery heels, letting the gown slip to the floor in a pile. Underneath your dress, you decided a black lingerie set would do nicely. You’re glad you picked well, considering such a doting man was now staring at you like you were a piece of meat and he was starving. You try to ignore the logical side of your brain telling you this man is dangerous and crazy. But the other side of your brain is telling you that his cock is definitely dangerous and crazy, too. And you wanted to find out for sure. 

“Now,” you begin to crawl to where Jonathan wordlessly lays, watching you carefully, “Are you going to be good and keep your mouth shut, pretty boy?”

“No promises,” Jonathan flashes a toothy grin, and you angrily rip his button-up open, buttons flying everywhere across the room.

Jonathan’s mouth hangs open, “That was an expensive shirt.”

“Nothing you can’t replace,” you shrug, running your hands along Jonathan’s handsome chest before letting your nails graze his nipples.

Jonathan shudders at the feeling, and you remove your hands from him, sitting back on your heels, “Lay on the pillows.”

“Ma’am, yes ma’am,” Jonathan purrs, doing as told, surprisingly.

You hear the door open behind you, and you turn around quickly to see Bruce.

“Everyone is cleared out. Brought some fun stuff, too,” he places a box on the floor, kicking it to the end of the bed for you to grab it.

You lean down over the edge of the bed and retrieve the box, crawling on your knees to where Jonathan lies. You open the box and hum in satisfaction at Bruce’s choice of toys and trinkets. You fiddle with one toy, dragging your gaze to Jonathan with a wicked smile on your face. But before you reveal the toy, you snatch some rope out of the box.

“Now you have no choice but to be good, Dr. Crane,” you snicker, offering Bruce some of the rope to tie Jonathan’s left wrist to the bedpost with.

You tie Jonathan’s right wrist tight enough for him not to move too much but not enough to where blood flow is cut off. Jonathan tugs at the rope, looking at you and Bruce with a nervous yet exhilarating smile.

“I’m privileged to be living such a fantasy,” Jonathan sighs.

“You’ll be wishing you had never stepped foot in this house when she’s done with you,” Bruce smirks, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling his sleeves up.

“Ah,” Jonathan laughs.

Before he can comment any further, you shove a ball gag into his mouth, strapping it behind his head securely. A deep feeling of satisfaction to him finally being quiet fills you. But the joy of seeing such an evil man at your mercy is more intense. 

“You better be glad I chose the ball gag instead of having Bruce have his way with that pretty mouth of yours, Crane,” you say, and Bruce shakes his head from where he stands beside the bed.

Drool begins seeping out of the sides of Jonathan’s mouth, and you can’t help but coo at the sight of his tightening pants and his reddening cheeks. You grab his face between your fingers, squishing his flesh. You hum in satisfaction before letting go of his face and focusing on his slacks. You all but tear his belt off his hips, hurrying to unbutton his pants before ripping them down his thighs. Bruce removes the pants the rest of the way as you climb onto Jonathan’s lap, your clothed core atop his throbbing, leaking bulge.

You kiss Jonathan’s jaw, leaving harsh bites along the column of his throat as you travel down, continuing your assault on the skin of his chest and torso. You reach the band of his underwear, which you tease with your hands, snapping the band against Jonathan’s skin. He tries his best to laugh from underneath the ball gag, spit sputtering from the gaps of his mouth. You slowly peel his underwear down his legs, watching as his hard cock slaps against his stomach. You let Bruce pull the underwear off completely, and he tosses it somewhere in the room to be found later. You lean down to lick the bead of precum off Jonathan's tip before pulling away completely, allowing Bruce the room to tie up the doctor’s ankles to the bottom bedposts. You stand at the foot of the bed, chuckling darkly as Jonathan struggles against the restraints. 

“Not so powerful now, are you, Dr. Crane?” you laugh, knowing he didn’t like you calling him by his professional name, “You look so pathetic, lying there with your poor cock out for us to see. Bet you wish one of us would touch it for you, hmm?”

Jonathan stays silent, his eyes boring into yours as he yanks his arms, testing the rope’s strength. He realizes he truly can’t move or speak and that he’s entirely at you and Bruce’s mercy. Not the worst position to be in, Jonathan thinks. 

“Which of us should do the honors?” you ask Bruce, a playful smile on your face. 

It isn’t often Bruce gets to mess with the other man during your experimental sexual encounters. Still, you figure this is personal enough for him to want to be involved. 

“You can take this one. I’ve got other plans,” Bruce says, smirking deviously.

“Oh really?” you grin, “I’m excited to see those.”

You climb back on the bed, moving toward Jonathan’s lap, where his weeping cock is getting redder by the second. Grabbing the base of it, you move it forward enough for it to meet your lips. You lap your tongue on Jonathan’s tip, smearing the precum around before licking a stripe up his entire length. You pull away, letting his cock slap painfully against his stomach again. You harshly grip Jonathan’s balls, causing him to cry out muffled. You massage them as you take his length into your mouth, bobbing your head as you continue to take him in entirely. You press your breasts into the bed, letting your ass be exposed for Bruce to take advantage of as you suck off Jonathan. Bruce wastes no time walking over to you, letting his hands run over your asscheeks before he pulls your pretty black underwear off. Bruce dips his head down to flatten his tongue against your wet slit, gathering your arousal as he swirls it around your cunt. You moan around Jonathan’s cock, causing him to twitch. 

“God, I love this pussy,” Bruce pants against you, “Too bad you can’t get a taste, Crane.”

You peer your eyes up to Jonathan’s, his icy blue eyes now dark from his blown pupils. He’s glaring at Bruce, trying to regulate his breathing as his tip hits the back of your throat. Jonathan’s eyes roll into the back of his head as you fuck him with your mouth, letting his cock slam into your throat. Jonathan tries to thrust into your mouth, but you push his hips down against the mattress. You’re slobbering, and tears are streaming down your face as you take his length as much as you can, wanting him to get as close to cumming as possible. Bruce sucks your clit harshly, letting two fingers slip into your wet pussy. You groan, the vibrations sending Jonathan batty. You feel him getting close, and you blindly fumble around for the box of toys that still remains on the bed somewhere. You find it, pulling off Jonthan’s cock as it twitches uncontrollably. He growls as you find the toy you were looking for. You give Jonathan a few pumps, gripping his length as tight as you can, watching as the precum helplessly spills from him. Before Jonathan can react or cum, you slip a cock ring onto him, sliding it down to his base. He cries out from behind the ball gag, his chest heaving. You lay your head on his thigh, watching as his cock turns bright red. Bruce continues to eat you out, his teeth brushing against your clit occasionally, causing you to moan. Your breath hits Jonathan’s angry length, making him shiver. You look him in the eyes as Bruce adds a third finger, fucking into your g spot harshly as he bites at your bundle of nerves. You maintain eye contact with Jonathan as you cum, letting your nails dig into the soft flesh on his thighs.

“Lucky for me,” you trace Jonathan’s tip teasingly with your finger, catching your breath, “I get to cum as much as I want.”

Jonathan stares at you without making a sound, focusing on his breathing so he doesn’t explode into a fine mist from the overstimulation. 

“Now it’s your turn since you’ve been a good boy,” you remove the ball gag from Jonathan’s mouth, licking up his spit from his lips before he can lick it off himself.

“Open your mouth,” you demand, and Jonathan does as told.

You gather his and your saliva in your mouth before spitting it onto his tongue. 

“Now show me how good you are at eating pussy, Dr. Crane.”

You flip yourself around, hovering over Jonathan’s face as you slowly remove the cock ring. Bruce removes his button-up, laying down between Jonathan’s spread legs. Jonathan lets out a strangled cry at the feeling of Bruce’s hot mouth on his sensitive cock. You push your pulsing cunt onto Jonathan’s face, to which he happily starts lapping hungrily. You watch as Bruce hollows his cheeks around Jonathan, and the sight alone makes you even wetter than before. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, Bruce’s eyes meeting yours.

You rock your hips against Jonathan’s tongue, urging him to continue. Jonathan wishes he could bury his fingers in your cunt, but he settles for his tongue instead. Twisting and pushing it inside you, he uses his nose to press against your clit, shaking his head. You grip Jonathan’s hair, cursing at the feeling of his tongue dragging in your walls and his nose flicking your bundle of nerves. You grasp your barely clothed breasts, letting your thumbs play with your nipples through the thin lace. Bruce moans around Jonathan while watching you, letting Jonathan fuck into his throat.

“Wanna cum, you piece of shit?” Bruce pulls off Jonathan, who gasps a ‘yes,’ “Be careful what you ask for,” Bruce chuckles.

You plan on milking the doctor for all he’s got all night. You want him spent and begging for mercy. Anything to make him miserable.

Bruce takes Jonathan back into his mouth, bobbing up and down quickly and stroking what he won’t take into his mouth. Bruce allows Jonathan to buck his hips into his face. Jonathan lets out a pitiful cry as he cums in your husband’s mouth, white-hot spurts of seed shooting down Bruce’s throat. You feel Jonathan roll your clit between his teeth before sucking it between his lips as he rides his high. You growl, letting your self-control go out the window. You chase your own high, letting Jonathan torture and tease your bundle of nerves with his tongue and teeth until you finally release in his mouth. Jonathan slurps and suckles every drop of your arousal from your cunt, licking until you pull off him. 

“Lucky for you,” you pant, beginning to untie the rope bound to Jonathan’s wrists, “This next part requires your cooperation. Promise you’ll behave?”

“Yes, Mrs. Wayne,” Jonathan nods.

You let Bruce finish untying the doctor as you discard your bra. You instruct Jonathan to move to the side, allowing you to lie down in his place. You demand that Jonathan climb on top of you. he does as told, and Bruce roughly pushes Jonthan’s face into your chest. You laugh at Bruce’s typical roughness, especially when it makes Jonathan look flustered. His ass is now in the air, revealed to Bruce. 

“Have you ever been fucked in the ass like a good boy?” you ask Jonathan, your fingers in his hair.

He doesn’t look at you or respond.

“I’m asking you a question, Jonathaaan,” you say threateningly, your fingers now gripping his hair harshly as you lift his head for him to look at you.

“No,” Jonathan says breathlessly.

“Well, that’s about to change,” you say, “Any regrets about being smart-mouthed to me yet, Dr. Crane?”

Jonathan glares at you, panting as Bruce spreads his ass apart, “Not yet.”

“Good,” you smile, letting his head drop abc to your chest, “Now obey me and show me how much you’re enjoying this.”

You move Jonathan’s face, maneuvering his mouth to your hardened and sensitive nipple. Bruce takes some lube from the box he brought, smearing it against his fingers before teasing Jonathan’s asshole with the tip of his index finger. Jonathan keens around you, his body beginning to shake as Bruce slowly pushes a finger inside him. Jonathan sucks harshly on your nipple, gasping as your husband wiggles his finger inside his tight ass. He laps at your bud, focusing on trying to please you and taking Bruce’s long finger simultaneously. A second finger is added, stretching Jonathan further. The doctor lets out a sharp groan at the delectable burn. He attacks your other breast, letting his finger circle around the one he was just attached to. Bruce prods a third finger into Jonathan, and he lurches forward from the feeling of fullness. 

“If you think you’re full now, just wait for Bruce’s fat cock, baby boy,” you taunt.

Bruce twists and curls his fingers inside Jonathan, doing his best to prep him for his unforgiving length. When he pulls his hand away, Jonathan gasps from the sudden emptiness. Bruce spreads his ass apart again, his slacks and underwear now discarded as his hardened cock pressed against Joanthan’s gaping hole. Jonathan whimpers around your nipple, pausing momentarily as Bruce slides himself into Jonathan. 

“Fuck,” Jonathan shudders.

“You can stop now. I need you elsewhere,” you pull Jonathan’s head off your breasts, sneaking your hand between the two of you to his newly hardened cock, stroking it in your hand in time for Bruce to bottom out. 

Jonathan whines, collapsing on your torso as the air leaves him.

“Tapped out already?” you pout, sticking your bottom lip out at Jonathan when you lift his head by his hair again, “Too fucking bad.”

Bruce then pulls out of Jonathan almost all the way before slamming back into him, his tip brushing against Jonathan’s prostate. Jonathan screams as you guide his cock between your slick folds, his body overstimulated. You let Jonathan weakly push his length inside your soaking cunt, your walls enveloping him immediately. Bruce wraps an arm around Jonathan’s chest, anchoring himself to the doctor. His other hand grips Jonathan’s hip with intensity. The feeling of Bruce pounding into Jonathan’s tight little ass affects you directly as Jonathan pushes deeper inside you every time Bruce thrusts into him. Soon, a rhythm is established, and you’re nearly in tears from pleasure as you watch Jonathan become a withering, crying mess underneath Bruce. 

“Doing so good taking Bruce’s huge cock,” you praise Jonathan, bucking your hips with his every time he involuntarily moves forward, “You could at least try a little harder to fuck me like you want to, though.”

Jonathan’s forehead is teeming with sweat as he struggles to actually thrust into you while Bruce fucks into his prostate. You give him the benefit of the doubt- the first time getting fucked in the ass is intense. So you rock and swivel your hips on Jonathan’s cock roughly, letting him reach up to grab your breasts for leverage. He pinches your nipples, twisting them hard, sending electricity to your cunt. You pulse around Jonathan’s length, causing him to grunt miserably. Bruce’s hips are slapping onto Jonathan’s asscheeks loudly, and Jonathan’s cock twitches pitifully inside you.

“Cum, sweet thing,” you coax Jonathan, whose hair has long since lost its gel hold and has begun flopping into his face, “Cum inside me.”

Jonathan starts fucking into you the best he can, tears streaming down his face as he cums, a hoarse scream leaving his throat. Bruce is still fucking him without mercy, and you let Jonathan’s soft cock remain inside you as he whimpers helplessly, his hands gripping your sides.

“That’s it,” you praise him gently, “Let Batman fuck you silly like you deserve.”

Jonathan peers up at you, giving you the dirtiest look he can muster as you cackle, Bruce grunting as he cums inside Jonthan’s ass and on his back. 

“Christ,” Bruce sighs, pushing his hair from his face as he winces, pulling out of Jonathan’s quivering asshole.

Jonathan collapses on top of you in a mess of sweat, tears, and cum. You let him catch his breath before sliding out from under him.

“One last thing, sweetie,” you say, your tone sugary, “Sit up on the bed for us.”

Jonathan weakly pushes himself up, flipping onto his back and laying his head on the pillows.

“Touch yourself,” you demand, sitting on your knees at the end of the bed beside Bruce, “I want you to cum until you can’t cum anymore.”

Jonathan opens his mouth to protest, but you motion for him to shush, to which he tiredly gives in. You dip your hand to your slick clit, swiping at it as Jonathan strokes his sensitive cock for you. Bruce watches you and Jonathan touch yourselves, unable to really get himself up again. He instead sits behind you, playing with your tits and rubbing his large hands on your hot, sticky skin. Bruce relishes in watching Jonathan fall apart as he looks away in embarrassment.

“Keep your eyes on me, Crane,” Bruce’s voice booms, making Jonathan jump.

Jonathan gulps, reluctantly keeping eye contact with Bruce as he bucks into his hand, moaning hoarsely as he gets close. He can’t help but think about how he was between the two of you, getting fucked by you and Bruce at the same time. With that, cum shoots from his overused cock onto his stomach, and he cries out in embarrassment when you demand he get off again.

You stay like that, letting Bruce replace your hand as you spread your legs further open to allow him to fuck you with his fingers. You bounce on them, moaning quietly as Jonathan fights to keep his eyes open, his wrist flicking to the best of his ability. The night goes on, and Jonathan eventually taps out, sobbing almost uncontrollably as he runs out of cum. You and Bruce give him time alone before slowly moving him to the shower, where you help him wash off. You and your husband also washed yourselves off, assisting Jonathan out of the shower when you were all done. He’s wrapped in a towel, wincing as he walks back to the bed and curls up under the covers. You follow suit, wrapping your arms around Jonathan and soothing him as he finally falls asleep. Bruce holds you from behind, sighing contently.

“Too bad it takes doing this to humble a villain,” Bruce jokes.

“And the fact I could help was exciting,” you chuckle, “I never get to fight criminals like you do.”

“Maybe you should. You’ve got the mouth for it. Your sass is unmatched,” Bruce buries his nose in your hair.

“Mmm, I think I’m good,” you say, stroking Jonathan’s hair out of his face, “One villain is enough for me, I think.”

You and Bruce quietly watch the evil, despicable fucker sleep soundly. 

“Can we keep him?” you ask Bruce, to which he tries not to burst out laughing.

“So you can torture him more? Absolutely.”

“Awesome.”

taglist:

@sstar-ggirl @cillsmurphs @ldklollord @thecherrycocktail @dunklerkeks1611 @hllywdwhre @ecstaticforus @faelvz @ceruleanrainblues @yongi-lee @baizzhu @aporiasposts @hjmalmed @queenshelby @amanda08319 @naty-1001 @orijanko @raineeace @nela-cutie @cutexlr @flwrs4aust @langdons-slut @shynovelist @trixie23 @cillianbabe @slut4thebroken @mypoisonedvine @burnyouwithacigarettelighter @cranesbathtowel @arieslost @nefhertari @forgottenpeakywriter @llucky-llove @october-atoner @madlittlecriminal @ynisthatyou @starbxnny @darkmoviesquotespizza @newtsniffles

[g1rlken]

Hi hi! For the prompts can you do 10 and 14 with Christian bales Bruce Wayne?

Prompt: chaotic married life w kids + domestic fluff

Words: 2k

Thank you sm for this req it’s so cute

-

Marriage tends to change people is a superficial analysis of growing together but children sure do change routines. Especially morning routines where chaos is an understatement. Raising a child requires a village but for twins a whole army might just suffice. Vincent and William. A very pleasant blessing of two little boys in the Wayne household. However Bruce and y/n were subjected to consider just how much of peace was the cost of that blessing.

Their twins were such serene babies, toddler phase was a transition to literal devils during grade school. Getting them to do home work, go to school, eat the greens, not unleash hell…such difficult tasks.

Today like every other school morning, the parents had divided to bathe the twins in different bathrooms. When they were much younger and playful as babies bathing them in the giant bathtub where they’d just play with soap bubbles and those Amazon find bath toys was a cute activity. Nowadays, on Sundays sometimes they’d just hose them down in the garden and call it a day. It was so much more convenient for the parents and even the twins who absolutely despised bathing. Y/n bathed the older twin Vincent in the bathroom which was upstairs, Bruce downstairs with William who was a bad influence of his brother to not bathe and Alfred preparing breakfast and lunch boxes.

“Bruce!” Y/n voice shrieked from upstairs followed by a whiny cry from Vincent and he rushed to inquire, finding his wife looking for the sink holding her eyes shut.

“What happened here…?” Bruce asked as stepped inside and was immediately attacked by a plastic bottle Vincent could get his hands on as he moved frantically in the bathtub. Bruce dodged it with dad reflex thankfully.

“There’s shampoo in our eyes” Y/n briefed him and pointed at their son to go help him given she could assist herself with the sink water.

Vincent was just moving frantically in the shallow bath water shaking his head and hands splashing the water “Do something!” The boy demanded with a shrill cry.

“ Vin, calm down” Bruce urged as he bent on his knees to the bath level and held some of the running water in his hands to pour into his shampoo hurting eyes but he’d just squeezed them shut. “Open your eyes”

“I can’t! They hurt!” The boy whined and splashed the water very disruptively it went all over Bruce’s face.

“Breathe, you’re alright just breathe…open your eyes.” Bruce soothed anyways as he helped Vincent soothe the hurt by sprinkling cleaner water again, “why were you shampooing him anyways? We literally have school in an hour”

“I wasn’t but someone keeps on changing the bottles with soap and shampoo again and again” Y/n replied scoffing in obviousness as she air dried her eyes, it was Bruce who colour coded them like that in a different set of bottle at each refill. Washing hair of a seven year old who will fight a literal battle to resist it, will most definitely end up in a painful situation as such.

“It is literally so simple, white for soap and off white for shampoo” Bruce accounted for his way of arrangement as he dabbed his son’s eyes with towel, soothing his cries.

“We don’t have time to go into that discourse I’ll go pack lunch” Y/n said as she hurriedly wiped her own eyes.

“Oh Alfred’s on it…” Bruce informed her casually as Vincent’s eyes were normal again he opened them with a heavy sigh.

“Oh man I’m never using shampoo again.” The boy said dramatically and received a disapproving shake of head from his dad.

“Wait then who’s with Will?” Y/n asked about their younger twin William, whose morning crankiness were much worse.

“Uh” Bruce paused realising he’d not considered that as he’d rushed to his wife’s call for help “He was brushing his teeth”

“Alright he’s most definitely asleep again.” She sighed composing herself, leaving Vincent to get out of bath and dressed for his dad she rushed downstairs. As expected, William was fast asleep on the marble sink leaning against the wall with his legs dangling down the sink, ever since the kids learned to climb places no surface was unreachable. “Willy!” Y/n exclaimed as she carried him down the sink “William wake up come on we’ve to go to school!” She exclaimed and brushed his teeth for him hurriedly as he mumbled something about not wanting to go.

“I don’t want to…” will whined still half asleep not wanting to go because he still wanted to sleep. During vacations it was difficult to put him down to bed just absolute monkey activities all day long jumping here to there and during school days he couldn’t be bothered to brush his teeth even.

William tried to have a one sided debate about why he shouldn’t have to go to school and was eventually fully awake, much to y/n’s demise now she couldn’t manhandle and carry her son to brush his teeth and bath because now he was ready to have full sassy conversations. “You know I’m not getting in that right?” He said to his mum and gave the filling bathtub a disgusting look.

“We literally don’t have time for this please don’t bring-“ his mum started sighing as she foresaw the upcoming torment.

“What?” William said exaggerating his obviousness “I won’t be clean with gutter water”

“It’s not guttter water!” She tried to , despite being on the clock “Don’t believe everything you hear in school” she bent to her knees to match his eye level and try to convince him better “you know no ones want to sit with the kid who hasn’t bathed in 24 hours?”

“But didn’t you say people should like each other for who they are and their kindness and not what they dress and look like” Will responded smugly crossing his arms at his mum, well aware he was winning this debate so far.

Taking a deep breath to subside her annoyance of her own words biting her back, “No, that was for when you wanted to wear your ducky hat and those big kids made fun of you. Not for hygiene.”

“I don’t even know what that word means so…” he trailed off with a pout of correctness.

“Look, we’re going to be really late can you please cooperate.”

“I am awake, I brushed my teeth and I am talking to you that is enough operation on my part” William reasoned with his mom with a shrug.

“It’s cooperation.” She corrected him.

“It’s the same thing” William answered offering her mom a smile of encouragement, as if she did not know the word.

“No it’s not.” Y/n replied before she could continue Bruce’s knock on the open door averted their attention.

“He’s still not ready?” Bruce exclaimed in urgency.

“Vin?” Y/n asked about the status of the other twin as Bruce nodded and briefed her that he was with Alfred. Joint breakfast plus lunch box duties. Bruce stepped inside because clearly with his wife on his son’s eye level trying to convince him to shower seemed like she needed help.

“I literally don’t even have to go to school!” William exclaimed “I know each and every animal and I know that that water comes from sewage!” He said pointing to the bath water.

“For the hundredth time will, it doesn’t come from the sewage!” Bruce interjected with a sigh. “It’s very clean”

“So I can drink it?” William proposed raising brows at his parents.

“No” Y/n replied almost instantly, William was very fast to react she was worried he might actually try something “No you can’t drink it.”

“Why?” William demanded an answer with the hopes of his parents getting trapped in their own initial proponent that the water was not from sewage.

“Look I’m going to count to three if you don’t get in-“ Y/n began, as they were really on the clock she couldn’t reason ever so rationally.

“Hey hey no” Bruce interrupted his wife shaking his head, “We don’t do that, don’t threaten him. We have a civil conversation.”

“I’m not threatening him woah” she replied with a huff at his accusation.

“Count to three and what? Splash him?” Bruce asked somewhat wanting to have stern yet hostile approach to the kid.

“—Of course!”

“But I only have to bath if I have to go to school wight?” William enquired mispronouncing right for wight “what if I don’t? Can’t I just be homeschooled?! Dada was homeschooled.”

“Exactly, dada was homeschooled and he’s now a grown up who has no friends.” Y/n explained it to him rather unapologetically but not in a poking way to Bruce . “Do you want to be like that?”

“No that’s not true I have friends” Bruce jumped to his defence somewhat taken aback how casually his wife threw that one in, despite an apologetic smile she offered him.

“Name your two best friends then.” William investigated as he looked up at his dad with an anticipated look.

Bruce paused for a moment as he thought about it, he looked serious which made y/n wonder if he had any friends she hadn’t known of this entire time. His face seemed like he was trying to pick between his ever so large group of friends but he began, “Y/n and..” he trailed off thinking again but William had gotten his answer.

“Okay I understand now.” William said looking his mom, both of them shared a small laugh which Bruce didn’t exactly get on but at least William agreed to get in the bath.

-

Leaving Bruce to dress the boy y/n rushed outside to help Alfred with breakfast and lunch boxes, “hey hey hey” she rushed over to Alfred, where Vincent was clinging to the old man as piggy back. A very concerning sight given, not that he would fall but Alfred was rather old. “Get down from there!”

“It’s alright Miss Wayne.” Alfred said with a smile as Vincent just laughed getting favoured against his mum’s demand.

“No it’s not.” She shook her head carrying Vincent off of him and placed him on the dinning table chair, “They’re both getting way too heavy to carry.”

“I just can’t refuse them.” Alfred laughed a small laugh as he set the plates for breakfast.

“Well you should” Y/n said hurriedly as she rummaged through the cabinets to get the lunch boxes out, by then Bruce returned with a towel over will’s head. Once he sat him on the chair he rubbed his drenched hair hastily.

“No not my hair!” Vincent flinched with a scowl on his face when Bruce attempted to dry his hair as well.

“We’re late Vin, come on” Bruce refused to give into the whining at this point and dried Vincent’s hair anyways. He walked across the kitchen to help y/n reaching for the lunch box on the top shelf as she prepared one of those.

“Late?” Alfred asked as he registered the sentence “Late for what? It’s Sunday.”

“It’s Sunday today?!” Y/n asked as she turned around and her eyes winded.

“Yes.” Alfred nodded positively as he pointed to the calendar.

The parents just sighed relaxing their shoulders in regret, “wow” y/n chuckled softly as Bruce joined along comprehending his regret with the humour of it as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “I did not just bathe both of them on a Sunday.” She laughed as Bruce brought her into a side hug.

“You?” He raised a brow looking down at her.

“We” she corrected herself with a smile as she gave him with a soft peck on the lips.

[s8tnn]

christian bale icons

like or reblog if you use these and no reposts please 💕

tap here to request

american psycho icons here and here

[jakegyllenbaalz]

me n gang!

[makeyoumine69]

Daddy Knows Best (Full version)

PAIRING: Patrick Bateman x Innocent!Fem!Reader

CONTAINS: SMUT, seduction, dry humping, hand jobs, oral sex (both receiving), masturbation, fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, loss of innocence, praise kink, creampie, breeding kink, daddy kink, pet names, dirty talk, hair pulling, spanking, slight choking.

A/N: I'm gradually trying to catch up on finishing my WIPs! I decided to rewrite this one a bit and collect all the drabbles in one piece. I hope you like it!

LINKS: [MASTERLIST] 🪓

God, imagine that one day Patrick would take you to his place, and since you were a virgin, he would seduce you very carefully. Once in his apartment, he would gently take off your coat and lead you into his living room, where he would let you choose the music, and as you flipped through his CD collection, he would admire your beauty, and then he would start stroking your hair and caressing your cheek, before finally crashing his lips against yours in a lustful kiss. You would moan into his mouth, and he would lift you up in his arms and move to the couch, sit on it and make you mount him so he could grab your ass and pull up your skirt. Trembling visibly, you would whimper from the way your soaked pussy rubbed against the big bulge in his pants and your tentative, sexy sounds would only spur Bateman to pull you closer to make the friction even more intense.

"Mhmm...Patrick...you're so…" You would hiccup as he bounced you on his lap. "Is that… is that because of me?"

Your shy question would make him chuckle softly into your ear, tickling the delicate skin around it. "Yes, little one," his raspy voice would make you squirm in his arms, the heat between your legs driving him crazy. "You're making Daddy so hard," he'd gently take your hand and place it right on his aching groin. "Wanna check?"

Speechless, you just nodded, unable to even mumble a sound, and this sight of your numbness only fueled his desire to corrupt you here and now, though he might admit that this time he actually wanted to take it slowly.

"Uh, such a curious kitten," he murmured as he casually unbuckled his belt. "So eager to discover new things Daddy can give you?"

Gasping, you hid your heated face in your hands for a brief moment as the sexual tension between the two of you was too overwhelming—it threatened to wash over you like a tsunami, but you were ready to embrace it.

"Yes," just one word was enough to make him growl in a hoarse voice as he finally released his hard length. "But I've never done anything like this before...I've never..." you literally forgot how to breathe as you looked down between his wide-open legs. "I..."

Damn, he was so big. Just looking at him sent shivers down your spine and caused your inner muscles to clench in phantom pain.

Bateman couldn't help but laughed heartily as he found your shock quite amusing. "What's wrong, sweetheart?" He asked, pulling you closer as he rhythmically pumped his throbbing dick.

"You're so big, Daddy," you admitted nervously, turning away to avoid looking down. "W-why are you so big?"

Grinning arrogantly, Patrick took your chin and forced you to face him. "Well, I guess I won the genetic lottery, honey." With that, he swiftly grabbed your hand to replace his own, sliding it up and down his hot flesh. "Fuck," he moaned softly, tilting his head back. "You have such small but cute hands...mmhhm...they feel so good on my dick. Keep going," he whispered in your ear, squeezing your waist to keep you close. "Yes...just like that... you're doing so good...f-fuck!"

His breath hitched at every amateur stroke you made, and soon you could feel a few drops of his warm pre-cum running down his red, swollen tip—this image made you lick your lips in a rush of hunger you had never experienced before.

"Do you want me to... taste you?" You pureed against his flushed cheek, eliciting an amused chuckle from his solid chest.

"No need to ask, kitten," he gently placed his palm on the back of your neck as a sign of agreement. "But I won't lie... your naivety really turns me on."

With that, Bateman kissed you hard on the lips before leading you down to his throbbing dick, encouraging you to take it into your warm mouth, and as you wrapped your soft lips around his leaking tip, Patrick couldn't help but moan loudly, throwing his head back.

"Fuck," he grabbed a handful of your soft hair and set the pace of your bobbing movements. "Your mouth feels so good, baby."

You just mewled around his hot flesh, trying to concentrate on breathing through your nose so as not to choke on his huge shaft and not to think about how much it would hurt if you decided to go further in this dangerous game of unbridled lust.

"Use your pretty hands too," he commented all of the sudden before sprawling on the couch to give you more room. "It will help."

Embarrassed as hell, you encircled the base of his thick cock with your both hands without ceasing to suck on his drooling tip. Each low growl he made was setting you on fire, making you dripping so badly.

"Mmhm," you whimpered when Bateman pushed you down, thrusting deeper into your mouth, but the next moment he gently pulled on your hair to force you to look at him. "I did something wrong, Daddy?"

Patrick sneered ever so hauntingly, tracing his thumb along your glistening lips to smear his pre-cum along them. "No, little one," he pulled you into a ravenous kiss, your tongues sliding along each other, and you couldn’t help but moan into his mouth. "You did it so fucking well, that’s why I stopped you," Bateman crooned and shifted your position, so now you were beneath him on the couch. "Because I'm not finished with you yet."

Without breaking eye contact, Patrick slowly drew his thin finger along your taut lower lips, coaxing a muffled gasp to break out from your quickly raising chest. Then, he pulled on the lace of your damp panties as he watched your reaction and when you didn’t protest, he tugged them down in one quick motion.

"Such an obedient girl," he hummed to himself, stroking his arching length with his free hand. “Now, listen to me very carefully,” he petted your legs and opened them wider, so he could set himself between them. "I need you to do exactly what I say. Got it?"

Bateman didn't bother to wait for your answer, he easily shifted your position so that your face was now pressed against the armrest of his spacious white couch and your pretty ass was up in the air.

"A-ah!" You whimpered pretty loudly as he glided his long fingers over your oozing folds—the slick sound driving you crazy. "Pat-Patrick-mhmm!" 

Clinging to the edge of the couch, you trembled more intensely with each inch Bateman moved closer to your innocent, tight hole, and when you felt his index finger poking at your wet opening, you had to bite your lower lip from an odd sensation that was both painful and exciting.

With a dark smirk, the man descended to your exposed pussy to give it a few licks before he slid two fingers inside of you at once, eliciting a shaky moan from your bruised throat. "Uh...you have such a little tight pussy," Patrick remarked, paying no attention to the way you were writhing on the couch, quivering and whimpering some unrecognizable nonsense. "Daddy's gonna make you feel so good...mmhm...so fucking good."

Frowning from the tearing sensation in your lower abdomen, you wanted to ask him to stop, but instead you just clutched the soft material beneath you, doing your best not to start crying. "Keep talking to me...please," your voice wavered from your heavy breathing, several drops of sweat running down your temples. "Daddy...a-awww!"

A loud, obscene sound of him slapping your ass bounced off the walls of his apartment, forcing all your nerve endings to ignite from hypersensitivity. 

"You seem to forget who is in charge here," Bateman scolded, pulling at your hair and lifting your head so he could see your frightened, doe eyes. "Your innocent hole can't even imagine how full I'm gonna make it."

All the while, Patrick was pumping his throbbing cock to keep himself hard, only to suddenly thrust into your moist entrance, forcing all your insides to cramp into a knot.

"A-aghhh, Patrick!" You cried out, but then your opened mouth froze in a silent scream as his fat tip pushed through the tight obstacle, causing you so much pain, but Bateman didn't care. "It hurts...ahhh... it hurts so bad...mmm," a hard slap on your hip silenced you for a while, but he didn't stop ramming into you with renewed force. "So big...so b-b-big...I can't...I can't take it!"

"Shhh," his harsh shushing only made you more anxious than relaxed as the man's grip on your hair tightened until they were almost wrapped around his big fist. "You can take it…your needy cunt clinging so hard to my dick," as soon as he uttered that, Patrick put his one leg on the couch and grabbed your shoulder for leverage to finally bottom you out competently, even though his dick was still not fully inside you. "Yeah...just like that...uh-fuck..."

Throwing his head back, Bateman slammed his firm hips into yours, the curve of his dick stretching your virgin inner channel in a sickening way, making you see stars and literally bite the armrest of that fucking white couch.

"O-ohhh, my goodness," you stuttered as the man changed your position again, forcing you to get on your knees and bend over the back of the couch, his veiny cock popping out of your sore slit, giving you a short break before Patrick filled you again, this time holding you tightly and not allowing you to stray. "Slow down! Please...mhmm-slow down-"

But Bateman was relentless and ferocious when he finally had you in his hands, and he was not going to let you go, not when your inner, velvety walls were so perfectly encasing his dick. Besides, the very idea of breeding you, claiming you in such a primal way, made him throb inside you, his fingers digging into your skin where bruisers would surely bloom after he would be done with you.

"You know," Patrick stopped abruptly, pulling out only to slap your glistening pussy. "I remember...you said you wanted to belong to one man...forever and ever...didn't you?"

Breathing heavily, you closed your eyes for a second, trying to pull yourself together as the mixture of different, foreign sensations was tearing you apart as much as Patrick's girth.

"Yes..." you replied curtly, propping yourself up on your elbows. "I did."

With a mischievous grin, the man gave himself a few quick strokes before leaning down again and lapping at your dripping slit, savoring your taste like his favorite meal. Your shaky breathing and constant trembling was what he craved most from this encounter; he knew you were already his, but he wanted to push your limits even further.

"You said that just for fun or..." he murmured between licking and sucking your swollen folds. "Did you really mean it?"

The man emphasized his question with a feverish flicker around your clit, but then he plunged his wet tongue into you, holding your hips so firmly that you couldn't move away even an inch. All of this was already too much for you, but his question was the last drop for you to fall apart and lose your mind.

"I meant t-that," you blurted out almost breathlessly, not really realizing what you were saying. "I...really did!

"Very well then," Bateman growled, stepping back to lift you off the couch. "Because this...is what I'm about to do," he held you tightly in his arms as he walked to his bedroom and when you reached the door Patrick stopped and set you down. "I'm gonna make you mine...like you always wanted in your pink dreams."

In one deft motion, the man turned you around and pressed your face against the doorjamb, not really showing affection, but not being too rough either. Struck by a strange fatigue, you grabbed the wooden doorjamb with your weak hands and sensed his warm body pressing against you from behind again, covering you like a blanket. You were completely bewildered, lost in the whirlpool of emotions mixed with shameful depravity, and that's why you probably didn't really understand the gravity of the situation and what was about to happen and what was hidden behind Bateman's words.

This time Patrick slipped into you like clockwork, feeling no resistance at all, and that induced him to sink even deeper until you squirmed in his arms, trying to find something to hold on to, but your hands were unable to grasp the doorjamb because its material was too smooth. Growling thickly, the man slammed into you with ferocious hunger, admiring the arch of your back, how your ass cheeks jiggled with each thrust. 

"I wish you could see what I see," Bateman grunted through his clenched teeth, sweat buds running down his tense forehead, his eyebrows knitted together as he concentrated on penetrating you in steady but wickedly deep strokes. "You look so fucking hot like that...one day I'm going to film us having sex...I swear."

You moaned in response as he forced you to bend over even more so he could look down at your face as he fucked you silly. "Daddy...I'm burning...f-from the inside...it's so deep..."

Patrick chuckled at your miserable attempts to claw at his hands as he suddenly planted an almost affectionate kiss on the top of your head—this little gesture made you stall and open your eyes wide—and pressed you even closer, wrapping both his hands around your throat and squeezing it a bit.

"You belong to me now," he whispered in your ear, desperately snuggling into your small form, making your hard peaks rub against the wooden doorjamb. "...and I will pump you with my seed...until you get pregnant," the man nibbled on your earlobe and tugged at your messy hair. "I'll do it again and again..."

Your face inflamed from the inside, you thought your skin would burn from the heat your bodies radiated, and as soon as you felt his pounding become more erratic and ragged, you knew he was close. With one hand still on your throat, Bateman used his free hand to cup and squeeze your full breast as he chased his release, feeling the tingling that formed at the base of his dick and spread throughout his muscular body. Yet, in the back of his mind, he wished he could last longer to make you fucking faint, but even for a man like him with such a crazy sex drive, that was too much. Closing his eyes, Patrick drove his hips forward against yours for the last time, rolling them slightly to bury himself as deep as he could, painting your inner walls white and he couldn't help but moan when he was finally spent, filling you to the brim just as he had promised.

"Good girl," he huffed, nuzzling against your craned neck. "You've got a lot to learn... but I'll make sure you do your best to please me."

With that, the man cradled you in his strong arms, and for the first time in his life, he felt complete, having finally found a woman he wanted to claim as his own. And damn those who would dare to argue with it.

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my side blog @makeyoumineagain and turn on notifications to know when I update!

[whereireid]

𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐘 — masterlist

pairing: patrick bateman x fem!reader

Summary: Patrick gives up control for one night. It doesn’t exactly go the way that you want it to.

— warnings: nsfw content, sub!patrick but he still has psychological control ofc, blowjobs, teasing, restraints, choking

"Are you trying to get me to beg?" Patrick asks, his brows knitting together as he watches your naked frame kneel before him, an uncomfortable throb shooting to the tent in his briefs as your tongue darts out to wet your lips. "Because if that's what you're doing, then I can assure you that I'm not going to plead to get you to touch me."

A soft coo slips past your lips as you stroke your fingers up Patrick's thigh, the muscle tensing involuntarily as your digits teasingly edge closer to the place where he wants you to touch him the most. You can tell that he's frustrated by the ticking of his jaw and the flaring of his nostrils, and you shoot him a loving smile as he glares down at you.

"You know how much I want you to beg," you murmur, your eyes glinting with mischief as you cup Patrick's hard cock through his briefs, a low groan drawing from the depth of his throat as you do so. "Please, Patrick? I want to hear how badly you want me."

"I'm not going to beg you to touch me.” His voice is emotionless, yet his throat grows dry when he watches your tongue comes out again, this time not to wet your lips but to lick at the outline of his cock through his briefs. "I'll get what I want eventually.” He tenses as you leave a wet stripe up his briefs, before he mockingly adds, “honey.”

You pout, your fingers careful as they slip under the band of his briefs, tugging at the Italian-made cotton softly. "At least pretend like I'm the one in control here," you huff, your hand curling around his cock, your lips quirking upwards as his pink tip leaks with precum. "Humour me a little, Patrick. Beg. Please?”

Patrick tries to ignore how comedic this situation actually is. He's the one tied up right now — his wrists are bound together with rope and he's tethered to the headboard, but somehow, he has all of the control. You're literally begging him to plead with you. If he was in your position and you were denying him of such sweetness, he'd bring out one of his knives and then you'd start blubbering and pleading like it's nobody's business.

He decides to humour you.

"Please suck my cock, honey. I need it so bad. I need it more than anything," he says flatly, the tip of his cock twitching against your cupid's bow as you beam up at him, "you have no idea what you do to me."

Surprisingly, it doesn't work.

"Don't mock me, Patrick. You're a little bit frustrated. I can see how tense you are." A low groan draws from his throat as you lick a delicate stripe up his length, careful to trace along his veins, your tongue sweetly swirling around his swollen head when you reach his tip. "If you don't comply with my orders, you're not getting what you want."

"Just put it in your mouth."

"I'll put it in my mouth when you ask me properly."

There it is — the tick in his jaw, the flaring of his nostrils, the intense, downcast gaze. You're pushing his boundaries, and you grin as he huffs, your lips carefully pressing gentle kisses against his length.

Your movements are incredibly gentle as you cup his balls in the palm of your hand, your tongue flicking out to toy with the needy head of his cock. His eyes crinkle shut and his nose scrunches as you lick a slow, deliberate stripe from the head of his cock down to his balls, your tongue flattening against his length as you bring your skilful muscle back up to his tip.

It's torture. Delicious torture. His nostrils flare when you pull away, a lewd string of spit trailing from his cock to your lips. You look up at him through lidded eyes, and your heart races in your chest as you see how black and blown his pupils are, his hazel irises sheathed from the dilation of his lust.

Pride resides in the depth of Patrick's chest. He didn't think you actual had it in you to tease him, but as you pepper sultry kisses to his cock, he realises that he's actually beginning to lose patience. His hips thrust against your face involuntarily, and an embarrassing whine catches in his throat as you tease him.

"I won't ask again," he says, and there's an edge to his tone that has your heart wrenching and fear prickling at your skin, "put it in your mouth. Please."

You smile.

It's the closest you're ever going to get to Patrick pleading with you. This small act of submission is enough — his bound wrists were his idea, not yours, meaning he was still in control even when he was complying with your demands to be domineering for once.

"Only because you asked so nicely," you tease, flinching under his warning gaze, your lips wrapping around the head of his cock carefully.

Your mouth is so warm and so wet, and Patrick's jaw clenches so hard that he wonders how he hasn't broken a tooth in the process. You feel so good as you roll your head up and down his cock lazily, your tongue trailing around his length as you force your head down, your nose pressing against his crotch as you take every inch of his cock inside of your mouth.

You gag. It's like heaven — the constriction of your throat tightens the grip your mouth has on his cock, and the warm, familiar feeling of arousal pools in your belly as Patrick hisses from above you, the muscles of his thighs flexing underneath your touch. There's something so intimate about how he's giving himself to you, how he's allowing you to have control, and you flush under his heavy gaze as you choke around his length, still not quite used to the uncomfortable girth of his cock.

"I'm glad that I made you bind me to the bed with these ropes," Patrick breathes from above you, his eyes starry as your tongue flicks over his tip, rolling over his slit carefully. "I want to hurt you so badly. If I wasn't restrained I think I'd ruin you completely."

The twitching head of his cock is a good enough signal that he's close. He grunts from above you, and it feels like he's been punched as his eyes lock onto yours, your mouth set upwards into a smile, your mouth glistening with salvia and precum.

Patrick's eyelids flutter shut, and you giggle as he groans again — usually he's not so vocal — using his moans as means of encouragement, forcing your head down, taking in all of his length, until you can no longer breathe breathe.

Tears prick at the corner of your eyes and your lungs are burning by the time that he cums. You struggle against him, squeezing your eyes shut, taking in every inch of him, your tongue lewdly lapping at his balls in an attempt to shock him through his orgasm.

And it works. Patrick is so tense that you can feel every single indentation of muscle, and your fingers dart over his chiselled abs, your cunt pulsing with need as he spews incoherent insults from above you.

By the time your breathing has steadied and you've finished swallowing, Patrick is no longer tense. He's no longer twitching, but his cock is still hard and heavy, a small bead of cum dribbling down his length as he gazes at you such fire you feel like you're being set alight.

"Untie me," he says, his voice dripping with authority and warning, “now."

"Yes, Patrick." You scramble towards him, quick to loosen the knots in the rope, your heart thrashing wildly in your chest.

You realise that the only reason you were in control then is because Patrick let you be. Once the knots are untied, his hands scatter towards your throat, and your eyes are wide and frantic as he presses down on your trachea, cutting off your air supply, making you feel dumb and incredibly horny.

His eyes blaze wildly as he gazes down at you, and he smirks, his pearly white teeth glistening in the florescent lights of his bedrooms as he promises, "you're in for a long night, honey."

[fear-is-truth]

patrick bateman x fiancée!reader | nsfw. mdni

you’re kneeling on the polished oak floor, jerking off your fiancé as he studies your hand, captivated by the engagement ring he’d bought for you. his thumb slides over the warm, polished 18k rose gold of the cartier panthère ring, and you can see patrick’s face contort slightly when you swiped your thumb over the bulbous tip, admiring the rosy shade of pink. you make a mental note of the colour, perhaps you can buy some nail polish of the exact shade.

“this isn’t just any ring,” patrick mumbles suddenly, as if justifying his choice to himself. “it’s designed by aldo cipullo—the same guy who created the love bracelet. only the best, obviously.” his voice trails off, noting the way the delicate pavé diamonds sparkle against your skin, then looks back up at you, cheeks flushed.

“two carats of vvs clarity diamonds, high colour… princess cut. they don’t make them like this anymore,” he rambles on, tongue poking out between parted lips. “each one’s hand-finished in their paris atelier. it cost… twenty-five grand. minimum,”

“thank you, patrick. they’re beautiful, i love them,” you say as you gently squeezed the head, a droplet of clear liquid oozed from the slit — glistening like the diamonds you’re wearing. his cock twitches in your hand and patrick frowns. “these trousers are ermenegildo zegna and they cost nine hundred and fifty dollars. don’t get them dirty.”

“… of course, patrick.”

[anitalenia]

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒃𝒐𝒏𝒚 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒓 .𖥔 ݁ ˖

𝒃𝒂𝒍𝒆!𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒙 𝒘𝒊𝒇𝒆!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 ₊˚⊹ ᰔ 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱, 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮. ₊ ⊹ ౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 ✧˚ ༘

— 𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖘 ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ 𝘥𝘤 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 | 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

˚☽˚｡⋆ 𝑩𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑. The silence was too loud and his room was too cold — his arms and torso were left bare to freeze thanks to you (he was too much of a gentleman to snatch the blanket off you anyway). The heavy rain smacked into his windows pointedly and purposefully; with every loud drop it made his lip twitch in annoyance.

The air was sharp and frosted, it burned his nose when he breathed in too deeply and it made him wonder if Alfred forgot to turn the heat on — better yet if you turned it off, knowing you hated to fall asleep too warm and Alfred was too meticulous and thorough to forget to turn it off at all.

It was dingy and dismal, dark and dreary just as Bruce preferred it to be, so little going on for him to be so awake and agitated but yet… maybe that was just it. The silence, the boredom, the macabre sense of monotony on an unfamiliarly quiet Saturday night — so little going on it was driving him mad.

Bruce stared up at the ceiling with his arms laid out on his shirtless stomach, restless but tired. His limbs were sore and heavy, his body bruised and battered, yet his dark eyes couldn’t help but flicker over to his window ever so often when he thought about what was on the other side of it — the source of his calamity.

He’d stare through the droplets of water at the blurred kaleidoscope of lights as they shone onto his floor, not eagerly per say just habitually; Bruce seldom ever saw a peaceful night in, so unaccustomed with the sweet domesticity of crawling under the covers at 10:30 pm and kissing your lover goodnight — he was usually so busy, for Gotham never slept and crime never seemed to stop.

No, Bruce couldn’t sleep; his thoughts a morbid mess of batman-esque obligation that made it impossible to close his eyes.

You were a different matter entirely as Bruce turned his head to look at you; snuggled up on your side of the large bed with his thick, black comforter surrounding you, breathing gently on the muscle of his shoulder and sleeping soundly, beautifully.

His pretty little wife.

His eyes looked over the sharp shadows of your sleeping beauty. From your wispy eyelashes, to your cute little nose, to your softly parted lips, a soft smile adorning the corner of his mouth as he did — he couldn’t help it.

Your hair was frizzy and tangled messily around your head, your soft breaths ever so often stuttered with an adorable snore but Bruce couldn’t help but think how beautiful you looked anyway as he raked his eyes over your face fondly.

As he did he realized how grateful he was that you didn’t need to worry yourself with the things that he did; you were too innocent for the cruelty of Gotham City, too pure and divine; an angel wrapped in wicked tapestry.

Even now, in your pale white pajamas on black silken sheets you looked too fragile for them, like they could wrap their shadowy arms around you and swallow you whole — just as the city could so easily do if he wasn’t there to protect you.

If Batman wasn’t there to save you.

I don’t care, Bruce. I love you anyway.

That’s what you’d always say when Bruce would settle down in bed beside you with a heavy sigh and whisper why do you stay?, on those long nights when he’d come home brutally battered and fatigued. After a night of being heavily reminded to the real dangers waiting just outside his door like a pack of feral dogs and how easily they could ensnare you in their jaws.

I don’t care. I love you.

He loved you too, he really very did.

With that final thought, Bruce was still caught staring at you with a soft look of love on his face when you gently fluttered your eyes open, your body sensing his awareness before your mind could.

He watched patiently as you groggily looked around before eventually meeting his gaze, his eyes getting even softer at the adorable look of confusion on your face.

Your eyes tiredly looked back up at him despite the darkness surrounding you two, able to see his frowned lips and dark eyes clearly, “Bruce? Why are you still awake?”

Your voice was raspy and tired, a small yawn following your statement that made pity tear at his heart for waking you up.

Bruce ran his hazel eyes over your face some more before he responded, unable to stop cherishing you.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He simply responded, voice low and intimate, words spoken in the bare space between his lips and yours.

You settled into your silken pillow with a small huff, eyes focused more on Bruce’s face now as the grogginess gradually melted away and your vision became clearer — the silence and rain thrumming calmly around you. It wasn’t a normal night in Gotham City without the rain.

“Well, did you try?” You teased just as quietly as he, smiling a little at the chuckle he gave you in response.

“Yes, of course I tried. It clearly didn’t go as planned.” Bruce mumbled back with a faint snicker, speaking just loud enough so you can hear him over the rain pattering on the windows, a small smile now quirked on his sharp lips.

You hummed in acknowledgment, eyes looking between his, knowing Bruce well enough to know when he was lying.

“I don’t really believe you. What’s keeping you awake?” You sighed with furrowed brows, resting your head right next to his bare shoulder to look up at him better — maybe if you pouted in that cute way he liked he’d tell you honestly.

Bruce faltered at that, looking down at you with a heavy heart; he couldn’t possibly tell you that he felt guilty laying in bed with you when he should’ve been out there, out there protecting those who needed him. But the fact of the matter, one he couldn’t argue with, was that you needed him as well.

He couldn’t possibly tell you how conflicted he really was but probably shouldn’t have been; two parts of him sharing the same mind and body but each with entirely different obligations — the irreconcilable duality that was he.

One part of him was Bruce Wayne; millionaire, orphan, husband, you needed that side of him, you deserved to have him for at least one night. But he was also Batman, and Gotham always needed him.

He was haunted with a classic case of Jekyll and Hyde but instead of one side lusting for murderous intent his alter ego longed for rightful justice in the grandest city of injustice. Batman was the only one who could live harmoniously in the dark, the only one capable of doing the things he did. It was an enervative dichotomous life of matrimonial duties and moral obligation.

There were two men sharing the same halves of the same soul and Bruce couldn’t decide which heart to listen to without making the other one feel guilty.

“Just work stuff, honey. It’s nothing you need to worry about, trust me.” Bruce dismissed after a short moment, shaking his head gently with a reassuring smile on his thin lips — like that could convince you of anything.

You narrowed your eyes at him slightly, registering the slight blue bags under his eyes and the crippled fault in his smile, all small clues of his devious, well-intentioned deception.

“Which work stuff?” You prodded carefully, raising a brow at him as suspicions already began to brew in the back of your mind as to what he was really referring.

Bruce chuckled again at that, loving your caring and inquisitive nature any day but wishing you’d just drop it already. He really couldn’t bear weighing any of the pressure he carried on your delicate shoulders, fearing you’d crumble under the weight of it.

“Really, it’s…” Bruce looked back up at the ceiling in indecision, searching for the right words, “it’s nothing I can’t handle, okay?” He looked back down at you with confidence, his voice firmer than before but still softly spoken to get his point across.

You narrowed your eyes at him with that, knowing it was a response you fully expected but were still annoyed to hear.

You were aware that he was lying to you but also aware that he wouldn’t tell you no matter how much you begged him; he never liked to tell you anything about his Batman related problems and it greatly frustrated you for some reason.

As his wife didn’t you deserve to know at least something? You were fully aware of what you were getting yourself into when you agreed to his long awaited proposal. After all, you didn’t just marry Bruce Wayne but you married Batman as well… you could handle the truth even if he didn’t seem to think so.

You sighed anyway, unable to mask your irritation towards him for keeping you in the dark. Your lack of sleep didn’t help the influx of annoyance either.

You took your head off his warm shoulder and went to turn around away from him, your fatigue easily irritating you more than usual.

Bruce licked his lips and sighed, having already disappointed you in an attempt to protect you; a small price to pay if it meant your pretty little head wasn’t clogged with constant, pained disquietude like his was.

“Fine, don’t tell me.” You muttered more to yourself than anything, fussing with the blanket you had wrapped yourself in during your slumber and now seemed to be stuck in.

Before you could fully turn around though Bruce laid a warm, consoling hand on your forearm that made you pause, “Hey, hey, wait.”

You lingered a moment at the feel of it before turning back around to face him, expression a little more sour than before — tired and impatient.

Bruce felt guilt swirl in his stomach at the look on your face, knowing he was disappointing you but also knowing it was for the best.

He kept the hand on your arm, leaning up and wrapping it around your back to bring you into his chest, his other arm going behind your neck and tucking you into his side like you were his most precious doll — you were of course.

You didn’t fight him even if you wanted to, enjoying the warmth he provided and the safety you subconsciously sought out snuck tight in between his arms.

“Bruce.” You grumbled anyway as you settled against him, his arm releasing you for a moment to pick the blanket up and over his waist so there was nothing separating you two from each other.

You felt hard plains of muscle underneath you when he did, a flustered pinkness appearing on your cheeks, then slowly crept in hot embarrassment at the fact that your husband’s carefully structured body that you’ve seen many many times still managed to make you shy.

You melted into his side, albeit a bit stiffly as you were still annoyed with him and wanted to blatantly show it, your arms stubbornly slotted against your chest to separate yourself from laying completely on his.

When Bruce was done adjusting the blanket, the bed moving as he did, he settled still and looked down at you with those kind eyes of his you loved so much, the ones that always flustered you when you stared back into them for too long.

The arm behind your neck pushed you closer to him while he took his right hand and wrapped it around your chin, his palm so warm and big against your jaw that you couldn’t help but sigh in submission.

Bruce gently forced you to look up at him, his eyes staring down at you softly but earnestly.

“Alright, hey, don’t be like that with me. If there was something I thought you really needed to know I’d tell you. Otherwise, it’s best I keep that side of myself as private from you as possible. I hate the thought of you being in danger because of me, because I exposed you to that side of myself you didn’t need to see.” Bruce whispered genuinely, minty breath fanning over your nose as you stared up at him, seemingly calm now and even just a little regretful for being so upset with him in the first place.

“Just give it a rest honey, alright? I promise you, it’s nothing you need to worry about. Do I ever go back on my promises, hmm?” He said sweetly, looking down at you with insistent but loving eyes in the expectation of you responding.

You paused for a moment as you registered his words, still curious to know what he was really thinking about because you just couldn’t help it. You worried for him, wished he’d be more open with you so you could help him in whatever way you could. However, you also didn’t want to stress him out any more than he already was either, your mind picturing all the purple bruises littering his beautiful body pitifully.

So, you just shook your head like a scolded child, “No… you don’t.” You’d have to bite your tongue for now, pouting up at him cutely — Bruce was just too sweet to argue with sometimes and he knew it.

Bruce gave you a charming smile, gray shadow washed over the angles of his straight nose and narrow cheeks. His brown hair was more unkempt than usual, wavy tendrils of it fallen around his face. He looked so handsome, more tranquil this way, as he leaned down and gave you a peck on the forehead, a sweet hum sounding in the back of his throat.

“That’s my girl.”

You sighed happily, giving in to him completely now and wrapping an arm around his chest so you could burrow against him; he wrapped his arm around you tighter instinctually, enjoying the feel of you against him as he looked up at the ceiling in content.

Nothing was better than being with you, so much so that Batman himself felt satiated from his lonely perch in the back of Bruce’s mind.

You stared out the large, arched window on his wall for a few quiet moments, watching as the rain quickly fell down the glass one by one as Bruce softly traced his textured fingertips along the spine of your back.

“It always rains, you ever notice that?” You murmured tiredly against his skin, in a daze from the tingling sensation on your skin as he caressed your back in gentle, loving touches.

Bruce looked away from you a moment when you spoke to spare the window a disinterested glance, “What? You don’t like the rain, Mrs. Wayne?” He teased you, his spirits higher than before as he looked back down at you even if you couldn’t see, his nose filled with the sweet smelling shampoo you used — coconut and vanilla.

You smiled a little — you loved when he called you that.

“Well of course you do. You’re Batman, you’re supposed to like depressing things.” You spoke with a smile, only teasing him as your eyes drifted shut from the comfort of his body against yours, muscles melting against the black sheets nestled between his own.

Bruce chucked at that, his hand ceasing its calming motion, “oh, is that right?”

You hummed with an amused smile on your lips, nodding your head, “mmhmm, yes sir.”

Bruce scoffed playfully at that, looking down at you with a fond playfulness in his eyes before gently taking his muscled arm out from underneath your head.

You lifted your head up curiously to look at him, wishing for the moment to not be disturbed, only to be gently rolled over so that Bruce was laid on top of you and you were now sunken into the inky black abyss of cushions beneath him. Your lips parted in a slight gasp, staring up at him with those beautiful eyes he loved so much in surprise.

“Now now, Mrs. Wayne, don’t go calling me that unless you plan on doing something about it, it’s in bad taste.”

You giggled at that, a joyous and twinkling sound that made Bruce tense up, his eyes darting towards your lips and his heart quickening in his chest. You always had such an effect on him even if you didn’t know it.

“How ‘bout you do something about it then?” You whispered up to him sensually, voice low and playful. You could feel the air surrounding the little bubble you two found yourselves in change heavily as you ran your hands softly over his midsection, his light skin cold and soft, muscles hard and firm as you traced your fingers delicately over each individual ab until Bruce was twitching at the feeling.

He glanced down at your hands hotly, already worked up from your minuscule touches alone, his skin tingling from the sensation as a familiar heat started to twirl in his lower tummy.

He looked back down at you, eyes more hooded now but just as eagerly as rain pounded on the windows somewhere in the background — you couldn’t focus on anything but the sound of his warm breaths and the gradual throbbing between your own legs.

“Yeah? Would you like if I did something about it, Mrs. Wayne?” Your husband mumbled huskily, a teasing smirk on his lips as he lowered down closer until his face was just above yours, his big arms pressed into the pillow on each side of your head so you were surrounded by him.

He could see the way you inhaled at the name, felt the way your nails dug into his skin for a subtle, fleeting moment. He always knew all the right ways to turn you on, knew all the right words to say to make you melt in his hands like warm syrup — you were certainly just as sweet.

You stared up at your husband with heavy breaths, mouth watering for a taste of him, eyes blown black with love and unabashed want as he sat in the reflection of your irises. Your skin felt hot and your thighs tightened around his waist, arms aimlessly tracing the ridges of muscle that coated Bruce’s front; it was in an innocently naive way now, so unaware of how badly it was affecting Bruce himself as your initial confidence dwindled down to need.

You impatiently waited for him to make a move, give into the desire you both so clearly felt as your eyes ran over his shirtless body and perfect face in the mean time. With every exhale of breath out of his mouth you found yourself inhaling it back in, breathing his air and smelling of Bruce’s aftershave, Bruce’s shampoo, it was all just Bruce, Bruce, Bruce.

He had completely overwhelmed your senses with his smell, his presence, his very existence and it was making it hard to think clearly — only he plagued your thoughts so much it made your fingertips buzz to feel more of him.

It was in moments like these where the sheer size of Bruce was brought to your attention; he was much more muscular than you, all sharp edges and ridges of pure muscle and destruction that could destroy anything he put his hands on.

It was ironic to you, how those same hands that broke bones were the same hands that caressed your skin in the softest of touches, in the softest of ways, irrevocably incapable of breaking you.

Bruce believed he was all carnal ruination — hands made to break and fists made to destroy. He believed he had a dark side in him he couldn’t control, that Batman was the outlet for all the frustration he felt towards the injustices of the city and how easily it corrupted the lightest of souls. He believed he was made to hurt, to cause ruin — a reason why he never took a single human soul no matter how rotten it was.

But you believed he didn’t give himself enough credit, which is exactly why moments like these were so important to remind him.

You swallowed nervously now as you looked back into his eyes, your fingers faltering in their movement as they stilled on the angles of his hips, right outside the tight band of his black sweatpants.

“Yes, Mr. Wayne, that’s exactly what I want.” You whispered back up to him in a velvety soft tone, eyes looking at his pink lips and then flickering back up between his hazel irises lustfully; the look in them was too intense for you to handle but you sufficed, your heart thrumming passionately under your skin at the attention.

Bruce almost melted at the name, just as affected by the title as you were, lowering his face down until his nose was touching yours, his lips hovering right above your own.

“That’s my girl…” Bruce breathed thickly against your lips, his eyes flickering to your mouth as yours did the same to his, your mouth salivating for a taste of him.

A silent beat passed as you both just stayed in that position, locked into each other’s loving gazes and gentle touches, his lips just a whisper away from yours screaming to have you, to taste you. It was intimate and warm, quiet, your body feeling fuzzy and alight with something similar to deep admiration and not so far from a deep, shared love for each other.

There was no playfulness about it now.

It was then, when the tension had sizzled into flame did Bruce finally lean down and kiss you, his lips soft and cold, so contrasting from the warmth he sought in yours as the rain pattered on the windows and your angelic essence drowned him further into the depths of you.

You moaned softly, feeling relief flood through you as your hands gripped his hips for some sort of anchor off the clouds you seemed to be floating on. Bruce kissed you lovingly, a characteristic act of tenderness as he found his own needy noises hum in the back of his throat.

It was sweet and slow, lips careful and gentle against each other between delicate sighs and hums. He tasted of peppermint and the faint drawl of bourbon, his tongue damping your lips and your shared saliva wet on your mouths.

He seperated from you just for a short moment, your lips feeling the loss but not for too long before he was on you once more with a fervor, tongue molding between your lips forcefully and sucking yours into the warmth of his mouth.

You whined at the sudden confidence within him, lips barely moving against his as he took control of your movements and gave you no other option but to take what he gave you — his lips and his tongue tangling with yours messily as sensual rumbles sounded deep from within in his chest.

He brought a hand down from the pillow and intertwined it in your hair, tangling his thick fingers into your roots and pulling hard enough to arouse you further. It made your back arch and lips part in a salacious gasp.

Bruce found himself unable to part from your delectable taste for long, taking that moment to reconnect his damp lips to the skin between your chin and shoulder. He forced your head back as he kissed your neck, the cold air hitting every damp spot in a pleasurable tingling sensation that had your nails digging into his abs.

“Bruce…” You sighed oh so sweetly in a distracted state of mind, just wanting to say his name and have him hear how good he was making you feel with his simple kisses alone — a feat he always accomplished anytime he did.

The praise didn’t fall on deaf ears but he was too preoccupied with the sound of your heavy breaths and whines to really pay attention, too love drunk on the smoothness of your skin falling over his tongue as he licked his way down to your collarbone. He released his grip on your hair and his hands made idle work in caressing their way down your body to the hem of your white pajama top.

His hands were eager, so familiar on the curves of your body as they slid back up to your chest, hands big and desperate as they tightly gripped your bosom for a fleeting moment that had you moaning at the sting — he was handsy, unable to get enough of you and the way your body perfectly slotted between the strength and ridges of his hands.

His cock was already hard in his slacks, poking against your thigh absentmindedly as his hands dug into the center of your top and adamantly ripped it right down the middle. The buttons flew over the bed and your tits spilled out of the ripped material in a gorgeous ripple of flesh that had Bruce groaning at the sight.

“So beautiful, so gorgeous, just fucking perfect…” He mumbled in a lustful daze, more to himself as a factual observation, his hands now gripping your waist, eager mouth leaning down and making quick work to lap at your chest in the way he knew you liked.

You giggled dreamily at that, feeling fluttery and lightheaded at the praise, body warm and melting like a cube of butter on top of his silk bed sheets. He was always capable of making you melt with just a few loving words and caresses, another one of his talents.

Your hands had found their way into his thick hair, massaging at the loose strands when you decided it was impossible to stay still from the buzzing running through your pores.

Your pussy throbbed in your pajama shorts, painfully so, stomach in tight knots at the sparks shooting down to your core from his ministrations.

He found himself enthralled by the feeling of your tit in his mouth, fervently sucking on the skin there as his hands gripped into your waist so tight in a subconsciously possessive hold so you could never leave. Maybe it was the semblance of Batman himself leaking out from under tight fingertips, a degree of fierce protection in the way he held you underneath him, unable to be taken or destroyed by the same evil he fought almost every night.

You were here with him, with him and all of his burdens for the rest of your lives.

“So gorgeous…”

Bruce was lost in the pleasure you helplessly moaned in his ears, feeling his own mutual desire swirling in his tummy and thrumming through his skin that made every touch feel like fire, every kiss an ember from the flame until you and him were intertwined ash lost in the black smoke.

He loved you, his pretty wife, always so supportive and forgiving in the moments he definitely didn’t deserve it.

He picked his head up, panting and lips wet, your chest littered in pink marks and damp with his spit as Bruce licked his lips, hungry for more already.

You looked at him in all his glory, admiringly, just as enamored with him as he was with you as your warm hands slid down to his cheeks. Your own were flushed pink and feverish, breath warm and heavy as you lovingly ran your palm over his sharp cheekbone. His skin was soft, smooth and tepid under your dainty fingertips.

You gently caressed the faint purple of a bruise with your thumb, right in the hollow of his eye.

Bruce leaned into the tender action for a spared moment of comfort, his eyes hooded and twinkling in the dark as he breathed heavily against your lips. He kept finding himself absent in the presence of your beauty, staring at your face and your lips and being so thankful he had you at all.

“So beautiful…” He breathed gingerly, eyes looking over your face like he was seeing you for the first time — no, he was selfish in his blatant admiration of your magnificence, his heart throbbing almost painfully in his love for you as he watched the soft corners of your mouth twist into a shy smile at your devotees idolatrous attention.

He leaned down after a fond moment of your thumb tracing his cheekbone, after he was satisfied with his generous intake of your prettiness. He pecked an affectionate kiss on your smiling lips before dipping his head down and laying several kisses to your neck once more.

You bit your lip at the sensitive feeling, closing your eyes, lost in the feel of him, as he pampered you with doting kisses all the way down to your ribcage, his hands now playing with the hem of your shorts but not too boldly as to take them off quite yet.

“You’re everything, you know that? I could never imagine my life without you… you’re perfect, so perfect.” He rubbed your stomach adoringly, “Your body is perfect, so beautiful, I can’t believe you ever married me…” He mumbled in that rough voice of his, vulnerable in the night, in the moment when you couldn’t see him all the way clearly but he could see all of you just fine.

You could feel another smile playing on your lips — not that it had even left — the heavy sensation of happy tears casting a light sheen over your eyes. He was the perfect one, he was the gorgeous and beautiful counterpart of you that didn’t seem to realize his own value. You only wished you had the poetic spark in yourself that he had, then you’d be able to voice it properly. Still, his praise made your heart swell as he took your left hand and kissed the diamond ring on your finger amorously.

“Oh, Bruce…” You spoke in a hushed manner, voice wobbling from the overwhelming infatuation you had for the man, so thankful and grateful for such a man as wonderful as he. In your eyes the sudden romance had come out of nowhere, but it was still greatly appreciated as it caused your voice to thicken with the downpour of love it had spiked.

He looked into your eyes as he warmly kissed your palm, lips quirked slightly, eliciting another tender hearted smile from you. He then let you settle your hands back on his shoulders as he slotted himself between your hips, the affectionate moment lingering in the air as you pet his wide shoulders.

You were laid on your back, smooth thighs spread to accommodate his size between them, pajama top ripped down the middle in fragmented material hanging off your shoulders, your tits pooled on your chest and wet with his kisses. Your hair was tangled, fanned around your head, lips pink and plushy from all his salacious kisses, your eyes glittering erotically bright.

Despite that, you were not uncomfortable to be so exposed to him, exposed in a way you’d only ever be with him. You knew he would never judge you nor your body, that he loved you and all your freckles and scars and all the blemishes you considered imperfections — he loved them all. The only part of you not seen were covered by the shorts Bruce was already eager to take off.

You were beautiful to him, ethereal even, just as he said you were an angel, something divine and pure, a holy deity completely out of this world that transcended the mortal plane he was bound to, letting his lowly lips and hands cherish your merciful soul and body. Just oh so perfect.

“I love you…” You whispered, pathetically cute, down to him, a whisper wafting into his ears soft and fragile as if you were scared he wouldn’t say it back — he’d say it everyday for a thousand years if he had the blessing of living that long with you. Your nails dug into his shoulders, pulsing with need, as you smiled down at him sweetly.

“I love you more, Mrs. Wayne… I love you more…” He breathed hotly against your stomach, already leaning down and peppering sugarcoated kisses along your pelvis, so much closer to where you really needed him that the throbbing had become unbearably intense, wetness soaking your inner thighs and cream colored shorts. You felt your body shiver at the title once more.

You swallowed shakily as Bruce moved down, his daft fingers hooking into the band of your shorts and gently shoving them down to your knees as his longing lips reached the band of your lavender laced panties.

Your thighs tightened around his head as cool air hit your wet center, your body sensitive and pulsing heavy notes of desire straight into your pussy that made it hard to keep your head up and eyes open.

You just needed him, needed him and his expert mouth to bring you some sort of relief. Your toes were curled already, pussy clenching around nothing and spewing out clear juices that only damped your underwear further. You tangled your fingers into his hair heatedly, resisting the urge to shove his head down where you really wanted him.

Bruce swallowed hungrily, staring at your panty-clad pussy with dark eyes. He could smell your sweetness on his nose, the rain pattering on the windows still and the room still dark as sin but he could see his heaven clear as day, hypnotized by the patch of wetness in your panties, molded to the shape of your pussy lips and begging to be ripped apart.

His eyes flickered up to you, feeling your grabby fingers tangled in his hair as your thighs tensed back and forth around his neck.

Your head was barely held up, eyes hooded and sparkling with a form of lustful desperation as you stared down at him. Your chest bobbing up and down heavily and your skin radiant and smooth, the city lights from his window blurredly reflected in the fat of your cheeks. You already looked destroyed, like he had just fucked your brains out yet he really hadn’t done a thing.

“Bruce, come on…” You whined in a delicate plea when he made no movement further, hands barely pulling his hair but it was hard enough for his skin to prickle in pleasure, a hiss leaving his lips, just hard enough to get your message across.

He snickered at that, lips shiny and jaw chiseled, his face so sharp yet soft at the same time. His beauty greatly perplexed you for how could a mere mortal be so fucking handsome? He was though, he was strong and big and riddled with scars and imperfections yet the accumulation of all those little faults are what made him flawless.

Bruce himself felt the throbs of impatience nestled in his stomach, burrowed in his heart, buzzing at his fingertips, as he looked down at your pussy once more just inches from his mouth, both wet and watering for the other.

“Be patient, honey. I just wanna look at ‘cha first. You’re so pretty, dripping wet for me…” He had the audacity to murmur in that cocky voice of his, yet simultaneously genuine and stunned at the observation as his hands rubbed your thighs, being sure to heartily press into the tissue in that way he knew you liked.

You couldn’t help but pull his hair some more, bursting at the seams for some sort of pleasure you feared it would boil over and you’d explode. You felt frustration settle through your veins once more like molten lava, your skin tensing and thighs aching from their tight grip around his neck.

“Bruce, no more teasing, please? Just please…” You moaned and whined like a stubborn girl, voice thick with need and painful yearning that made his cock twitch in his pants. You almost sounded broken, voice fragmented with a certain torment only his mouth and fingers could appease.

He licked his lips, feeling desire swell in his lower tummy at the state of you — already so incapable of any thought but the memory of his cock inside you, the feeling of his fingers drilling into your tight hole as he spat and licked on your sensitive clit. It was all you could think about, all you could picture in your mind as your head laid back on the pillows and you scooted down the bed until your pussy was right in his face.

The blanket had long since been forgotten, bunched around his hips and aiding as a nice cushion for his abdomen hunched over the end of the bed.

Bruce felt himself chuckle huskily at your shameless neediness, his big hands stopping on your plush inner thighs as he settled down between your legs on the soft mattress, getting himself comfortable for you.

You breathed heavily, eyes closed as you laid back on the silken pillow with your face crumbled so cutely. He was such a tease even when he was meant to be sweet, even when he was insistent on being a good husband who doted on his wife whenever he could — you guessed growing up rich gave him that arrogant edge.

Your stomach was knotted so tight, your skin hot and shivering for some sort of touch as your fingers dug themselves into the roots of his damp, brown hair. You needed him so bad, but your pussy needed him worse.

You felt your thighs tickle as Bruce lightly traced the pads of his fingers down, down, down until he was at the crook of your inner thigh, his right hand digging into the flesh of your leg like he himself couldn’t hold back from you anymore.

Bruce didn’t bother voicing any teasing quips or dirty statements, knowing you were so out of it you wouldn’t listen to him anyway. Every fiber of your being was hooked on his touches, hyper aware of the spots his fingers trickled across, eager for some degree of pleasure that would make this painful waiting period worth it.

He swallowed down the salvia pooling in his throat, so hungry for a taste of you, starved almost. His index finger hooked into your panties and delicately pushed them out of the way until they were bunched in the crook of your thigh. His eyes were met with your soaking wet slit in all its glory.

White, creamy arousal stuck to your panties and dripped down your pulsing hole into the crack of your ass, sheer white beads of cum dribbled down your needy hole that would escape his tongue before he even got a proper taste of you yet.

The cool air made you whine behind closed lips, your voice high pitched and desperate now, your fingers tighter in his hair as your hips subtly bucked forward. The beautiful noises you were making made Bruce’s jaw clench.

You were glistening, shiny with arousal and the strings of impenitent want, evidence of your desire and love for him as he found himself inhaling the scent of you once more.

You smelt so good. He found himself groaning at the musky sweetness, his finger still hooked around the crotch of your panties as his other hand tightly gripped your thigh — you moaned softly at the pressure, sure that there would be the faint yellow bruises of his adoring fingerprints pressed into your skin tomorrow. A charming reminder of the evening when they blossomed.

You felt your core clench once more, thighs tensing up as wetness shone in his greedy irises.

Bruce was unable to wait any longer, his mouth salivating and his eyes blown black as he pressed his tongue into your wet hole and licked a bold stripe all the way up to your buzzing clit, the taste of your arousal pooled on his tongue and already dripping down the sharp corners of his mouth.

You couldn’t stop the loud moan from echoing in the room, euphoric sounding as sweet sparks went off all over your skin at the long awaited contact. Your fingers tightly anchored themselves in Bruce’s hair as his tongue went up and down your folds, gathering as much of your wetness in his mouth as he could.

His hands swiftly dug themselves into your hips to hold you down once you started writhing in his hold. His tongue forcefully circled your clit in sharp wet strokes, deep rumbled moans escaping his chest that vibrated the sensitivity of it and only made more wetness gush out of you and soak his chin.

You tasted so good, so fucking good; he wanted nothing more than to be drowned in your essence, choking on everything you gave him until his belly was full and even then he wouldn’t be satisfied, he’d never be satisfied. He was like a monster, chasing every little drop of cum that pebbled out of your clenching hole with a forked tongue, greedy and carnivorous like you were the only nectar he ever wanted to taste again.

His tongue lapped your pussy once more as you gasped, back arched and toes clenched as he thrusted his tongue into you over and over, wet and messily as your juices shimmered on his cheeks and lips.

No, he decided, the beast within him would never be tamed.

You bucked away from his mouth in a pathetic attempt to free yourself from the overwhelming pleasure, but Bruce held you down with his strong arms, staring up at you with furrowed brows of concentration as his lips molded over your puffy clit once more, swollen from need and his relentless licking.

He was nothing if not devoted, devoted to your elegance, to your holy figure and endless love as he lapped at you desperately, his tongue swirling your clit as the fabric of your panties tickled his nose. He couldn’t get enough, pushing deeper and harder until your wetness was messily smeared on his mouth and face, eating more and tasting more until his entire being was smothered with your cum inside and out.

“Bruce, o-oh my god!” You squealed wantonly, one hand now gripping the black sheets between tight fingers as your other hand remained in his hair, following the movements of his head as he went up and down, side to side until not an inch of you wasn’t covered in his salvia.

He breathed hotly against you, his eyes closed as he savored the feel of you in his mouth and trickling down his throat. He couldn’t think of anything else, couldn’t listen to reason as all he could focus on was you and your cum, tasting you, licking you, having you in every sense of the word. No one could tear him away from you, not now, not when he was so close to having you cum in his mouth and reaching his final purpose.

You were so close, you could feel it in your tummy. Your hole clenching around his tongue as he went back and forth from your clit and your soaked hole, wanting to pleasure you but simultaneously wanting to taste you for his own pleasure.

Your toes curled, stomach tightened, hands gripping the sheets as your mouth flew open in sporadic moans and gasps, tears prickling the corners of your eyes as your thighs squeezed around Bruce so tight you’d fear he’d never surface from between your legs again.

He wouldn’t have a problem with that.

Bruce picked his head up only high enough to talk, lips dripping and almost incoherent as he mumbled deeply into the wet folds of your pussy like he couldn’t bear to part, “You gonna cum for me, baby? Come on, Mrs. Wayne, make me proud, cum in my mouth.” As he voiced this his one hand crept down and slyly inserted themselves into the tight confine of your warmth, his index and middle fingers pushing inside you, so long and so big it made you cry out.

It was wet and warm, your juices slapping against his knuckles as he circled his fingers inside you, pushing on the spot he knew he was supposed to as his mouth eagerly returned to your clit. He looked up at you, eyes dark and heavy as he stared at your tits jiggling with every thrash of your hips, every arch of your back and every gasp out of your pretty, dampened lips.

He groaned into you at the sight, feeling his cock achingly hard in his pants as he sucked your clit into the warmth of his mouth and refused to let go, tongue prodding the area skillfully and harshly. He wasn’t going to stop this time, not until you were creaming around his fingers and leaking down his neck.

The air was so thick and stuffy that you couldn’t help but pant fervently, your body prickled with pleasure and overwhelming sensations that made it hard to focus on anything but his fingers inside you, long and lithe, slipping in and out as the sounds of your wetness clouded your ears and muffled your moans.

Bruce himself was lost in you, tongue and lips a glistening mess as they lapped and circled and sucked every part of your pussy exposed to him, it felt so good it stung — he was groaning into you softly, pleasure building in his tummy and rumbling through his mouth to your already so sensitive clit.

It was then, just a few short moments after his fingers wormed their way inside your tight walls, just a few short moments after he sucked your clit into his mouth did you feel your stomach relax, thighs squeeze around his head so hard he felt himself go dizzy.

“Ahh, O-oh my god, Bruce!” You moaned so blissfully, so sweetly, as your juices squirted onto his chin and his fingers squelched inside you.

Bruce moaned at the feeling, fingers gently sliding out of your clenching hole so his tongue could catch all the cum pouring out. You whimpered at the feeling of his mouth still on you, lapping at your hole like a dehydrated villager kneeling at a prosperous fountain, your skin pasty and so so hot.

He lapped at your pussy a few more times, up and down, ensuring he got his fill for the evening as faint tremors wracked your body in the aftershocks of his giving nature. You were flat on the bed now, belly sore from the tightness it held for so long, legs limp and body spent as you panted gently, heart throbbing in your ears.

You managed to lazily caress his sweaty hair though as Bruce surfaced from between your legs, face glistening and lips sore and pink. He looked manic, hair pulled and tangled and messily scattered on his face yet he seemed to be glowing at the same time, like he had never felt so alive and it made you want to giggle.

He sniffled, looking up at you with an impish grin, the taste of you lingering in his mouth and staining his nose. His hands fondly massaged your shaking thighs, noting your wrecked appearance and tired eyes, your sweaty skin flushed and warm.

He couldn’t help it as he glanced down at the mess he made, your slippery wet folds and the large patch of wetness staining his sheets.

“Mrs. Wayne, pardon my brashness of course,” He said almost sarcastically, breathless and rugged, an amused smile quirked on his lips as he leaned forward and embraced your hand with his, “but you taste utterly divine.”

⋆˚࿔ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ @little-miss-chaoss — I hope it’s okay I tagged you, you said you wanted to be tagged in everything 😭🙌🏻

[no-mercy-bby]

Stay

Inspired by @eyeheartboobiez Sugar Daddy!Bruce Wayne Headcanons cause I really enjoyed them😌

Summary: Your sugar daddy, Bruce Wayne, asks you to stay the night and then a bit more. How could you possibly resist his allure.

(Fluff, smut if you imagine it, angst, possessive!Bruce as in he most definitely wants to marry you, I imagined it as Bale!Bruce but pick your poison)

"You want me to what?" You ask humorously, but not unkindly, as you lean in towards the mirror over the ornate shiny console table. Carefully, you pull your earrings from where they had tangled in your hair. Then you try to wipe the smudges of lipstick off from the skin around your lips where your makeout had grown... messy.

"I'd like you to stay the night," Bruce says smoothly behind you from the armchair in the sitting room, "If you'd like to, of course."

"Well," You start with a smile, your long silk evening gown moving with you as you turn around to face him," What would I get?"

"Anything you'd like, pretty." He replies simply with an easy sly smile playing on his lips. Like it was just so easy for him, as simple as rich people having different rooms for sitting and living, yet were essentially the same. Oh, and if you didn't have a library in your mansion, how appalling! But Bruce was rather charming, which only sweeter his offer even more.

"A pony?" You tease childishly because you could. Especially after one of these elaborate events, listening to all the trivial little things rich people thought was important, you really couldn't help yourself.

"A whole sable full, sweetheart." Bruce promises with a soft chuckle, leaning forward and gesturing for you to come closer.

"I wouldn't mind staying the night, Bruce." You reply sweetly with a smile you couldn't help as you walk closer. His strong hands hold your hips as you lean down towards him, his little smile twisting to a smirk.

Bruce leans up and kisses you, his lips still tasting of sweet champagne despite only nursing the same glass all night. Not to mention, you could taste your lipstick that had rubbed off on his lips. You hum a little at the pressure he was kissing with. It wasn't overbearing but rather insistent. You brace your hands against his sturdy shoulders and break the suction of your mouth from his.

"Bruce, not here-" You start hesitantly, trying to pull your face away more, only for one of Bruce's strong hands to pull you in by holding the back of your neck. You turn your face away, and he starts pecking little kisses all over your cheek, causing you to start giggling.

"Why not here, hm?" Bruce grumbles like a spoiled child and tugs you even closer by his other hand still on your hip. His chin dips down, and he starts kissing at your neck. Bruce's 5 o'clock shadow of scruff scrapes and brushes along, making you gasp a little.

"Because we almost got caught last time in this exact sitting room."

"Alfred is asleep."

"That's exactly what you said last time!"

Bruce chuckles heartily now and drops his forehead to your collarbone as you are practically hovering over his lap. With a knee between his thighs and perched on the edge of the cushion, you shift your weight onto him by boldly straddling his lap.

Now at the same eye level, Bruce nudges his nose lightly against yours as he looks into your eyes.

"I'm sorry, princess, why don't you let me make it up to you? Oh, and you know what," His eyes twinkle with mischief as they glance at your lips," I'll show you the new jacuzzi tub."

"Oh really, Mr. Wayne?" You raise your eyebrows at him and smile cheekily, offhandedly saying," I might never leave now."

Bruce grins bright then, surging forward and kissing you deeply as his muscular arms wrap around you.

~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~

Snuggled up against his solid warm chest with silky dark grey sheets embracing you both, you sigh tiredly. His chin is nestled against the crown of your head as his calloused fingers lightly stroke down the side of your body. It was honestly so soothing and relaxing. His touch, his warmth, and especially his smile.

Bruce rarely smiled in public even with you on his arm. It felt good to see under the mask he provided to the public of Gotham. That he wasn't only a shallow millionaire with a silver spoon-

"-I want you to live here." Bruce states aloud, his bare chest rumbling under your ear.

"...you want me to live here? With you?" You ask in confusion, propping yourself onto your elbow to meet his eyes. Bruce nods sincerely, as his hand now strokes along the length of your back, stopping at the small of your back.

"Why?" You now ask him softer because surely he had a good reason.

"So I can protect you, baby."

"Are you saying I can't protect myself??"

"No, that's not what I'm saying."

"Then what are you saying?"

"I... I really enjoy having you around, and I want to see you every day."

"You really mean that?"

"Yes, sweetheart, you know I do." Bruce reassures you tenderly, and the sweet puppy dog look within his eyes makes you want you cry.

You kiss him, pecking his lips sweetly as your nails scritch his scruff fondly.

"I want to come home to you," Bruce murmurs against your lips, and that was the icing of the cake.

"I'd really love to move in with you, Bruce." You admit, a breath away from his lips now.

"It's settled then, baby." Bruce smiles softly at you before now kissing you soundly. You smile too as you kiss back, and his legs tangle with yours.

You fall asleep on his chest with his arms embracing you. Lulled to sleep by the intimate and cozy feeling of his warm skin to yours... it felt so nice, really nice. You could easily get used to this.

~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~

Please like, comment, and reblog! I'd love to hear your feedback!! (PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE-)