Request by @mysticalfairytales Could I get a Batman (Christian Bale) x black! female reader smut?
A/N: I may have gotten a tad carried away so now it's porn with plot that may become a series...
𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐲 𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞
Pairings: Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader
Summary: In the wake of a new, dazzling promotion, the city would have to come first. You're the fucking District Attorney for Christ sake. Bruce would have to wait.
Warnings: Language, Crime, Violence, Smut (+18) Minors DNI: Choking, Bondage, Degradation, Mild Angry sex, Penetration, Slight Exhibitionism, Praise Kink
Word count: 4,5k
"My hair hurts." Seconds passed after the sentence has left your mouth and you realize you hadn't even heard it at all. There are still the 300 little faces flooding the stairs, speaking all at once. They are looking up at you as if you were a God incapable of having such frivolous problems like a sore scalp. You were bred and manufactured to solve their problems… not complain about your own.
You immediately stifle the need to reach up and loosen a few braided stands from the ungodly tightened ponytail simply becuase this was not the fucking time. Your little fingers instead fiddle with the seam of your blazer sleeve's velvet ends. It's quite a terrific suit you're sporting. 'Courtroom Casual' is how you're stylist had described it.
Before today you hadn't even known lawyers were privy to obtaining things like a stylist.
Well yes, says your inner voice, Normal lawyers have Normal little things. A job, an office, maybe a nice little apartment where a husband awaits to cooks for them. The true life of a Normal Gotham lawyer.
Girl, that's not you...
One single promotion that you campaigned for (as a joke), has allowed your entire world to get much bigger than post-orgasm breakfasts with a lovely little partner to dote on you whenever you felt shit about your choice of work. Part of you aches for that painfully scripted carciture of a life. Putting a few bad guys away had bled into seeing the very worst of humanity, prowling the city everyday.
The thought that chilled your every waking moment being that maybe you were chasing the wind with all this…. Maybe there weren't enough jail cells in the world let alone in Gotham to weed out the bad parts of humanity.
A frown cracks across your face and you look down at your hands, shielding yourself from the Gothamites who- despite it not being you who was speaking- were all looking at you. You shielded your negative thoughts from them, becuase you had to be strong for them. You instead, made yourself interested with your recently done nails. Who had even paid for these?
Well your pinky finger was already fucked. The pointed acrylic nail is a cracked marble painting becuase you had bitten it throughout the previous evening's anxiety attack. If you hid your left hand underneath your right hand, no one should be able to see.
"The anxiety belongs to the night."
You say this as a reminder, urging the rising wave in your stomach to just crash already and even out into a still ocean. "This is not the time, Y/N," there are many other voices drowning yours out, "Nor is this the place."
The exhale that steals itself from your lungs is also muted but you can feel it stuttering, as if you were in another room completely. Maybe if you were in your apartment with its modern Floor-to ceilings or its glass chandeliers, maybe you'd break a little. Let some of that vulnerability seep in like poison and break you all over your velvet carpet.
That would be very very nice, you think, to be allowed to break, even if it were just for a 50 minute pity party in my apartment. I'd mend myself back up again. Honest!
The thought is as laughable as it were selfish.
"We'll now be having a few words from the new District Attorney. We only ask that you keep your questions short but meaningful. God knows this city needs every bit of time given to it."
The man who hands you the platform is just another plump suit in your office. He didn't give a fuck about the city. That carelessness had somehow manifested onto the coarse, rough lines on his face and the beady, eyes pounded into the pink, gluttonous flesh.
His name escapes you.
"Thank you, Counselor."'
'Counselor' always seemed to suffice. It also brushed their fragile ego with an otherwise mundane but present title. A little trick you learned from the previous D.A.
No, you really can't afford to think about Harvey… not now.
"I would like to preface this by saying I care about this city and so did my predecessor, Harvey Dent…" Your voice is loud and amplified, kissing the tips of the skyscrapers and touching the people at the very back of the crowd gathered outside the Gotham City Court. If you had a massive breakdown right now, not a single second of it will go unnoticed. The entire city is watching. The journalists huddled around you are but a mere physical manifestation. Watching on the other side of television sets, are good guys and bad guys waiting to see what will become of their beloved city now that Harvey is dead.
"My predecessor was a mentor as much as he were a friend"
It is true. When the bald headed white men with pink hungry faces all meshed into one, Harvey and his youthfulness was… refreshing. A long ways from the pompous pricks that were unused to seeing people like you on the other side of the law.
"And the violent acts of terrorism this passed week-" You take a deep breath… "Harvey would be disappointed at the gross injustice we have witnessed." You signal to the crawling journalists that you're done speaking by the solemn pause at the very end of your speech.
A reporter immediately takes advantage of the leeway. "Forgive me for my candidness,"
"Whenever a wormy reporter starts off with 'Forgive me' or 'Pardon me'" says Harvey, downing his glass of whiskey, "They're about to release an absolute shitstorm that could ruin your entire world if you let it."
"But is there a reason the District Attorney's office is directing their attention to measly serial killings that's Frankly nothing new for this city… and yet nothing is being done about the Vigilante who killed ypur so called friend, Harvey Dent?" Its a lanky man with dark brown skin and soft, dark hair. He doesn't bat an eye, only aiming his mic- one of one thousand others- right in your face.
"Well the Batman will be adequately dealt with. I believe brushing passed these horrible crimes against humanity and focusing on one performer- a coward in a costume," You let an incredulously chuckle overcome you even though you do not feel like laughing, "its utterly ridiculous."
There is a sudden and monstrous uproar in the crowd. The flashes of the cameras are blinding and from every which way you're being thrown a question.
Do you not care that The Batman might have had a hand in Harvey's Death?
How well do we know the Batman really?
If we leave Vigilantes loose on Gotham streets, what does that say about the skill and value of our own Law Enforcement?
They're hitting you from every angle like Joker's M16 and you fight to keep your composure. The cameras pointed at you appear insectlike. Like little intruders storming in on your peace. The mics being pushed into your face feel suffocating, but still you soldier on.
"Frankly I-" before you can continue your half-assed attempt at saving, not only yourself, but your entire department, a voice, dominant and rich, cuts through the crowd.
"Those are some lovely shoes, Ms L/N," says the voice, far closer in the crowd that what was prescribed. The cacophony silences immediately and your composure once again shifts evidently.
"I-" You clear your throat authoritatively. Fixing our blazer before sending a fleeting gaze down at your pumps.
"Thank you," You weasel out before pressing on, "Is this of any importance-"
"What brand are those? Gucci? Burberry?"
"Is that Bruce Wayne?"
"Can't be, he doesn't give a shit about these kind of things…"
"What kind of things?"
"The things that matter."
The sussurrus bleeds into silence when Bruce speaks again.
"Or are those Versace? Although, then of course you'd just be showing off." He omits a wry little chuckle at the end of the sentence, like Aflred during his afternoon tea. Bruce emerges from the crowd, all angular jaw and casual designer jacket, with a smile nothing short of sinister on his face. This was a peculiar sight. Bruce outside during the daytime. At any place that was not an upstate gala or a glitzy party.
You give the man a tight-lipped smile. He is the best dressed among the swarm of crazed journalist even with his simple jacket and pants. Those journalists. Fuck, you hoped your sweat glands wouldn't show too clearly on the cameras. This had just gotten way more interesting.
Their pens are aimed at their notebooks like armed weaponry, their ears listening for the slightest bit of million dollar news from Gotham's Elite.
"Might I remind you, Mr Wayne, that while you are questioning me about my brand of shoes, this city's women are vulnerable to a vile terrorist. Preying on them like vultures to a carcass. Now if you'll exc-"
"Oh shit-of course-!" Only he could use such language at a press conference and have no one bat and eye. "Trust me, Wayne Enterprise is drawing up a recovery plan as we speak. Along with… say, a big fundraiser?" Your teeth are grating together like two beds of sandpaper… The warning bells increase to wailing sirens as he eases up the stairs. The journalists make way for him like synchronized birds in flight. You didn't like the smirk on his face as he ascends. His hands are too comfortable in the pockets of his khaki pants and his gait is far too relaxed. This is the countenance of a man very much aware of the power he holds.
"But it's all thanks to you of course. The Hookers getting mutilated ought to rest assured in the knowledge that they have their very own Queen of Gotham defending their honor. Nice of you to defend them in shoes they couldn't ever dream of owning."
The shock is momentary.
While Bruce is speaking, Carmine Falcone, and even worse like him are still prowling the streets. However, since they've started targeting Gotham's female population, and in the disgusting, borderline psychopathic way the bodies are being left: in the alley, mutilated- you may have taken it personal. This asshole wasn't about to make it about him…
"All this talk about a fundraiser is very charitable of you, Mr Wayne. It's nice of you to finally give our city the time of day but I'm sure there's a party you ought to attend," His smile cracks ever so slightly, "Who between the two of us, do you suppose is the Kettle and who is Pot, Bruce?" Fuck formalities. They were binding and they were verbal counts of reverence. In this moment Bruce didn't deserve reverence. He needed your absolute vehemence.
"That's good! That's a good one!" He chuckles, feverishly ignoring the warmth in his stomach as he spins around to face the reporters. His arms opened in front of him like a modern-day Gatsby. Making the Courtyard steps his suaree.
"Your new District Attorney, ladies and Gentlemen. Hey! At least you can rest assured in the knowledge-" He turns to face you, his face, void of jokes and laughter, "that she'll never fall short on the sarcasm."
He's close enough to have the security on your team alert- not too alert though becuase it's fucking Bruce Wayne- but just alert enough to remind Bruce that you were on his level now. You two were children on the very same playground. The field has been leveled.
"Why are you here?" You ask him in a low voice. Off the record. Bruce only flaunts that charming crooked smile and shrugs petulantly. "Why am I here? Well to congratulate you, of course!" The crowd erupts in a mindless cheers of admiration as Bruce's hands once again find his pockets.
"I'm hosting the District Attorney a little party-"
"Bruce I'm not fucking playing with you-"
"It'll be very Avant-garde! Flowing champagne! Live music! All at Wayne Manor of course."
"If this is your idea of a joke-"
"That's very kind of you Mr Wayne-" says the cunt with the pink face from before. He's far too close and you swat his hand away and glare daggers at Bruce who's basking in the myriad compliments and praises being flung his way.
"You fucking think this is a joke?" Your final attempt at a word before your publicist grabs ahold of your arm, pulling you away from the feral crowd.
"No, I just missed seeing you." Bruce says, making your your fist curl hauntingly at your side and your mouth pull back into a snarl that was very un-district-attorney-like.
He moves closer, the journalists cheering and jeering behind him and you try to free yourself from the hand grabbing you away.
"This isn't funny."
"C'mon," Bruce says with a smile. He even dares to push an invisible braid behind your ear, letting a finger coast your soft cheek. "You're always working. I just wanted to see you." He shrugs.
There is an iron fist pulling you away now and you can't hold out any longer. Before you're fully whisked away by your team you throw one final snare his way. "My office." Is all you're able to get out before being fenced in by security. Over the wall of the tall, broad shoulders you see Bruce make a lazy salute. "Ma'am, Yes Ma'am!"
Bruce Wayne's apparent morality only lived in his ability to keep a promise. He's in your office when you arrive. Contemplative and quiet but a smile on his face nonetheless. In all honesty he's proud. Maybe a tad jealous at all your newfound responsibility and success. You got to fight for this city, openly. Him… less so.
"Alright, Darla, just give me 30 fucking minutes in my office alone please." He perks up at the sound of your voice. Straightening ever so slightly but still leaning lazily against your mahogany desk.
"No! I didn't know about the fundraiser," You shout at the frazzled voice through the slightly ajar double doors. "Just-" You massage your temples, "give me a second with Mr Wayne. No one comes in or out." You say, fully slamming the wooden doors in on the face of your assistant.
"Darla. I like her. She's very protective of you." Your adamantly set on ignoring him as you cross the wooden floors to your chair behind the desk. Bruce turns, smirking up a storm as he leans over your desk.
"I really had to weasel my way in here. Turns out the DA's office does not mess arou-"
"What do you want from me, Bruce?" You slump in your chair while swiftly untying the wretched pointyail.
"Well I already told you I wanted to see you."
That makes your blood boil. All previous thoughts of relaxation in the company of your husband, goes straight out the window, falling all 60 floors.
"You don't fucking get to do that, Bruce!" You're seething and he's smirking as he makes his way around the desk. "This is people's lives, were dealing with and Harvey's dead! Along with any hope this city ever had." Bruce continues stalking towards you until he's fully beside your seat. You're far too deep in thought, far too overcome with stress to even notice that he's swiveled the chair to face him.
"Of course there's hope for the city," Bruce says, softly, "This City has my wife and that should be enough." He supports himself with a hand above your head and traces your cheek with the tips of his callused fingers. You grab ahold of that hand and massage it gently. How could spoiled and pampered little Bruce have these hands? Working hands.
"You don't get it," Your voice is soft "But of course you wouldn't fucking get it!" You're vaguely aware that you've started shouting but Bruce only nods and smiles. He's nodding and smiling as he wraps a delicate hand around your throat. Bruce guides you up on your feet and you follow, mindlessly yelling at him while he only smiles.
"You wouldn't get what the fuck it feels like, Bruce!" He hums in agreement and you're still blabbering.
"You dont get how it feels like to have so much… so much responsibility! And you just had to fuck it up for me today!"
"You're right," Bruce says, shrugging off your blazer. "Carry on talking." He says, weaving his fingers through your button up blouse.
"And stop fucking telling me what to do all the time!" You snap, unknowingly following his command. The coldness in your office envelops you and your exposed upper body as Bruce shrugs the blouse onto the floor. His fingers skim the lining of your sportsbra, marveling lightly at the cleavage on the verge of spilling out.
"It may have worked before but- I'm like… Different now! I'm my own fucking person! I'm the fucking District Attorney of Gotham for fuck's sake and you need to respect that!" You say, shoving a finger into his chest.
"Of course." Is all he says, his eyes still firmly planted on your chest. "I won't tell you what to do again, Mrs District Attorney." He lifts a finger up, letting his eyes find yours. "Scouts honor." And then not a second later he's looking back down at your ample chest and saying.
You roll your eyes, once again letting an incredulous chuckle leave your lips. "Fuck you, Bruce."
"I'm trying to," he chuckles, "Am I going to have to ask again?" He cocks his head to the side and you're filled with that all too comfortable bratty, stubbornness. "Yes," You smirk, "That would be nice."
"Alright well," Bruce's robotic smile is unnerving and tense and you realize you've fucked up. He slowly unbuttons his own shirt and shrugs. Bruce backs away from you and you're scrambling to take that stupid bra off your damn self.
"Bruce- I'm sorry, come back. Look." You've gotten the bra over your shoulders, leaving it a heap on the floor but he's already made it to your office doors. Your stomach curdles and your heart stammers.
"Heyyyy. Darla-was it?"
He's just walked out of the office, shirt fully undone, for Darla and any onlookers to put the pieces together.
"M-Mr Wayne?" You keep your ass firmly planted on your desk, fully aware that you're entire reputation had gone to shit.
"I'd like you to hold off any of Mrs Wayne's Press Conferences or any other meetings for the rest of the day. Just until the party. You're a real a doll, Darla."
Bruce saunters back into the office, a satisfied smirk fully on his face. Somewhere in the background of it all, Darla mumbles a
"Don't look at me like that, I was just going to eat you out and leave," he says, walking back toward your frozen frame on the table. "You were supposed to let them know sooner of later."
He cages you in between his arms, shirt unbuttoned, hair slightly out of place but all you feel is livid.
"YES! BRUCE! LATER. WE WERE GONNA TELL THEM LATER-"
He silences you, of course he does, by crashing his lips steadily onto yours. You bring a hand up fully intent on shoving him away but he slithers a hand through your hair, fully keeping your lips glued to his. He slips his tongue in, ruining all your resolve and you pull yourself forcefully away before you melted into him completely. "I told you I wanted people to take me seriously." The words are said in hurried gasps if not anything else. For good reason becuase Bruce's hand is cupping one of your breasts and sucking on the other.
"You're an asshole, Bruce." You're breathing heavily and he's still assaulting your breasts with his tongue and you throw your head back, feeling the pleasure crash down on you.
"Don't stop now, Mrs Wayne." Bruce says, unbutonning your suit pants. "I like this game."
"You're so fucking selfish. You have no idea- NO IDEA- what is feels like to have the entire city counting on you to purge it. To help it."
For some odd, inexplicable reason, after all the insults and jabs you've fired his way, this is the one that makes him flip. His eyes snap up to meet yours and there's a moment of agonizing silence. Bruce huffs quietly and you're about to apologize again before he completely pulls you off the table. "I'm the asshole, right?" He says, clearing the desk of most of its files and data.
"Im the little whore?" Bruce chuckles before he spins you around and lowers your face on the desk, "I'll gladly be your whore, my Love" he whispers in your ear, your cheek pressed into this morning's paperwork. Bruce steps away but you dare not to move a muscle
"Now where's that…Ah!" You crane your neck ever so slightly to see his tie. He wasn't even fucking wearing one when he came. "Arms behind you back." He says in a sing-song manner. You don't dare disobey.
"They're all out there thinking I'm your whore. Let's fix that, shall we?"
"Brucie," You say over your shoulder "I'm sorry, I-" He rips your pants down and your underwear along with it and you shiver at the cold air hitting your core.
Bruce tightens your hands behind your back and looks down at you. "Good?" He asks and you wiggle your wrists a tad, content that they're comfortably restrained. "Good." You answer back, knowing full well he expects you to 'use your words.'
"Great." He beams before letting a hand come down hard against your ass. "FUCK-" it's sore but he flattens his palm against your ass, rubbing it lightly as he wraps the end of the tie around his knuckles. The movement lifts you up from on top of the table and he whispers in your ear.
"Aw," he coos lightly. "Look at how wet you are." A whimper escapes you when one of his fingers skim the wet folds. Your veins light up with electricity as he begins to circle your clit. So painfully slowly.
"If you're gonna fuck me, Bruce." You withhold a moan, grating your teeth. "Just get it over with- I don't have the fucking time-"
He stops and against all will, you wiggle your ass against him, urging him to continue.
"I've allowed you to say so much." He says and you're about to say even more when he brings a hand up to your mouth, shoving his index, middle and ring finger in between your teeth and resting on your tongue but not to far down.
"You're going to keep quiet okay? The only sound you're gonna make is from me fucking you." A deeply unimpressed growl sounds from your throat but you immediately shut up when you feel the head of his cock prodding your entrance. You moan around his fingers and lean further down, pushing your ass against him.
"Jesus Christ, what the fuck am I gonna do with you?" You murmur drunkenly in return, your eyes half lidded.
"You're gonna be a nice little slut for me okay?" Bruce says, and you vaguely catch sight of him behind you, his shirt still on but fully unbuttoned and his cock lined at your entrance.
You begin to mumble incoherently before bleeding into an agonizing moan as he pushes himself firmly into you. Bruce wastes absolutely no time. As if he was vaguely aware you don't plan on genuinely canceling all your meetings so he fucks you hard and fast.
"Jesus fuck, you're so beautiful" His huffs and your sardonic moans fill the entire office, "You're so beautiful and good for me, baby." You knew the second he started speaking like this that you had him. Every sliver of his being belongs to you.
His fingers dig into your hips, pulling you further into him so you meet his thrusts. "I'm sorry about- fuck- I'm sorry about today," he says in between his absolutey monstrous thrusts. "I just missed you alot."
You mumble something vaguely along the lines of just "Just fuck me" around his fingers, your hands still firmly bound behind your back. There's a specific energy that accompanies the restraint and the pressure building in your core. It's a helpless, needy feeling burning in your stomach, knowing you've completely submit yourself to him and that all your pleasure hangs in the balance.
You mindlessly suck on his fingers, "Tonight, I'm going to use that perfect little mouth of your, m'kay?" and Bruce lifts your thigh up, resting your knee on the table, fucking you even harder from of this angle.
Through the blurred pleasure a thought suddenly crashes down you. Right the midst of it all. In between your lustful moans and the completely sinister sound of skin against skin, it's hits you: You're fucking Bruce Wayne. You're fucking married to Bruce Wayne.
You had eloped, really and had no intention of sharing the news until you were certain you made DA for any other reason except being Mrs Wayne. Now, it seemed like you were shielding that reality from yourself morr than the rest of the world.
You tap the fingers inside your mouth lightly and Bruce immediately leans closer and let's his hand fall out.
"I love you." You whisper out.
He nuzzles his nose against your cheek, his dick relentless ramming into your tightening walls and he whispers. "I love you more than anything I've ever loved before."
The warmth is short-lived, becuase soon your dancing on the edge.
"B-Bruce-" His hand that was in your mouth immediately dives down between your thighs, rubbing your clit with absolutely fervor. "Holy- Fuck!" The knots in your stomach unfurl and he's close to you, caging you in by your breast, his front against your back as the pleasure slams into you.
"You're such a good girl," His whispers drunkenly in your ear, "such a good fucking girl," Your orgasm has yet to recede, you're still shaking and tightening around him and he loses it.
"Im going to cum inside you," its stated as a command but you nod mindlessly ahead. Bruce's hips stutter against your own and he's painfully squeezing your breasts, completely overcome by his own pleasure.
While he rides it out he's kissing you and mumbling how good you are for him, how perfect you are, how beautiful you are and you immediately realize he's more more perfect to you than anything else.
He gives your back a soft kiss, when he's down. Slowly easing out of you and pushing himself off. You turn and watch him button his shirt back up again.
"Wow," You smirk, "You really are my whore."
"Don't push it." He says, "we still have the fundraiser tonight." He says, leaning in and pushing his lips against yours.
You sigh and wrap your arms around him. "Im sorry for sounding ungrateful earlier. Thank you for the party. I just- really hope that Bat asshole doesn't ruin things tonight." He doesn't reply and he doesn't hug you back and you frown slightly.
"Did I say something wrong?" He looks down at you and kisses the tips of your nose.
"Get dressed," he says. "I know you're not gonna wanna miss any meetings so I'll send a car to pick you up at six."
It's all he says before putting on the rest of his clothes and leaving your office, as quick as the wind, almost as if he was never even there.
A/N: I GOT CARRIED AWAY OKAY?!