Could you do some yandere Battinson, Pleaseee? I'm thirsty for it 😩
A/N: The hell I can 😍 made relationship hcs based on it, enjoy!!
Pairing: Battinson x reader (The Batman 2022)
Warnings: Obsessive loving behaviour 🦇
• As if Bruce not being a yandere in a relationship isn’t enough already 😂
• He’s very perceptive and observant, especially with reading your expressions or moods when they’re out of the ordinary. Maybe someone upset you? You need Vengeance? Literally?? Boy’s gone.
• Bruce is naturally protective, since you’re one of the few people left that he genuinely cares for. He can’t let anyone take you away from him, and will go to drastic measures to ensure it. He lives for you, The Batman is for you… you’re his everything 🖤
• He’s a lil shy with initiating cuddle or kissing sessions, but once you start them, he doesn’t want you to stop. Your touch and affection is the warmest, most comforting feeling Bruce has had since his parents died, and he’s addicted to it.
• Bruce likes keeping tabs on where you are and isn’t very good at being subtle 😅 he might be fighting crime outside and peeking in through the windows of your room in Wayne Manor with his binoculars, and probably has cameras set up - but not so much to be controlling or anything, more to check you’re doing okay
• He has irrational fears of abandonment, like, coming home and you not being there even though there’s no chance of it happening 🥺 so being able to see you on a screen and hold your hand at home calms him instantly
• Whenever he’s dazed by what he sees and feels a bit depressed, he always comes to you for silent comfort and gets annoyed at any interruption
• Bruce Wayne as a yandere wouldn’t be so much about literally tying you up to make sure you stay safe and he could never bring himself to hurt you, and since he doesn’t kill/use guns he finds his own ways to deal with your problems.
• Yep, your problems are his 🥰
• He’s very protective and clingy in his own way, and everyone Alfred can see it clearly; it’s a good thing though, man’s in love 😍
❝where two are joined, relentlessly❞
IX. from now on.
❐ parts: previously.
❏ plot: endings give way to beginnings. romance, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, grief, the author only understands so much about medical protocol I’m sorry.
❐ pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader.
❏ words: 5.5k.
❐ warnings: minor character death, grief.
❏ a/n: well, this is the last chapter. thank you all for keeping up with this series! I’ve had a wonderful time exploring this little world with my bruce and I’m happy to have gotten to share this series with all of you. your enthusiasm and kindness has meant a lot to me. hope y’all enjoy~
You had a memory—shortly before the death of the Waynes—of seeing Wayne Manor for the first time. Of course, by that point, the sprawling mansion was being called Gotham Orphanage and Thomas, Martha, and Bruce Wayne were christening its rebirth on live TV.
You weren’t any different than every other kid in your class for daydreaming about the place. How lucky little Bruce Wayne must have been to have all that to himself! It was a far-off dream for someone like you, but you’d wanted to visit. Just once. Then it burned down on the news and that dream went up in smoke with it.
Now, as you wade through weeds and broken beer bottles that decorate the front yard, careful that you don’t trip in the dark, you realize that childish dream of yours never really died. Bruce is waiting for you in the foyer when you finally get through the door, “I get that you’re a bat and all, but some of us can’t see very well at night.” Before you can clock his reaction, Bruce shines his flashlight directly into your eyes.
“Neither can bats. They use echolocation.” The sound of his voice and his approaching footsteps cut through the blinding light until he’s standing right before you.
“What are we doing here, anyway?”
Bruce follows your line of sight to the broken chandelier overhead casting reflections of light against moldy, torn wallpaper. Shining his flashlight directly on it makes diamonds dance in his eyes, “Research.”
Without further discussion, Bruce turns abruptly and leaves the hallway without you.
You’re quick to catch up, only stumbling on wet, loose debris every few feet. Bruce is always quick to grab hold of you when you lose your footing. “Not that I’m not having fun, but this kinda seems like a job for you and your pal Gordon. I can’t imagine I’ll be much help here.”
“You’ll be plenty,” and then Bruce pushes his flashlight into your hands once you reach the staircase, every other step fractured or chipped off, “point the light up?” You do as told, light landing on a large hole going through the floor of the second story.
“What’re you researching?”
“Pretty sure this place has a Wikipedia page.”
Bruce cuts his eyes to you and smiles, “I need a closer look.”
When Bruce starts moving to the next room, you obediently follow at a much slower pace. There isn’t much to look at given the history of the manor. Smoke clings to the walls and the architecture is falling apart at the seams, but it fills you with enchantment all the same. You try to imagine what you’d seen in pictures before, and though you know your imagination will never live up to the real thing, you still try.
The next room ends up being a much bigger space. The chandeliers in here are more intact thanks to how high the ceilings reach. If you looked hard enough, you could even make out the detailed cornice all along the ceiling. As for what you can clearly see, chairs are lined up in broken rows; it’s the shell of a movie theater or a common room for the children. But long before that, it was something else, “Was this the ballroom?”
“It was,” his voice is tinged with melancholy, examining the room, “it was much more impressive when I was younger.”
“I bet. Would’ve killed to come to a ball here. Did you guys ever have a chocolate fountain?”
“No, though it wasn’t for lack of requesting.”
You giggle, a younger, more petulant Bruce Wayne appearing in your mind. “Can I ask what you’re researching in here?”
Behind the cowl, you make out a nervous twitch at his brow. “I’ve been seeing your mother.”
You blanch, “I’m sorry?”
Bruce recoils at the sharpness in your voice, realizing his mistake, and he scrambles to fix it, “I’ve been visiting her. In the hospital.”
“Oh... really? She hasn’t mentioned you at all.”
“I asked her to keep it a secret.” At your scandalized reaction, Bruce smiles in what you think is an attempt to be reassuring, “It’s nothing bad.”
“Is it something I’m not going to like?”
“The opposite, actually.”
“That just makes me nervous.” You found it difficult to believe your mother had much to offer someone like Bruce, even more so when Alfred was there. Unless Alfred was in on it too... You couldn’t be the only one out of the loop, could you? Now you were sufficiently unsettled. “Can I know what it is, at least?”
“I promise,” and he keeps the humor out of his voice to convince you, sincere, “I can’t leave you in the dark if you’re a part of it.”
“Part of what?” Ideas begin to swim in your head, each more incredible than the last.
Bruce captures the hand that’s closest to him, holding it between both of his own, saying nothing for a moment. You’re glad he isn’t actually a bat; if he could hear your frantic heartbeat, he’d probably have you rooming with your mother in Gotham General until it calmed down... or maybe he’d finally just tell you. You scoot up to his shoulder to see which possibility might win.
“Mayor Reál once told me that I could be doing more for the city, and I’ve been thinking about what Selina said to you. About me doing nothing for Gotham. It didn’t really... hit me, that my name could be anything other than a burden. Your mother gave me some advice on what to do with that name recently. I’ve been working on an idea, and if you’d like, I want you to be part of it.” You notice the slight shake of his hands clasped around your own, though you don’t detect any fear. Nerves, actually. Excitement. He was excited.
You watch, in awe, as he turns his head to meet your eyes, “I’m going to the mayor’s office next week with a proposal: offer rehabilitation to the dropheads seeking shelter in the orphanage, and then tear it all down. And rebuild,” Bruce’s voice trembles, “rebuild everything. Give a new generation of children in Gotham a chance. This time, there will be no mistake. I’ll make sure of it myself.”
“And I want you to... do it with me. I’ve been wanting to do some rearranging of Wayne Enterprises anyway, give Alfred a break and put someone permanent in charge. And you can stay as you are, or, if you’d like, I’d like to put you in charge of the finances for the new orphanage. I don’t want that money going to anyone other than those kids. There’s no one I trust more than you for this.”
Well, out of all your incredible ideas, you’d expected nothing close to this.
The orphanage had been a chilling reminder of Gotham’s failure long before it burned down. It’s why it was a graveyard now, a shell of the home it was and was meant to be. At least it being in ruins had been more favorable to the hell it had been before.
But there were people willing to take a chance on Gotham. It might’ve started with a vigilante, but it was trickling down. Mayors, police commissioners, normal people like you. You hadn’t felt this much hope since the dawn of those horrible floods. Not since you realized while watching that soon to be unmasked vigilante- no, hero, standing on that arena rooftop and pulling people to safety, that there could be something more.
“I, uh... Jesus Christ,” your disbelieving laugh draws a nervous one out of Bruce, “you’ve really thought this through. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I could’ve helped.”
“I wanted to do it alone. I wanted to be ready.”
It was a large step up from being a CEO’s butler’s personal assistant, and the responsibility of being in charge of something so dear to Bruce and so important to the city was a heavy one. It wasn’t a choice for you to make lightly.
But could you really imagine doing anything else?
“Well... we’ll definitely have to talk more details, of course. I’ll help you proofread everything, and then we’re going to have to meet with the accountants at least once to smooth out the logistics but... yes, I would love to. I would really love to.”
Bruce exhales in relief, swirling the early summer air between your faces, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him smile so big in his life. It’s gone in an instant but his joy still vibrates through his touch. He resembles a younger Bruce in that moment, a Bruce you never got to know before news of the Waynes rocked the nation all those years ago. You can’t help but take his face into your hands and burn it into your memory. You don’t ever want to forget it. “Now, can we continue this research in the light of day, maybe?”
When the mayor’s receptionist instructs you both to take a seat, you run your eyes over the proposal in your hands until each word is printed into your mind, and then you do it a few more times for good measure. “She’s not going to bite, you know.” Bruce points out.
You roll your eyes, “Cut me some slack. I’m meeting the mayor.”
“I didn’t have you pegged as a fan.”
“I’m not,” though, your cheeks go a little hot anyway, “I just think she’s... cool.”
Bruce snorts low in his throat, not even gathering the attention of the receptionist mere feet away, but it’s enough to make your ears burn. “Would you like to pitch the proposal, then?”
“God, no! I’m too nervous to make any sense.” Bruce reaches over and pats the back of your hand, discreet. It’s more than enough to help calm your nerves that little bit. You take a deep breath and try not to leave sweaty fingerprints in the paper you’re holding. “I’ve got to keep my phone on, anyway. The hospital could call.”
“We can reschedule.”
You look at Bruce with wild eyes, “Reschedule with the mayor? You’re crazy.”
“I don’t want to add more stress to your plate,” Bruce answer simply, “and for what it’s worth, I’m sure it went well.”
The surgery had been penciled into your calendar for weeks at this point. With your mother’s illness growing more arduous on her body, she’d been advised to get as much of the malign growth removed before her quality of life plummeted even further. It would be a routine surgery, you were assured over and over, but it hadn’t made you any less nervous. You’d been jittery ever since leaving her behind.
“Yeah,” you murmur, “you’re probably right.”
A solid voice cuts through the moment, just as powerful in a small room as it was on stage in front of thousands. Bella Reál stands in the doorway to her office and gives you both a smile, “Mr. Wayne. I’m glad you could make it.”
Bruce is more than capable of doing all the talking. He’s rehearsed enough on his own, replaying his pitch to you at breakfast and over the phone and in your bed (or his) late at night. He’d repeated it so much that you’d remembered it all word for word, mouthing each sentence as he spoke. He’s nervous and keeps his hands clasped in his lap in lieu of reaching for you, but he does it. By the end of the pitch, Bella is sold.
Somewhere in between discussion of when to break ground and sharing specific costs, you feel your pocket begin to vibrate. Bruce only needs one look from you before you’re excusing yourself into the lobby.
“How’d it go?” You breath out before the nurse on the other line can even get a word in.
It’s Annie, you realize, but only halfway through her sentence when what she’s saying starts hitting you. You can hear her voice quiver as she relays back the standard protocol, “The surgery was successful, but your mother’s condition has worsened. She woke up in an abnormal amount of discomfort, and after some testing, it seems to be due to internal bleeding.”
“Bleeding? Has it stopped?” The receptionist’s eyes cut to you as you stammer.
“We’ve been trying to get her stabilized, and we don’t think the bleeding is severe enough to warrant another operation just yet, but we’ve given her a transfusion and we’ve got her on more fluids to help the process. It would be best if you came by as soon as possible, she wants to see you.”
There are several different thoughts going through your head. The assurance that the situation isn’t as severe as it could be is only comforting to an extent, but the invisible war your mother’s body was fighting left a pit in your stomach. There was nothing you could do to help her but be by her side. There was nothing you could do but hope that she would be fine.
She would. She would make it through. You couldn’t afford to think otherwise.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Thanks, Annie.”
You exchange your goodbyes and barely have the soundness of mind to leave the receptionist with a message for Bruce. She seems frazzled by the suddenness but assures you she’ll pass it on once the meeting adjourns, and that’s all you really have time for before your brain shuts out everything else. You just need to be with her. There would be time for everything else later.
It’s half an hour later when Bruce gets the news.
Life buzzes on about the hospital floor, but it feels lonely standing here, as if room 614 had been carved out of time and space and existed in a separate world to Bruce’s own. Annie doesn’t even spare him a smile, unlike herself, “Hey, Bruce. You can go on in.” His thanks is simple, certain that the nurse is in no shape for conversation, but before he can get the door open, Annie intervenes one last time, “Eline’s peaceful, but... it can be difficult. For family members.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
She gets out of his way then.
Your chair is pulled up to the hospital bed. One of your hands is clasped in Eline’s while she watches the news on its lowest volume, your other tucked against your waist as if you might be sick. Your face, however, is the most lifeless he’s ever seen it. If you felt sick, you didn’t look like you had the heart to care.
You register he’s there when your eyes flit to him, but you don’t make a move to say hello. Eline does, however, smiling, “Took you long enough.”
Instead of bringing his chair to her bedside, Bruce rounds the foot of the bed and hovers behind you, “I considered calling an ambulance for a ride, but I didn’t want to steal the spotlight.” He’s thankful for the comforting sound of Eline’s laugh, “How are you feeling?”
Despite her jovial tone, she’s sickly with exhaustion written deep into the bones of her face. He wasn’t familiar with the slow toll your body failing on you could have; he’d experienced seeing the life sapped out of others in an instant, faces often still full of life even as they went cold. Your mother, on the other hand, looked as if she needed a long, long sleep. “I could be better. How’d the meeting go? Kid told me the mayor loved it.”
At the moment, you didn’t look capable of talking about anything. You continued to stare at your hand intertwined with your mother’s. You move only to breathe. Bruce feels strange sharing good news, “We can break ground starting late June. Maybe sooner.”
You twitch just a little. Your head moves like you intend to look up at him but you don’t complete the action. You continue to stare ahead.
Eline reaches her free hand out to him and Bruce is quick to take it, noting how cold it was. Back when he’d first held it, it had kept his own hands warm. Her touch is no less motherly, but it feels... wrong. All of it feels wrong, “Knew you could do it. I’m telling you, it’s only going to look up from here. First, the orphanage, next... well, who knows?”
“I’d love for you to come see it when it’s all fixed up.” His voice drops low, and those who can hear it are aware of its hopeful undercurrent.
“That’d be nice, huh, kid? You always wanted a look inside that place.” Her prompting doesn’t elicit any response from you. You’re catatonic while Eline looks on, heart visibly breaking a little more with every silent second that passes. Her eyes slowly shift back to Bruce. “It can happen sometimes. Complications in surgery. Doctor said they’ll keep an eye on it, but I just get a feeling. You know?” Bruce can’t say he does, but he nods, “But I think I did pretty good.”
“You did. A star patient, I heard.”
“Not that. I mean... I think I did pretty good for myself. To go out like this.”
Your mother had been dancing around it this whole time, and only now were the words out in the open, the force you needed to break apart completely. Bruce reaches forward and grasps your shoulders as you lurch toward her, body shaking all over, “Don’t say that.”
A stranger could mistake Eline’s expression for one of indifference, but in the few weeks that Bruce had gotten to know your mother, he’d learned of all the layers that lied beneath. It was taking all there was in her not to react to you the way he was sure she wanted to. “It’s not going to get better,” her tone is cruel, forcing reality on you, “I’m weak and it keeps spreading and... how many surgeries can I really afford to have?”
“As many as you need. I would make sure of that.” Bruce insists.
“It’s a waste,” you flinch at your mother’s assertion, “no, no it is. I’m tired. This isn’t going away. The fact I’ve made it this long is a miracle, and I’m happy I made it this long. I’m happy I got to have a wonderful kid. And I’m happy I got to see you grow up. And I’m happy that you’ll be loved even when I’m gone.”
Your head shakes back and forth, muttering to yourself. Bruce has never seen you this way. He doesn’t want to see you this way ever again.
It is just so slow.
When Thomas and Martha Wayne’s lives were taken in front of him, Bruce had skyrocketed through so many emotions. The terror from being cornered, the shock at seeing the gaping wounds, the panic upon realizing he was utterly helpless, and an overwhelming agony as he cried, alone, until he’d screamed himself numb.
Seconds. He’d lost them in seconds. So quickly had his parents been taken from him that details blurred if he didn’t think about them hard enough. What came first? The tears or the rage?
But Eline goes slowly.
It’s between you and Bruce to hold onto hope that she doesn’t have. She murmurs a thought every once in a while, pointing out something on the TV, and hums a broken tune. Bruce watches the TV to give her privacy, his heart racing each time he looks over to see if it’ll be the last time. You alternate between crying and humming along too.
When her vitals plummet, they find what Eline had already suspected. It doesn’t take them long to wheel her away for emergency surgery. The nurses assure you both that it’ll be quick. They know what’s wrong, they know how to stop it. They just need a little more time.
She doesn’t come back.
Comforting in this gentle way doesn’t come easy to him, but it’s almost second nature the way Bruce takes you into his arms and holds you.
It’s the worst feeling in the world. It’s excruciating. He’d always thought it’d be different for you, when it ever came time to grieve, because you’d have time that he never had. You’d had years to say goodbye, as callous as it was to think, so maybe it wouldn’t tear you up so much.
In reality, you cried just like he did, voice cracking after the strain became too much. Bruce remembered how raw his throat had been the next day, barely able to speak, and resists the urge to smooth a hand over your own throat.
You deserve to cry, and you’re allowed to let it hurt.
Bruce Wayne isn’t there for the funeral.
Someone is, but it’s not Bruce Wayne. Throughout the service, you see him at the edge of the crowd, dressed unrecognizably to the untrained eye, flanked by (more recognizably) Alfred and Dory. The few people that inquire of the sinewy stranger can never get close enough to look at him. You don’t blame the little family and friends that waver in the pews, sneaking glances.
He’s the first person there and the last one to leave. Alfred and Dory come to pay their respects together. Dory is a chatterbox complaining about how hectic the traffic was to get here, and Alfred smooths his hands over your sleeves and promises to leave the lights on for you. The only one who doesn’t approach you is Bruce.
Though there’s a feast of a reception going on for a good hour or two after the funeral, he waits outside in the rain until you come around with a slice of cake one of your aunts had made. It was your mother’s favorite. “You sure you’re not hungry? There’s some food left in there.” You ask, peeking under the bill of his Gotham Knights’ baseball cap.
Bruce leans closer in some vain attempt to guard you from the weather, though it’s difficult with his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. Inside, there are still some people lingering around the reception hall laughing over memories they shared of your mother. You notice Bruce’s discomfort and nudge him with your arm, “You’re gonna catch a cold.”
“I just wanted to see you.”
He’d seen you plenty. The first few days—sure—you holed up in your room and left only when necessary. The others shuffled around you, leaving you a breadth of room to be alone. What waking moments that weren’t spent in sorrow were for getting preparations together, and you’d only forced yourself to function recently, but he was always still there: food put away on its own, clothes picked off the floor, things put back in their places when you were sure they hadn’t been before. You’d assumed the lapse in memory was why everything was always just... taken care of.
And then there was the Bat.
You didn’t leave the tower often, but when you did (because you didn’t want to talk, because you needed more time), you’d take solitary walks in the city. You kept your head down the way you’d been taught and stuck to the crowded parts of the city, walking at a speed that kept others from approaching you. Sometimes you did look up though, just because you would get a prickling at the back of your neck that something in the air had shifted.
After all, every rooftop in Gotham is his perch. Your eyes had started to naturally scan where the city ended and the sky began to find him, and it usually only took a glimpse for him to leave. You’d still be registering his cowl against the backdrop of the full moon and he’d already be gone, smoke in the night. In his own way, he took care of you.
Despite his wet jacket, Bruce’s body heat burns through, and you’re quickly reminded of how much you missed touching another body like this. “How are things?”
“Alfred and Dory miss you,” you smile at that, “Mayor Reál sends her condolences.”
You don’t even have to see Bruce’s face to know he’s pink in the cheeks now. “I’m sorry.”
Bruce mulls over your words for a few minutes. Twilight lingers on the horizon, and soon you’d be seeing Bruce off for his nightly duties as the Bat, but you’re thankful he’s in no hurry. “I didn’t want anyone around when it happened to me. Not Alfred, not anyone. Still, he... was always there. Even if I couldn’t see him. Even when I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to do the same. I wanted to wait until you were ready.”
“I... figured.” Bruce shifts lightly, not enough to disturb your head on his shoulder. “I don’t know if I’m ready. But I do miss seeing you. Out of the shadows, I mean.”
Bruce brings one hand out of his pocket and brings you a little closer. Unsure if you’re comfortable with more. You’d think you’d been starved of touch since birth with the way you react to it. “Maybe I’ll... wait in the corner of your room at night until you wake up.”
The very image makes you shiver and laugh. “I’d prefer you just sit with me. Or let me sit with you. I’ll even let you tinker with my car a little more.”
Bruce doesn’t answer in time. People start pouring out of the reception hall as the rain lets up and the sun goes down, exchanging well wishes as Bruce hides his face under the cover of night. By the time everyone is cleared out, twilight has turned into the cloudy, black night characteristic of Gotham. It won’t be long now.
“Bruce, can I ask you for a favor?”
Bruce catches your eyes, breath going still. You don’t know what he thinks you’re going to ask for, but he looks braced for the worst. “Anything.”
“Will you take me for a ride?”
His shoulder relaxes beneath your head. The bike is just across the lot and you walk hand in hand until Bruce situates his helmet on you. You’d insisted once that he be the one to wear the helmet when riding together, though that was shut down with such intensity that you dared never to suggest it again. It did help that he bought you your own helmet days later, though.
You climb on once Bruce settles down, arms finding their familiar place around his torso. You hope he doesn’t mind that you’re holding him much tighter than usual.
With the cheek of your helmet pressed in the spot between his shoulder blades, Gotham flies by in a flurry of lights and sounds. At every stoplight, citizens of the city rush about: some to work the evening shift at a diner, some finally on their way from work, and others just like you—wandering. At every stoplight, Bruce reaches a hand back to your knee. Each time, you snuggle that much closer into him.
You go on for what feels like hours. Perhaps it is. All you know is that Bruce doesn’t take you home until your grip starts to go slack.
You think he might leave.
Instead, once Bruce has settled you under your covers, he crawls into the other side—his side—and waits until you reach for him to hold you.
“Don’t you have patrol tonight?” You whisper.
“Yes.” He replies, hesitant.
Perhaps he knows. There’s no way he hadn’t heard you waking up with night terrors, heard you crying and mumbling in your sleep before your dreams released you. He probably knew already, but it didn’t hurt to ask, “Then... can you stay with me? Just until I fall asleep.”
You can’t see his face with your own concealed against his chest. You can only hear his very steady heartbeat thumping in a peaceful tune, one single breath his answer, “Okay.”
The night terrors make it hard to fall asleep on your own, but you’re out within minutes and hope that at least you won’t wake to him pulling away. You don’t think you can handle tonight alone.
But morning comes, and there are no night terrors, and Bruce is still holding you in the same position you’d fallen asleep in. The certainty that this was no mistake on his part is enough to lull you back to bed. Sleep is the most peaceful it’s been all week.
2 months later.
“Careful, whole place is a mess right now. You’ll need one of these.”
A hardhat is passed into your hands seconds before the construction worker abandons you to help tear down a nearby wall, though you don’t struggle to find where you’re going in the daylight. The last time you’d been here, you might as well have been trekking through the set of a horror movie.
It’s not much prettier than before, but it’s definitely a start.
You’re careful not to get in anyone’s way, what with wooden planks being marched through hallways and sawdust flying in every direction. Most rooms are flush with busybodies tearing away at the diseased parts of the house, and others are storage rooms of material you’re not qualified to touch, but none of them seem to have what you’re looking for. If you tried calling out for him, your voice would barely carry over the bustle.
You really shouldn’t be surprised about where you do find him.
Alfred stands at his side, hands politely tucked behind his back as they examine the ceiling of the ballroom. You hear the butler muttering something that makes Bruce look eager to shut him up. Luckily for him, he spots you then. A smile that had become more commonplace on Bruce’s face is what greets you first, “Well? What do you think?”
You cross the large hall and kick up dust as you go, “Very industrial. What with all the uh... construction.”
Bruce rolls his eyes, “Besides that.”
“It’s got a lot of potential. I can’t imagine what it’ll look like in a few months. Hell, I can’t imagine what it’ll look like when kids are running around in here.”
Alfred smiles, “I can, though a distant memory.”
A lightbulb goes off behind your eyes. “Oh yeah, Dory told me Bruce was a very... active child in here.” At the same time, the light goes out of Bruce’s eyes.
Before Alfred can get any ideas of adding in his two cents, Bruce very unsubtly guides you by the small of your back to another part of the ballroom.
Despite the joy in his features, you couldn’t ignore how tired he’d been looking recently. With his nightly duties and getting the orphanage up and running, you’d found Bruce to be more of a weighted blanket in bed than a partner. You didn’t blame him; you did worry, though.
Your hand naturally finds the curve of his jaw, fingertips brushing where his hair had grown back out again. With Alfred busy training his successor, he hadn’t had the time to trim it out of Bruce’s eyes, but you couldn’t say you were in a hurry for him to get it under control. Sentimental, you were. “It’s amazing, Bruce.”
Your assurance doesn’t penetrate as deeply as you’d hoped. “Wish I’d done it sooner.”
“You needed time to get to a place where you could do it right. Could you imagine trying to get something like this done under Mitchell? Absolutely not.” Bruce looks past you, still not entirely convinced, but you gently guide his gaze back to you, “And you’re not the same Bruce you were before. Everyday, you’re getting better. You’re learning. You can’t rush that.”
A vulnerable look crosses his face. His warm, stubble-ridden cheek leans into your palm searching for more comfort and you gladly give it.
You still can’t quite wrap your head around where the two of you have ended up. Watching Gotham shift alongside the man responsible for so much of its metamorphosis often felt more like fiction than fact. More than that, though: it felt hopeful. While you didn’t imagine Gotham would ever be “perfect”, its baby steps were a welcome change. “You’re doing a good job, Mr. Wayne. Your parents would be very proud of you.”
Bruce shuts his eyes, “Thanks.”
“I’m very proud of you.”
Bruce’s eyes reopen just a smidge, hooded eyelids revealing only blue half-moons, and he turns his cheek just far enough to press a tender kiss to your palm. Another way of saying thank you.
“By the way, what was Alfred saying to you before I came in? You looked kinda peeved.”
Bruce groans, pulling you closer by the hand until your elbow rested on his shoulder, “He kept insisting we invest in a ballroom for the tower.”
“Something about... how I should’ve kept up with my dance lessons as a kid. He’s convinced I could’ve been a dancer in another life.”
A silly grin breaks out on your face. “You’re still a good dancer. I recall us dancing on my kitchen counter, on the kitchen floor, in my childhood bedroom-”
Bruce pulls you all of the way into him to shut you up with a kiss, indignant as he was, though Alfred was too far away to have even heard any of that. Out of curiosity, you peek open an eye to look in the old man’s direction.
You’re met with his usual, knowing smile. Perhaps it’s best you don’t ask.
Hey, love the convenience series! So invested in it that I read everything over including oneshots and blurbs twice. So, I was hoping if you could please write a oneshot where Dick addresses YN as mom for the very first time and reassures her that he meant what he said also later on Bruce teases her on how at least one of their kids said mom first since Grace said dada first? Just something emotional and super fluffy! 🤗🤗
Word count: 278
A/N: A short and sweet blurb before the angst that is the next bonus chapter and the next chapter of In Better Circumstances!
“Mom, have you seen my trainers?”
The plate Y/N was holding slipped through her fingers and shattered against the kitchen floor. She ignored the shards rattling to a halt and stared at Dick with wide eyes. “I-I-what?”
“I said, mom, have you seen my trainers?” He repeated, a shy smile on his face.
“I think they’re in the drawing room.” She forced out, her brain feeling like it was short-circuiting. She glanced to the door as Bruce appeared, looking ruffled and taking in the mess she had made.
“Everything okay?” He asked as Dick ran past him to try and find his shoes.
She stared after Dick before realising Bruce had spoke to her. “What?”
“I asked if everything was okay.” His worried gaze moved from her to the shards of the plate on the floor and then back again.
“He called me mom. Twice.” She explained as he grabbed the dustpan and brush.
“I’m sure he meant it.” He shot her a smile as he crouched down and picked up the larger shards before sweeping up the smaller ones.
“You should have let me do that.” She told him as he tipped the dustpan into the bin.
“You seemed pretty frozen.” He chuckled as he moved back over to her. He took her hand in his. “And at least one of our kids said mom first.”
She playfully hit his chest and tried to keep the smile off her face. “Still doesn’t change the fact that Grace’s first word was a cartoon tiger. Tigger was clearly more important than both of us.”
Taglist: In a separate post
Hey, can you do a Bruce Wayne one with this prompt -> ❛ don’t act like you know me. ❜
“Don’t act like you know me.” Bruce’s voice is low, but firm. Detached. His eyes are empty, not betraying anything he doesn’t want to, and you can only think of how sorry you are that he feels like he has to be that way around you.
And okay, well, that stings a lot more than you think it should. Your eyes dart around the dark wood covering almost every inch in his penthouse. It screams gothic, and it unsettles you to your core. You inhale sharply, trying hard not to show how much those words had affected you. But it’s a slice to your heart, a punch to the gut and your stomach—and you’re sure that every bone in your body has now suddenly started to ache.
All for Bruce Wayne.
The silence becomes oppressive, suffocatingly tight.
“Who even are you?” you ask after recollecting yourself, hand making a tight fist at your side. “Do you know the answer to that?”
He makes no movement for you to catch. It’s only the faintest twitch of his brow that lets on that he’s bothered by your words. He huffs, turning away from you with arms crossed. “I don’t have time for this.”
Your jaw clenches, and your voice comes out shakier than you would’ve liked. “It’s not like you really have a job, Bruce. And Alfred tells me you haven’t been fulfilling your obligations at Wayne Enterprise. So, what the hell have you been doing?” You chew your lip, furrowing your eyebrows before continuing, “And you don’t have time for me? I thought we were friends.”
You’ve known Bruce since before you even learned what your name was. Your mother had worked with Thomas Wayne before his death, leading to the beautiful friendship going on to this day. He was a happy kid growing up, and it’s hard to see how much that has changed. You and Alfred witnessed it first hand.
For a while, you thought it was going well. He would never be that same kid who made you ride your bikes into the park for so long that you got lost, or beg you to go out for ice cream even when it was freezing outside again, but he seemed happy. You thought he was happy.
But then he starts to cancel on you again. He keeps texts shorter (more so than usual) and begins asking specific scientific questions that he knows you’d be able to answer with your interest in chemistry and physics. You wonder if he knows the Internet exists. Or will whatever he’s been doing get him on some watchlist? He starts to feel like the Bruce Wayne that had appeared after the death of his parents again.
And you miss him.
You catch his eyes soften for a moment, but as quickly as they do, his walls build up again. But it reminds you that he’s still there. That the Bruce you remember isn’t really gone. He never left. It makes you hopeful for something better for him.
“Whatever it is that you’ve been doing, you don’t have to do it alone.” Your voice drops to a whisper. “With me, you… you won’t ever have to do anything alone ever again.”
You reach your hand out, tentatively searching for his. His hand is cold when you slip yours into it. You’re surprised he doesn’t pull away or recoil. You’re even more shocked when he tightens his grip instead, squeezing your hand. And for the second time today, you feel hope for Bruce Wayne.
A Helping Distraction | Bruce Wayne x gn!reader
@satan-incarnate-666 asked: “You look so handsome when you’re trying to concentrate” w bruce wayne n a reader who's trying to help with Corruption Investigation Of The Week?
summary: Bruce asks for your help with his most recent case, but maybe he should’ve thought twice.
tws: references to Christian Bale’s filmography, swearing
word count: 702
Looking over from your laptop, you could see Bruce was hard at work, and although you wanted to comment about how much he looked like the main character in a film you had seen the previous night - something called Equilibrium, although you didn’t exactly pay much attention to it - you could see how hard he was attempting to focus; how he was doing his best to concentrate on his current investigation without delving into interruptions or distractions. You had to admit, he was very handsome when he tried to concentrate, those light brown eyes filled with focus and his brows furrowed; you couldn’t help but to smile as you scratched at the side of your jaw, clearing your throat as you dared to distract him.
“Bruce!” But he didn’t look at you. “Bruce. Bruce. Bruce. Bruce.”
Finally, he looked, tilting his head to the side. “Yeah?”
“You look so handsome when you’re trying to concentrate,” you shrugged, looking back at your laptop and trying not to grin. He would have you for that, and you knew it.
“(y/n),” he got up, crossing the room so that he could stand beside you, his hand at the back of your neck as he sighed. “I’m trying to work.”
“Okay,” you hummed, your hands on his hips as you licked your lips and spread your legs a little. “What’s that gotta do with me? You asked me to help, remember?”
“Distraction isn’t helping,” Bruce huffed, sitting on your lap, his legs either side of your hips as he held onto your shoulders. “Is it?”
“Depends how you see it,” you chuckled. “Y’know, you do look an awful lot like the guy in Equilibrium.”
He furrowed his brows, tilting his head to the side. “What does that have to do with corruption at Gotham's pharmaceutical practices?”
“It was just on my mind, ‘s all,” you admitted. “And anyways, distraction is helping - it gives you a break, doesn’t it?”
Bruce rolled his eyes as he shook his head, running a hand through his hair before he got off of your lap, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead before he made his way back over to his own computer; he sat down, but made no effort to continue to work, instead, he swung his chair around so that he could look at you, a fond little glint in those hazel eyes that made you resist the urge to grin and to laugh.
“You want me to take a break?”
“For a minute or two, yeah,” you nodded. “I know you’re Batman and all that shit - but even superheroes can get fatigued. Even the best in the business.”
Bruce smiled a little before he cleared his throat and let out a soft grumble. “How about I cut you a deal? You help me with this case for a couple more hours, and after that, I’ll take you to Dorsia for tea.”
“Dorsia’s nice,” you mused. “One condition, though.”
“We listen to Huey Lewis and The News on the way there,” you insisted. “Specifically, Fore!, it’s their best one.”
Bruce raised a brow, but eventually he nodded and cleared his throat. “So are you gonna actually help me, now?”
“Yeah, I actually got a couple leads for you,” you started, “first of all, talk to the union.”
“Yeah, they’ve been fucked over royally by the CEOs and shit,” you explained, “long hours for little pay, no benefits - most of ‘em are on zero hour contracts. Shit like that. They’ve probably got more evidence than any fucking stupid middle class prick.”
Chuckling, Bruce nodded. “I’ll sit down with the union leader - anything else?”
“Yeah, there’s a guy,” you cleared your throat. “Jacob. He got a lot of dirt on the people running the show - y’know, steadily raising the price of medicines so that eventually only… certain people can afford them.”
“Okay,” Bruce smiled. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” you smiled back before turning to your laptop. “Bruce?”
“Won’t we get caught at Dorsia? I mean, outside of Alfred… no one knows about us,” you said. “You sure we won’t get caught?”
“It’ll be fine,” he replied softly, “we’ll be fine. Everyone thinks we’re just friends.”
Yandere Ryan Erzahler (4/6)
Word count ; 4.2k
As I was being dragged out the doorway, I reached out and clutched onto it for my life. My nails dug into the splintered wood for dear life. The monster let out a growl, yanking on my leg further. I let out a seething screech, praying to god Dylan would —
A gunshot sounded, sending the monster flying back. I heard something skid across the ground, and I scrambled to my knees. Dylan had somehow shot the gun one-handed and hit. The monster was even more pissed and clearly wasn’t injured enough. However, I reloaded and swung the gun back to the entrance.
It had been lurking right behind me, and the barrel walked it in the face, sending it into the rim of the door. I scooted back just enough, and as the monster glared at me with glowing lucent eyes, I shot.
This time, when the monster was sent flying back, instead of returning for a round two, it dashed off into the wilderness.I was panting furiously, and I noticed how. My ankle was dripping with the sticky, fleshy substance. I also had blood sprayed across my exposed torso, and I flinched.
“Fuck…” Dylan mumbled from behind, coming up to me. “We need to rejoin the group. Clearly those hunters or whatever heard where we were…”
I gulped, and when he offered me a hand to help me to my feet, I gratefully took it. My heart was still pounding and my veins still shot with adrenaline. I kept the gun poised for anything as we descended the steps into camp, both of us with a prominent limp. I could tell from his occasional pained grunts that the adrenaline wasn’t completely working as a pain reliever.
We skulked over to the shower room. We knocked on the door and tried to open, but it was seemingly locked. “Guys, it’s - it’s us,” I called shakily. It was the end of summer, and out here, the night air nipped at my skin.
I heard some muffled chatter, and a moment later, the door opened halfway. We both slid inside, and the moment we came face to face with the rest of the group, we noticed the terror on their expressions.
“Guys, what the hell happened?” Kaitlyn exclaimed.
Dylan, bringing some comedy to the tense atmosphere, went to scratch his neck with his handless arm. “I needed a bit of a hand when the monster attacked me.”
Everyone scoffed, including me, who was still incredibly shaken up. I elaborated,” That… thing attacked. We didn’t want him to get infected like Ryan, so we had to. It almost dragged me off to feast on me, but we somehow scared it off with our… pitiful attempts at hurting it.”
Kaitlyn sighed. Nick and Abby were huddled together in a corner. Maybe something nice would come from this, at least. The two could bond over their trauma, or whatever people always thought. “
“You guys… really need to get a shower.”
I nodded in agreement, and wordlessly, we both stalked over to the showers. I stripped of my clothes once the curtain was closed. I was able to navigate the knobs thanks to the tiny, high-up window that allowed the moonlight to seep in.
One I was finished, I was very relieved to dry off via a warm and fluffy towel. I changed into what clothes I had left and decided to keep the towel as a makeshift shirt. I didn’t want to survive the night and end up with fucking hypothermia, after all.
I’d kept the group waiting, it seemed, as Dylan was huddled next to Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn was poised and focused, though, ready to shoot at any moment. I was about to inquire about a game plan. However, I was interrupted by a booming shot that came from right next door.
We heard violent splashing in the pool. My blood ran cold as I realized the hunters or whoever they were must’ve been near. That didn’t bode well for us, though. We’d told them where we were. And seeing as they were probably shooting that fucking beast, they knew we couldn’t have gotten far without pursuit.
Silence. Except for Dylan’s agonized whimpers. I bit my lip and listened further, but it all seemed to fall silent.
“Guys,” Kaitlyn hissed quietly,” we have to go back to the lodge. Dylan needs literally any medical attention he can get. There’s still Advil and tiny bandages —“
“Yes,” Dylan agreed. “I told them n the radio that we were somewhere in this area. They’re probably searching as we speak. We have to, like, go, ASAP.”
“Fuck, that’s right,” I groaned. “It’s settled then, I guess.”
The walk back to the lodge was almost silent. Oftentimes, Abby was whimpering in fear, and Nick had to hush her. I empathized with the poor girl. If I wasn’t so numb and pumped with adrenaline, I’d be just as scared. It left me wondering how Kaitlyn was able to be so stoic and calm.
She and I were handling the guns. Both of us were ready to shoot at any moment. And yet, it was the calm before the storm. We were accompanied by nothing but the rustling of leaves. I was grateful to have a damp yet warm blanket to keep me warm, because as the night progressed, the temperature dropped. Clouds were also forming in the sky, indicating that it would rain soon.
I could only hope that Jacob and Emma were alive.
We arrived at the lodge, making sure to close the door behind us. I made sure to close the curtains as we examined the place. It was deadly silent. We brought Dylan upstairs, but to a different guest bedroom. The other was tarnished and covered in Ryan’s blood. We situated ourselves. Dylan was tucked under the covers, minus his arm. Kaitlyn had accompanied Nick and Abby to get some water for all of us, plus left over medication. That left me and Dylan to ourselves, me sitting on the edge of the bed, watching and waiting.
“It’s been one, uh, fucked up night, huh?” Dylan chuckled dryly.
“You said it, buddy.”
Now that I was sat down and didn’t have the threat of looming danger, my thoughts went to Ryan. If my body wasn’t dry and tired from crying, I would’ve been bawling my eyes out. I wished it was me instead of him. Ryan didn’t deserve what happened. He was smart and funny and cute and…absolutely perfect, in my eyes.
I sat the gun on the bed next to me, leaning over and hiding my face in my hands. I still felt terrible for Emma and Jacob, of course, but they could be alive. And sure, Ryan was too, but it wasn’t Ryan anymore.
I raised my head just enough to glance at Dylan, who had a strained smile on his usually goofy face. I tilted y head at him in question.
“I’m telling you, it’s fucking… werewolves, man. A full moon. Transformations. Howling… Ryan will be okay.”
I smiled, warmth fluttering over my chest. “You know, we’re supposed to be home right now. In our apartments, dead fucking tired but happy. We’d probably pass out on the couch together while listening to his favorite shitty podcast.” I paused, my voice quivering. “But this… isn’t right. This isn’t how it was supposed to go.”
“You’re telling me,” Dylan quipped, raising his decapitated arm.
I laughed, and for a minute, I was carefree. “I guess I am.”
Nick and Abby suddenly swung open the door urgently, water sloshing over the styrofoam edges. Panic was apparent in their expressions. I immediately grabbed the gun as they rushed the water and meds over to us.
“What…?” Dylan asked, his smile having faded.
“There’s people in the house,” Abby squeaked.
“Kaitlyn’s trapped downstairs trying to hide. Drink, quick. We have to hide!” Nick seconded.
I downed the water quickly and slammed it on the bedside table. Dylan was slow when he sat up, but we managed to get him off. While I fixed the bed sheets to look somewhat undisturbed, the three got into the large wardrobe, the hangers clacking in dismay.
My breath was caught in my throat, and I wanted - no, needed to wait for Kaitlyn. I had the gun ready to shoot as I heard pounding footsteps. The door swung open and I almost shot, but Kaitlyn was the one to open the door. I noticed, though, that she was gunless. She was panicked for seemingly the first time all night. She pressed the door shut, her back to it.
“How many?” I asked, motioning for her to get under the bed.
“Just one,” she panted , getting on her hands and knees. “But… he was asking for back-up. More are on their way.”
She hid under the bed, and I planned on sliding underneath, too. I wanted to avoid wasting bullets as much as possible. I was about to slide under when the bedroom door suddenly swung open, and in came a man aiming his gun.
I screamed as he stomped on the gun. “Off the ground, now! Hands behind your back.”
Tearfully, I got back on my hands and knees. I was shaking from head to toe. I reached my arm onto the top of the bed for support, about to pull myself up. My shotgun was now out of reach, much to my chagrin. The stranger had three and many bullets, so I didn’t doubt he could kill me at any moment —
Something tackled him suddenly, seeing all of the guns out of reach. I gasped quietly when I saw it was the monster. It had caught the man off guard. The man screamed at the top of his lungs, trying to fight it. I took the chance to scramble back underneath the bed. I wanted so dearly to reach for the gun, but I didn’t want a repeat of last time. It was far too late to save the stranger’s life.
I could watch the entire scene from under the bed. The monster had lunged and was mauling the man to death. His organs and bones were ripped from his back, spewing across the floor. It was growling and devouring the man ravenously. It made me grateful that I was even alive right now.
It finally stopped, and the man’s cries were no more. The monster, dripping from the blood of its victim, finally stepped off. I watched as its animalistic, wolfish feet stepped closer to the door. I clamped my hand over my mouth as I heard its loud sniffs.
It raised its foot, about to enter the hallway. It was hovering the doorway, and it left maroon footprints in his wake. Kaitlyn was trembling beside me.
But then, it halted, stepping back into the room.
A low growl emitted, and it terrified me to even breathe through my nose. I thought it heard me, and yet, it took a step toward the wardrobe.
And then another.
Fuck, fuck, fuck —
And then, it was right in front. It was pausing, waiting for somebody to reveal themselves.
And it ended up being me. I extended my arm and slid out slightly from under the bed. My fingers barely grasped the gun, but as I tried to aim it, the monster turned, its yellow orbs landing on me. A small screech bubbled in my throat as I manhandled the gun with one hand. I pulled the trigger out of panic when it hopped closer to the bed, eyes trained on me.
It missed barely, shooting past its foot and lodging itself into the base of the wardrobe. The monster roared viciously and took its chance to grab e. It loved over me, even when it grabbed me by my collar and tore me off the floor. The beast had incredible strength and it held me up so I was staring right into its ugly face. I tried kicking and punching at the animal’s makeshift body, but that only swung me around in the air. My feet couldn’t even reach the ground.
It snorted in disdain as I pawed and pushed at its grim, sticky face. As I stared into its eyes fearfully, I couldn’t help but think it was Ryan. That Ryan, my best friend, was about to kill me.
Something skidded across the floor, catching the monster off guard. It didn’t get the chance to look, though, because another gunshot rang out. It tossed me into the wall as its ankle gave out, blood spurting from the wound. The gun cocked again, but even from its position, it suddenly leapt into the air and onto the bed.
I tried to get back onto my feet, using the beside table for support. My legs were shaking and I barely had the strength to stand from being thrown around. I finally stood up and slid against the wall, nearer to the door.
The monster hovered over the bed, and I could only pray that Kaitlyn wouldn’t meet her demise. Its sharp claws dug into the blanket, tearing at the wool and cotton. The blood-stained mattress was flying everywhere, and I waved it from my face. I inched closer to the door, not wanting to meet the beast’s wrath.
A solid hole had formed. Just as it raised its arm to punch through the wooden base, the gun slid out from under the bed, and so did Kaitlyn.
The monster reached into it, but when Kaitlyn hopped to her feet, she kicked it and sent it into the wall. She grunted and went for the gun. Relief washed over me for a minute, thinking it would know to retreat like last time. However, when Kaitlyn’s back had turned, it pounced.
I screamed in terror as he tackled the poor woman against the wall. Her head collided and she shrieked. I reached for the gun, but almost as though it knew what I was about to do, it stomped on the gun and racked it in half.
I raced over to one of the others, but as I wielded the weapon, it was too late. The monster tore out Kaitlyn’s face, leaving nothing but a sticky, red skull. Her jaw racked as the monster grabbed her corpse and threw it at the wardrobe. I raised the gun shakily and shot.
The monster roared, shrieking at an ungodly volume. I was standing alone and I knew I had to bring its attention away from my other friends. Kaitlyn was a goner. That much was plain to see. But I wasn’t about to let the rest die because I didn’t try hard enough.
As it clutched the wall and palmed at its chest, I dashed out the room. It shrieked again and pounced at the doorway, but I dodged. I peered down both sides of the hallway.v I went right, knowing I had to get it the fuck out. My feet were slipping and sliding, but I refused to trip. I made it to the main area, crashing against the second floor banisters.
I was panting furiously, hearing galloping from behind. I turned, and it was just in the knick of time, as the monster crashed into it next to me. Its claw slashed out, reaching for me. Its nails dug into my skin and I cried in pain. It almost pulled me back, but I slammed my gun backwards into its stomach.
It released me, and I took the chance to run. I rounded the corner, and was about to run past the chimney adorning a portrait, but I heard an unpleasant howl sound from it.
I took a step back as the portrait burst at the seams, another monster pouncing from it and almost making it over the railing. I raised my gun and shot, the bullet causing it to ricochet into the cafeteria below. I was almost relieved for a moment, but I was tackled to the ground. The gun skidded away from me, hitting the banister.
My head rang from the impact, and I knew I was about to be torn to shreds. Tears slipped from my eyes and a wave of sleepiness washed over me. Drool landed right beside my head, and I could feel its iron breath fan across the shell of my ear.
“Ryan…” I whispered, barely audible.
I was suddenly lifted and thrown onto my back. I was seeing stars as I came face to face with the beast. I was so very confused. It hadn’t taken so long to maul the others. What was preventing it from tearing me to shreds?
I maintained lazy eye contact with the monster. It was staring at me so adamantly. Its yellow orbs flitted over my features. My fear dissipated in that moment. Maybe there was still a piece of Ryan buried in there, preventing the monster from tearing me to shreds.
It growled lowly. I exhaled slowly, on the verge of passing out right then and there.
And then the beast got tackled against the wall by the other. Both let out howls of pain and anger. I shrieked and scrambled for the gun as they tussled. Both were scratching at one another, blood spraying against the walls. I suddenly connected the dots; there were definite differences between the monsters. The one that used to be Ryan was taller, lankier. The other was shorter, fatter.
As I grabbed and aimed my gun, taking a few steps away, the smaller one sent Ryan flying. The banisters cracked and he broke through them, falling into the cafeteria below.
The monster directed its attention back toward me. I shot, sending it flying back into the wall. I cocked the gun and shot again. The monster let out mewls of agony, thrashing against the wall.
Ryan’s claw extended, and its entire body lifted onto the second story. Its yellow eyes flashed in my direction, and I was worried he would attack me. However, he instead blocked the other’s path, standing on its hind legs with its back arched.
I took the chance to run.
I raced down the steps, leaving the monsters to wrestle with each other. My shoe, covered in icky blood, slipped, and I ended up bouncing on my ass the whole way down. I bit my lip in order to prevent drawing attention back to my fleeing form, but I already knew it would bruise.
Once I was at the bottom and the exit was right in front of me, I dashed out. I slammed the door in order to draw attention, just in case the two or the reigning winner decided to skulk about. I clambered down the stairs. The van was still sitting out front, but now I was out in the open. My heart thudded anxiously within my rib cage.
I heard clattering from where the monsters were battling it out. As badly as I wanted to save my friends, I needed to get the fuck out. I started running away from the lodge, figuring that I would take shelter in a cabin and wait for morning.
I was all alone and completely in the open. I bit my lip, reducing my pace to a walk. I knew most of the cabins were locked up and I didn’t want to make any noise by breaking in. I could always return to the radio shack or the shower rooms. But I didn’t want to be too far away from the main lodge.
I jumped and raised my gun as something emerged from the woods. I heard the cock of a gun, and instead of coign face to face with one of the hunters covered in blood, it was…
A woman. She adorned an eye patch, and a scar traced across her cheek. She had a firm frown and was wearing loose, tattered clothing. Blood was smeared across her neck and shirt. When she saw me, I could tell she was just as surprised as I was. However, she didn’t raise her gun, instead halting.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
I lowered my gun, sensing security and safety from her. “I - I’m Y/n L/n. I’m a councilor at the camp. I need your help. My f - friends —“
“Are either dead or werwolves, right?”
She lowered her gun.
“I’m… Laura. Laura Kearney. I was supposed to be a councilor too, but we got here a night early on the full moon and me and my boyfriend were kidnapped. He’s a werewolf.”
We closed the distance between each other. “Oh… my god. Your boyfriend is Max, right? You two were the ones that never showed up!”
She nodded. She was still frowning firmly. “Have you been bitten?”
“Um, no. Is… is there something we can do —“
“Yes,” she interrupted quickly. “It’s what I’m trying to do. Do you know Chris Hackett?”
“We need to kill him. According to the legend, if we kill the head werewolf, anyone who’s been bitten will turn back to normal.”
“If… if you don’t mind me asking… how do you know so much about this?”
Laura sighed, glancing around the area. “While we were being held captive, this police officer was keeping us updated. We managed to escape just this morning from our cells. Max is out there, somewhere, as we speak. It’s a long story, though, and I’ve told you what’s important.”
“So… where is Chris Hackett?”
“I accidentally shot his daughter, who’s also a werewolf. I suspect that he’s somewhere in hiding, locked up. They always do that with the werewolves for the family’s safety,” she explained. “Do you happen to know where the Hackett household is?”
I frowned. “If all the werewolves are locked up, then how is there two back in the lodge as we speak?”
“Yeah. One is Ryan. I know that for sure because he didn’t tear me shreds at the many opportunities he’s given me —“
“Ryan would kill you regardless of your connection while human,” she corrected. “Max didn’t give two fucks if I was his girlfriend while he was turned.”
“No, no, it’s true!” I exclaimed. “The first time is when we were in the radio shack. Instead of mauling me like the rest, he tried to drag me away. And just now, he did it again. He… killed Kaitlyn and this hunter guy right in front of me.”
Laura’s frown deepened. “That… doesn’t matter right now. You say that there’s a second one in the lodge. Have any other of your friends turned? How many of you are there?”
“Three others that are alive as of now. Kaitlyn is dead and Jacob and Emma left the group before all this shit started happening. One can only hope they’re not dead but maybe they’re turned.”
She scowled, cursing under her breath. “I guess we know where we’re going, then. The lodge is that way, right?” She motioned correctly from the way I’d come from.
“Yeah,” I answered quickly. “Just… don’t shoot Ryan.”
“It’s impossible to differentiate them.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Surely, You’d Burn the Same (Batman/Bruce Wayne x fem!reader)
PART TWO PART THREE PART FOUR
Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+
Word Count: 6.2k
Warnings: smut, sexpollen (dubcon), explicit language, handjobs, oral (both male and female), vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, mentions of violence, brief mention of an IV/needle, Bruce is touch starved lmfao (lmk if I missed anything please!!)
a/n: ok while consent is given on both parties, it’s has sex pollen-esque features so it is dubious consent!! just be aware of that! ANNYWAY PLEASE ENJOY (also thank u sm to the lovely @jango-fettish for helping me come up with this idea)
Fuck Lieutenant James Gordon.
Fuck him and his stupid penchant for glorifying vigilante justice. And fuck yourself for coming back here in this shithole of a city called Gotham. You’re a goddamn forensic analyst. You’re not supposed to be involving yourself with shit like this.
But alas, trouble always has a way of finding you.
It nears six months into your job when you start to hear the rumors. Missing money from evidence, smudged fingerprints, evidence destroyed. Staff meetings about bribery, pay-offs to cover up the ferocious criminal underbelly of Gotham. The list goes on and on. Half the CSI staff eats out of the hand of some crime figurehead. The Penguin mostly—dude’s got a thumb in every pie scattered across the city. You don’t entirely blame them—the pay is shit and the job shittier. If you didn’t have the familial ties that you do, you’d be in the same bind as them.
You keep your head down. You don’t want any part of it.
It still doesn’t stop the nicely folded manilla envelopes from finding their way into your desk. Encoded notes, promising pay if you jack up some idiot official’s incriminating evidence. You just sweep them into the shredder and say not a word. It’s one of the reasons you’ve risen through the ranks so quickly—the captain's favorite—squeaky clean and determined. Always on scene for the high profile cases, sidestepping the dangerous undertow that nips at your ankles.
Like you said, trouble always finds you.
James Gordon is lucky he’s a family friend or else you’d have blocked his number ages ago. He has a bad habit of calling in the middle of the night, hyped up on crappy coffee and a lead he needs followed. You figure he supersedes your captain with these sorts of things because she too has been corrupted—or maybe Gordon just wants you to succeed. Both are plausible options.
And so, when you get the jarring phone call in the buttfuck middle of the night that scares that absolute bejesus out of you, you’re not surprised. The context of the call, though, that’s a little different—
“I gotta show you something, kiddo.”
Puffy eyed from sleep and a tick away from strangling him, you throw on a light coat and lo and behold, Gordon is there to pick you up. He reveals nothing once you get into the car. You watch the darkened city roll past, the buildings gleaming and hazy in the light drizzle. Streetlamp reflections churn golden swirls onto the concrete streets—the only constellations that have learned how to shine through the light pollution.
The place he brings you is an abandoned tower. Construction litters the surrounding area. You shiver when you exit his warm car. “Jesus, Gordon. Is this where you’re gonna dump my body?”
He shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose and punches the buttons to the elevator. Who the fuck pays for electricity here? “Shut up, kid.”
Your curiosities are soon put to an end.
Gordon is the caretaker of the so-called Bat-Signal. You should’ve known. You’re a bit peeved to be quite honest, that you were never close to even finding out his secret. Whatever.
Even more startling is the fact the Batman himself pays you a little visit atop that windy tower.
Like a shadow he melts into view. You don’t know any better than to draw your gun and point at the dark mass of muscle and a walking armory. Gordo slaps his hand over the barrel, forcing you to lower the weapon. “Woah, woah, woah—he’s on our side, Blue.”
Striking blue eyes bore into yours as your heart hammers away inside your chest. He takes a heavy step forward, then another, and another until he stands nearly toe to toe with you. Christ, he’s tall.
“Why is she here?”
His voice is rough as stone, soft in cadence but powerful nonetheless. He breathes authority and power—alluring.
Gordon grasps your shoulder in support. To be quite frank, you don’t follow the rest of the conversation nor remember the reason why Gordon introduced you—something along the lines of another ally in case something goes wrong. Another familiar face to rely upon. Or maybe it’s for your sake—another line of determent to convince you from straying too close into the hands of bribery.
All you do is stare, and Vengeance stares back.
Or at least, Vengeance allows you to tag along as Gordon’s sidekick. The months go on like this. The bribes increase and instead of shredding them you pass them off to Vengeance—a trail he can follow to find those responsible. You and Gordon help as much as you can, because fuck. No one else is doing anything about it—crime keeps surging and corruption runs rampant. It’s a tragedy that only The Batman dares challenge.
And that tragedy bites back.
It’s another one of those frantic, midnight calls. It’s different this time—urgent.
“Get your ass to the crime lab—we got a situation."
Dutifully you rush to dress and haul ass to the labs. You go around back, swipe your keycard and fly down the emergency lit stairs. You heart leaps into your throat as your foot skips a step—
You tear through the dark office and beeline towards the captain’s office. The door is already open—Gordon is throwing a half-lucid Batman onto the tiny couch shoved on the side wall. He looses conciseness the minute his back hits the cushions. “The fuck happened?”
You fly over and shove your fingers under Batman’s sharp jaw to find a pulse. It races under your fingers. Gordon shakes his head. “No clue—found him close to the station, so I brought him down here.”
You pull out a pocket light from your coat, lift up his eyelid and shine it over his eyes. Doesn’t look like he has a concussion. “I told you, Gordon. I’m not a doctor, the closest thing I got to a medical degree is my EMT.”
“He’s not bleeding,” Gordon relays. “We just need to watch him and get him outta here before anyone sees.”
Fine. Fine. You can deal with that.
You sit up and tear through your bag of pilfered medical supplies. You slide on a set of gloves, grab an IV line and reach for Batsy’s limp arm. Gordon helps wrestle off his glove. You slide the needle into his battered hand, and lay the baggie onto the back of the couch. You sigh and peel off your gloves and throw them into the wastebasket under the captain’s desk. “You’re lucky no one’s down here.”
“I know,” Gordon says. “We’d both get the boot, huh?”
You snort. “You wouldn’t.”
You stand and peruse the lab in search for a vitals monitor. Perks of sharing the building with the morgue, you suppose. You wheel the machine into the office, peel off the sticky parts and attach them to the insides of his wrist. They’re new, no wires—like a blue tooth sort of deal. The machine flips on—the beep of Bats’ pulse fills the room.
When Bats shows no signs of waking in the coming moments Gordon bails. You don’t blame him. This is boring. “You alright if I head out, kiddo?”
You wave your hand in dismissal. “Yeah, yeah—get outta here, old man.”
Gordon chuckles at this, ruffles your hair and swiftly exits. “Call if you need anything!”
The next time you’ll be calling him will probably be in jail. Can you go to jail for helping a vigilante? Is that a thing? Y’know what, doesn’t matter. Precisely why you never went to law school. Fuck that noise.
Even so, you wait for Vengeance to wake.
An hour ticks by—your boredom grows rampant. With a sigh you pull out your pocket light and waddle over to the couch. You peel open his eyelids and curl your lip at the greasy, black residue that comes away from his eye. It reminds you of that shitty Halloween store makeup. Hm…
Suddenly, his hand shoots up and wrenches your arm away—throwing himself off the couch and narrowly punching the living daylights out of you. “Fuck, man—chill! It’s me!”
His lips are drawn in a snarl, fists clenched. Though once he sees you, takes account of his surroundings he drops back onto the couch like deadweight. You scramble over, readjust his IV and recheck his vitals. His heart races—not entirely alarming just yet.
“Blue,” he rasps, throwing out your name to assure that it really is you and that he’s safe. It’s not your real name (he knows that too), it’s just a label you coined over the years that began in middle school. Little Crybaby Blue—got too over zealous with the crappy hair die and went to school covered in it. You were tinged blue for weeks. He doesn’t know that though. Hopefully…
“Yeah, it’s me, Bats,” you assure. “Gordon called me.”
Leather creaks as he nods. He squeezes his eyes shut and grunts as he shifts into a more comfortable position. “Only place I could get to.”
You bite your tongue before you can offer your place as a haven if he ever needs. That would be brushing elbows with unknown territory. Dangerous.
He tries to sit up again. Your hand whips out. “Nuh-uh. Just rest for now. Gotham can go a few hours without her Batboy.”
For the first time since meeting him he listens without a fight. He only clenches his jaw and glares up at the water stained sealing. “How long?”
You frown. You rub the bridge of your nose and sigh. “Until the IV is finished, deal?”
It’s half empty. Bats agrees solemnly.
Boredom weighs heavy on your shoulders once again. His silence has never bothered you, but even so, it’s a little awkward just sitting here, kneeling on the floor. Your fingers find his tattered cape that spills onto the floor, thumbing the rough fabric. Fireproof probably—
Batty makes a noise low in his chest. You bite you cheek, scrambling for an excuse. “Haven’y you heard Batboy? No capes,” you quote, tugging on the ends of the tattered cloth. You’re met with a blank, glacial stare. You roll your eyes. “Y’know, like Edna Mode? The Incredibles?”
You tut. “You’re no fun.”
His breath is stuttered as he inhales, readjusting himself to better ignore you. Ok, yeah, maybe that joke was stupid, but it doesn’t warrant a cold shoulder. Irritation pricks at your insides. Fucker—is it really that hard to humor someone and their dumb pop culture references? “You look like shit, by the way.”
“You have terrible bedside manner.”
Your lips purse. “Bummer.”
And then it all crumbles into disaster.
His heart rate continues to spike, a terrifying crescendo of rapid electronic beeps that pushes your own adrenaline into overdrive. Fuck, you are not prepared to deal with this at all. The fuck are you supposed to do with Batman’s dead body? Throw it in the dumpster?
You scramble through the office’s supply of bottled drugs. Most of it is useless—embalming fluid, isopropyl alcohol—like you said, useless shit. You flit over to your boss’s desk and tear through the bottom drawers. A big black binder resides in the left one—score. You fling it open and find the vial of clear liquid that’ll stop him from having a fucking heart attack. You rush over, syringe in hand and grab for his IV—you startle as his hand launches out to stop you.
You grimace and wrench your wrist free. You make a grab for it again—he swats you away. The syringe tumbles to the square of carpet under the couch, the vial rolls beneath it. “Dude—I’m trying to save your life! You’re gonna have a goddamn heart attack.”
“No,” he snarls again. He grits his teeth, and rips the IV line out of his hand. What the fuck. At least the fucking heart monitor is still attached. “You’re wrong.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Batboy,” you sneer, throwing your hands up. “I didn’t know you were also a doctor.”
His mouth dips into a grim line. He curls into himself and dips his shoulder, the cushions creak as he turns to face the back of the couch. It doesn’t really work—the couch is small and Batboy is fucking massive—like cramming a G.I. Joe doll onto Polly Pocket furniture. It’s a little funny.
A low groan reverberates through his wide chest, legs pulling closer to his middle. You worry your lip between your teeth—dude is clearly in pain, you just have to figure out a way to get him to accept your help. You sigh and kneel onto the carpet. This is exactly why you vowed never to go into the caretaker side of things—it’s frustrating. Nonetheless, you hover a hand over the plated armor lining the space between his shoulder and upper arm. Batboy flinches.
“C’mon, Bats,” you urge, softening the edge of your voice to dull the bite of your irascibility. “Let me help you.”
The silence is deafened by the beeping heart monitor and accompanied by his terse, staccato, breathing. You whisper your hand down to the crease of his elbow. Even through the thick fabric, the heat of his skin is scorching. He’s running a fever. Batboy grunts and pulls his elbow closer to his middle. You don’t let go.
“You can’t,” he presses. “Not with this, Blue.”
You clench your jaw. “You don’t know that.”
He’s holding his breath like he’s scared of it leaving his frayed lungs. And you…you’re biting your tongue—you cannot take a crowbar to his jaw and pry the answers you want out of him. That’s not how it works—not with him. People will never understand the true essence of what this man is—fuck—you barely know either. But what you do know, is that there’s a tragedy hidden beneath his tongue and broken promises that are stapled to his martyr red heart. He’s blind to his own ambitions, in search for payment without realizing that the aftermath of revenge will bury him alive. He’ll never change and you never expect him to do so.
It’s just the way things are.
Much to his chagrin, however, you will not be letting Batboy die on your boss’s office couch tonight. You prod him a second time. He’s divulged that he knows exactly what’s got him in this state, you just need to coax it from him. “Tell me. Please.”
Something akin to desperation lining your words, cracks his resolve. He grunts and turns his head. His eyes are a small ring of blue, blotted out by his dilated pupils—shit. That can’t be good. Bat’s tongue rolls out to wet his chapped lips, inhales—his heart rate spikes again. Jesus, that’s too fucking fast—
“Iceberg Lounge,” he says. He’s starting to pant. “I got dosed with something.”
Your brows furrow. A list of substances scroll through your brain—how to treat them, what the symptoms are that matches his. “Like cyanide? I have—”
“No,” Batty shakes his head and lifts his gaze to stare at the water stained ceiling. The muscles in his sharp jaw flex. He shifts. “Pheromone based.”
Your face twists. The hell does that mean? You’re about to ask him to clarify when the pieces click together. Oh.
Rapid heart rate, dilated pupils, skin feverish—
Batty’s been drugged with an aphrodisiac.
The seriousness of the situation rams into you like a freight train. You’ve been on three cases already that involved this shit. High up political players dosed with the mystery aphrodisiac after hiring escort services from the Iceberg Lounge. Each one of them found dead, hearts all but exploded from the effects of the drug. No matter how much they tried, bringing themself to their own end never worked. You press your palms into your face, bitter panic welling inside your chest.
Oh fuck—fuck, fuck, fuck—
Calloused fingers gently curl around your wrist. They pry your hand free from your face. “Blue.”
“Don’t say it like that,” you hiss. You’re sure his fingertips can pinpoint your raging pulse—just as fast as his thrums. “Shut up.”
His chin tilts down, a question swimming in his gaze.
“And don’t try and convince me you’ll end up ok,” you say. “Because you won’t—not this time. Not unless…”
Not unless you give him that relief. It’s not…it’s not like you aren’t attracted to him. Christ, the minute you met him you were smitten. You’d jump Bats’ bones if he offered, but not like this. Not something tarnished and born out of necessity. You stare at the wine red rug under your knees and bite your lip. Your skin itches from where Bats still holds your wrist.
“Blue,” he whispers, wheezy and suffering. “I’m not afraid to die.”
He’s bleeding forgiveness, keeping your hands clean from his choice to go out this way. You can’t—your conscious would never be free of the guilt. The black stain of knowing you could’ve remedied this with ease but instead chose to end the reign of Vengeance, based on what? Your stubborn propriety and a guessing game covered in a glass floor of eggshells? That’s not fair—not fair to him or whatever legacy he’s trying to build in Gotham.
You suck in a deep breath of air and muster your courage. Carefully, and without haste, you roll your wrist out of his hand and slowly bring it to cup his stubbled jaw. He inhales sharply. “I’m not gonna let you die, Batboy.”
His eyes flutter as you smooth your thumb up the sharp line of cheek. Fuck, he’s sensitive. The leather on his singular glove creaks as his fists clench, the heart monitor races away. You’re running out of time. “I didn’t want it this way.”
Yeah. You didn’t either. “When you don't get what you want, you start forgetting what you need, Batty.” Bats lips pull into a deep frown—he hates when you call him that. He wants to argue. You don’t let him. “It’s ok—trust me.”
His eyes bore into yours, striking against the blackness of his mask and the dark grease paint he wears beneath it. It feels as though an eternity passes before he’s nodding. He’s found whatever he was looking for in your eyes and deemed it enough. An inkling of your desire maybe—
The rapid-fire beeping distracts you once again. Cursing, you jump to your feet and silence the damn machine. When you return Bats has arranged himself into a hunched sitting position, leaving enough room for you to sit and be within viewing range of his vitals displayed on the screen.
You gingerly sit. You swallow and turn to him. His chest heaves like he’s just run forty miles, bare hands clenched at his sides to dispel the shaking—a tightly wound mess at the mercy of your salvation. You scoot closer and risk skirting your hand over his armored knee. You bite the inside of your cheek to quell your racing nerves. This is so fucked up. You offer him a weak smile. “We’ll start small and go from there, ok?”
He grunts his affirmation. You nod and lean over his broad chest, running your fingers over the pockmarks in his armor and all the way down to his belt. His eyes are glued to your face, unwavering as you wrestle his heavy utility belt free from his waist. His thigh jumps under your hand. You slide your palm up and inward towards the bulge pressing against the front of his pants.
Batty sits up, ramrod straight as your hand squeezes him through his pants. A rush of arousal surges in the pit of you abdomen—he’s not a small man in any way, shape, or form. You bite the inside of your cheek and press onward, pawing at the waistband of his pants. Bats lifts his hips as you tug both his pants and boxers down far enough his muscled legs that it won’t hinder your goals. If you had it your way, there’d be a lot more teasing involved.
Fuck—not like he needs it.
His cock is well past hard, flushed an angry red at the tip and leaking precum against the base of his abdomen, straining towards his navel. Fuck—you want him bad. You look up at him, he’s already staring. In a flash of movement, Bats captures your hand and guides you to his throbbing cock. It’s a knee-jerk reaction—he folds into you as you grab a hold of his length, his rapid pulse reminding you that you’re on a time crunch here. Internally you despair over the fact you can’t enjoy this—him—for longer.
This is about him—not you.
You huff at the added weight draped onto your body, armor and all. His masked face tucks itself into the crux of your shoulder. He mumbles a gruff apology that tapers off as you squeeze his cock, searing and heavy in your hand. You wiggle closer and breathe against his neck, moisture collecting onto the black leather. He smells like rain. “Does it hurt?”
You remain like this for a few moments as he pants onto your skin, his left hand clenching the back of the couch so hard it might rip. Your palm, slick with his dribbling precum, glides easily up and down his thick length. Shit, your fingers barely meet—
His head lifts, two digits press on the underside of your chin, tilting up—
Vengeance kisses like he’s won the war. Brutal, devouring, victorious, grateful. He’s spent years fighting and it’s as if only now he’s stopped long enough to catch his breath. Even though he’s actively racing towards death. His hands grab at your arms, your clothes, your hair. It’s like you are the spoils of battle and he fears losing you to the enemies that snap at his heels. He kisses like a man afraid that this will be fleeting, insubstantial and will abandon him. The desperation you think, is a side effect, but it excites you anyhow.
You part for air. “Everything’s gonna be alright,” you whisper, voice gentle. Tonight you are his tether. And he the disbelieving survivor, jittery and wounded but safe. “Let go like this. It’s ok.”
He abandons your lips in favor of latching his teeth to the tender flesh above your collarbone—it stings. You whimper and pump your hand faster, the obscene wet sounds of it filling the room. You rub your thumb under the tip then back down to fondle his balls.
Bats groans weakly. “Blue—”
And then quite abruptly—so abruptly that it surprises him more than it does you—he lets go.
Batty cums hard into your hand, right here at your place of work, armor half ripped off, leaning the entirety of his weight onto you. A ragged gasp tears through his clenched teeth and he stiffens against you, balls pulling up tight under your palm. Sticky warmth immediately coats your fingers and the inside of your wrist in throbbing spurts. He slams a wild fist into the couch, growling your name, your true name, before his voice trapezes into a gritty, wordless snarl.
You mouth wet kisses over the exposed skin of his jaw, caressing the swollen head of his cock as it pulses in your grip. His orgasm is long and achingly drawn out, draining his body of his rapidly expending energy with every thick rope of cum you’re able to milk out of him. He swears and shudders his way through his release, until finally the exhaustion wins him over, slumped onto you as you struggle not to collapse under his weight. Fuck—it’s been a long time for him. You release his half hard cock and rub gentle circles into his protruding hipbone, your other hand smoothing down the back of his helmet to cup his neck. A dark thrum of pride runs through you veins—how many could say they could get Batman himself to submit like this—flash his colors of vulnerability.
You’re betting on zero.
Your eyes slide past the dark mass of him and onto the heart monitor. It seems to have done the trick. His pulse drops to a near normal level. “Good?”
His warm, wet tongue, laves over the teethmarks he’s left. His fingers gripping the back of the couch unlatch and float around your waist, drawing you into a loose semblance of a hug. You feel his lips move as he mumbles a hushed; “Thank you.”
The cadence of his gravel rough timbre causes your heart to ache for him. You’d never name whatever this is as love because love has a twin sister named power—and when you give somebody one, then you give them the other. You understand that it’s in Batman’s best interest to keep both. There’s no part of him that can be torn apart, no soft spot, no cavity—it’ll get in the way.
But he’s still learning.
Batty groans and finds your hand that’s still coated in his sticky cum. “M’sorry.”
His breathing kicks up a second time, the firm line of his body curling curling into himself. Hot puffs of air scorch your skin as Bats feebly raises his head. His chapped lips tickle your cheek, a request lodged in his throat. He needs to cum again—it’s written plain as day on the heart monitor and the way his body holds itself like a tightened spring. He won’t ask, so you press your lips to his and bridge the gap between you once more.
Batman moans into your open mouth, allowing you to slide your tongue over his. His cock is rock hard again, twitching in your hand. A wicked idea twists through your mind as his hips roll into your fist. “Do you want my mouth, Batboy?”
He startles at the offer. If not for the pulse of his cock and the way it leaks over your hand and onto his pants, you’d think you had offended him. He pulls back far enough to meet your eyes. They find the wall, the corner of your mouth then back to you. He works his jaw and clasps a hand over your arm.
“I can’t—you—you don’t have to,” Batty stutters. “Fuck, Blue. I can’t…ask you for that.”
“I’m offering,” you say, a little smile playing across your lips. “It’ll feel better than my hand.”
Quicker than before, he gives in. He slumps into the couch as you slide to the rug between his knees. You reach up to hook your fingertips in his hem of his trousers and pull them as far as they go before they catch on his armor. He’s zeroed in on your face again as he widens his legs for you to scoot in close, knees cradling your ribcage. Fuck—being this close to his cock sends shockwaves of achey arousal to your cunt. It’s torture not to just shove your hand between your legs and take care of the wicked need.
Your mouth is watering—you bend down and part your lips to gently drag your tongue along the smooth skin of his balls, licking him clean of his previous orgasm. His whole body jumps at the hot, velvety slick sensation—you let out a low hum in response. Batty swears when you trail your way up, slowly trailing your tongue up the length of his cock and pressing your plush lips to his flushed tip.
Bats exhales a shaky breath while you run your tongue along him, memorizing his taste. You wrap your lips around the head of his cock and roll your tongue up underneath the little crease here. The smooth skin pulses on your tongue, you slide your fingers around the pale protrusions of his hips, and work your mouth wider to take his thick length deeper. Drool and his precum pool at the base of his cock—probably gonna stain the leather below.
Holy shit your jaw aches—
His fingers bury themselves into your hair, the sharp pricks encouraging you to continue. He never once guides you or pushes you down his cock—it’s just a way to anchor himself. The heat of your mouth is overwhelming—soft and willing to please him. “S’good.”
Your pride swells.
You pull up to make room for your slick hand to wrap around his cock, beginning to jerk him off. You lave your tongue over his tip and cradle him here within the soft pallet of your mouth, your touch gliding strong and wet along his entire length. His skin is sizzling as he hardens even more—the tension in his body about the burst and snap like a cut wire. “I’m close—”
You hum in acknowledgment. You don’t stray from your course of suckling on the tip of his cock, slowly swirling your tongue around him, continuing to use your hand to firmly pump the length of his cock. Bats’ fingers twist into your hair as his hips unconsciously seek your mouth each time you pull up to catch a breath of cool air. His moans, while still low and rough, border on airy.
Shit—you clench your thighs together. You can’t help yourself—the discomfort is too much. You drop a hand and wedge it between your thighs to press hard against your clit to relive some of that pressure that threatens to swallow you whole. The sight of you touching yourself excites him—that paired with the way you gaze up at him through your lashes, shoves him over the edge in a dizzying display of pure lust.
He whispers your name and hunches over you like you’ve punched him in the gut. He trembles, white-knuckling your hair and the armrest and once again cumming with force into your mouth. You greedily accept him. The first taste of his release spreads over the flat of your tongue right as you dig your nails into the exposed flesh of his hips. His hips buck, gasping raggedly as he empties himself down your throat—expelling the aphrodisiac meant to kill him from his veins the only way he can.
You swallow all of what he gives to you, grasping his hips and locking him place as he rides out his high. You don’t let go until his firm frame relaxes, cock softening upon your tongue. A soft pop sounds in your ears as he slips from your mouth. His fingers untangle from your hair and delicately brush over the matted area. Wetness stains your mouth but before you can you wipe the mess from your lips and chin, his bare hand curls around your jaw and guides you into a devastating kiss.
A familiar ache ignites in your chest—twisting, blazing, raw. The roaring in your ears becomes a thousand times louder. Like thunder, the fury of a storm, waves crashing against a gloomy cliff side. He’s an electrical surge that lights you up from the inside out. You can barely breathe but you feel so alive.
Bats nips at your bottom lip, mumbling his thanks like a prayer into your ear. His teeth tenderly nip at your earlobe, crowding you into the corner of the couch. “Can I return the favor?”
You choke. “You don’t have to. I told you—”
“I want to taste you,” he interrupts gently. The fingers around your jaw slide to your chin. His thumb pulls down your bottom lip.
You’ll never understand how he’s able to touch you as if you are fine china. It doesn’t make sense with what he does, how he appears to the public all dark and violent. Before your conscious mind can agree, your head is nodding on its own. “Fuck yeah.”
The ends of his mouth ever so slightly quirk up at that. Bats moves in closer. Shit. “Wait—wait,” you sputter, flattening your palms against his chest plate. You push, he backs up. “Your vitals—I need to make sure you’re ok first.”
He grunts and pinches your chin, moving your head to the side. His vitals seem…normal, you suppose. They’ve plateaued. For now. “I’m fine, Blue.”
Bats slides off the couch and onto his knees, hands finding the swell of your hips. You think he’s going to eat you out like this, the same as you’ve done for him. But nope. No—he drags you to the floor and herds you onto all fours. Fuck—it makes sense. He can’t risk the chance of revealing his identity if you were to knock or grab his mask. Bats presses into your shoulder until you’re ass up, face resting on the carpet. You fingers dig into the red fibers, excitement thrumming through your core.
He wrestles your pants and underwear down your legs, shuddering as he knocks your knees apart. You know how wet you must be based on the curse that tumbles sweetly past his lips. His ungloved hand runs down the slope of your ass and cuts inward, his thumb sliding through your wet slit. You hear him shuffle and then feel his breath fanning over the base of your spine a moment later.
Bats hooks his other hand, the leather a sensory buffer, around your thigh and yanks your hips closer to his mouth. All thoughts fizzle out at the hot glide of his tongue through your pussy from behind. Oh, shit—you arch your spine and whine the only name you have for him. His tongue languidly swirls over your clit, each pass like an electric shock splitting through your cells. You want more. You cry and cant your hips back as he lightly sucks on the bundle of nerves. You nearly cry when he flattens his tongue and follows the curve of your cunt all the way up to your entrance.
You tense then immediately relax as the tips of his fingers, press at your entrance, teasing the clenching ring of soft muscle before sinking in. The two digits slip in with ease—all the way up to the second knuckle. When he draws them back out, they're no doubt coated with your wetness. He thrusts them back in, then out—setting a slow but strong pace that makes everything ache with need. It leaves you just hovering over the sharp edge of ecstasy, the catch of his knuckles and the heat of his calloused skin torture.
You fist the rug under you, biting your lip to quiet the louder moans. You know for a fact that there’s still people lurking around somewhere in this building. “Gonna cum—keep going.”
Bats’ mouth dips down a second time, sucks on your clit and hums around you. That does it.
A few more curls and thrusts of his fingers inside of your clenching walls has your body seizing up tight. You're flying off that edge, faster than the speed of light. You cum onto his tongue and fingers with a strangled cry, sparks of blurry white alighting behind your eyelids as your back arches. Batty continues to lick you through your orgasm, even as you squirm and shake in his firm hold. Ecstasy implodes behind your eyelids as heat, hotter than wildfire spreads from your center all the way up your stomach and down to your toes. You're quivering, and over the roaring in your ears you hear Bats murmur his praise—feeling the vibration of his groan, as he licks up the flood of your wetness over his tongue.
When he pulls away you groan at the loss and melt onto your side, jittery from the aftershocks. “Goddamn.”
Batman tickles his fingers over your bare thigh and run all the way down to the bend of your knee. Goosebumps follow in the wake of his touch. He drags his fingertips over them curiously—your turn your head. He retracts his hand like you’ve burned him and busies himself with getting redressed. The monitor flatlines as he tears off the remaining sticky patches. Your hands shake as they weakly tug your pants back up.
Nothing is said in the minutes following. You lead him from the office, up the emergency stairwell and out through the backdoor. It’s raining—steam from a nearby vent clouds the chilly air, the exit sign painting the blackness of his suit a bloody, neon red. You wipe the rain off your brow.
You crane your neck to look at him. His mouth is still set in a rigid frown—maybe a bit more relaxed. You can’t tell in the darkness.
“Thank you,” he says, all jagged and raw like ripped stitches.
You hug your middle. Fuck, this rain is colder than balls. You smile. “Anytime, Batboy.”
That, you can tell, bothers him still. He takes a heavy step forward, gear chinking as he moves. His movements are sluggish as he brings his hand, now fully gloved, to touch under your chin. He dips his head to reach you, lips barely skimming yours. You hold your breath and close your eyes. “Goodbye, Blue.”
The touch of his lips is faint. Like a shadow. When you open your eyes, he’s gone.
“See you around, Vengeance,” you whisper to the darkness.
copper stained. || bruce wayne x f!reader.
There are very few people that are allowed to see Bruce at his most vulnerable.
Hurt and Comfort. Smut. Friends to Lovers.
NO SPOILERS FOR ‘THE BATMAN (2022).’
WARNINGS: 18+ ONLY; Explicit Sexual Content; Descriptions of Blood & Injuries; Likely Inaccurate Medical Care; Slight Blood Kink; Breath Play; Oral Sex (F! Receiving); Reader Has Long Hair - But No Other Descriptors Used; Not Beta-Read.
Word Count: 5.9k
PART TWO || DCEU || MASTERLIST
Comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!
A/N: Quick background: Reader in this is basically the Battinson version of Rachel Dawes.
Reader's mother worked as the stablemaster on the Wayne Estate during her youth. As a result, she and Bruce became childhood friends, and she now lives in the gate house upon the land as an adult. She claims that she only lives there for the cheaper rent. Bruce claims that it's just in return for her free upkeep of the place. But perhaps it's because the two of them don't really want to be parted from one another... 🤫
At first, you think it's an intruder - that someone has broken into your apartment in the middle of the night.
A short shriek bursts from your lips. Your hands immediately scrabble underneath the bed for the metal baseball bat. It's always kept there in the event of situations just like this. But then, a shadowy pair of hands rise in frantic conciliation while a familiar voice urgently rises into the air.
"Relax, dear! Calm down. It's just me!"
"Alfred?!" you gasp - disbelieving eyes on the silhouette of your godfather looming at the end of the bed. "What the... Is everything alright?"
"I need you to grab your bag and come." He doesn't explain, but you can feel the tightness in his voice. A layer of forced calm to cover hitching panic. "Right now, please."
Struggling out of bed, you push yourself upright, blinking away the sleep as you squint confusedly at him. "What? Is it one of Bruce's horses?"
"No. We've got to get to the main house."
The lack of context sends icy shards of fear through you. Never before have you seen Alfred look so scared.
"Seriously - what's going on?" Coldness ripples through you as you catch sight of something else. There's a wet patch of darkness colouring his sleeve. "Wait - is that blood?!"
"It's not mine. Please just - we've no time for questions. Just hurry."
Fine. Head dipping in a stiff nod, you duck away to grab your bag - only delaying to yank your coat off the hook. The kit clunks in your hands. Inside, medicinal supplies roll - and despite not knowing the situation, you're distantly glad that you had the foresight to repack it last night.
Alfred catches your eye as he motions for you to hurry after him. His heavy footfalls thunder down the stairs. Your own lighter trail follows in his wake - out of the gate house without even pausing to lock up. Upon the slight hill above, the manor looms amidst the shadows of the night sky.
Alfred's car is outside your small house. It's parked askew in the driveway. Just another symbol of his haphazard panic. He ushers you inside before roaring up to the mansion - all the while tight lipped in worry. Foreboding welling in your stomach, you just sit in the passenger seat and nervously clutch your medicine bag.
Inside the house, the situation is finally revealed in awful, copper stained light.
"Bruce? What the fuck?!"
Your childhood friend is lying on the bed in his vast room. His face is white - almost translucent, and he's always been pale but this is something else. Sharp worry spears through your gut again - more piercing than before. It grows, twisting and gnawing at your insides like a feral dog as you see the wetness trickling from a tight black thermal sweater - gathering a damp patch over the right side of his abdomen that you can immediately smell to be blood.
"You need to patch him up." Alfred's hands are on your back, urging you forward.
"No - he needs a hospital." Your head shakes - throat dry and lips tight as fear pulses in thudding, stuttered heartbeats within your chest. "I'm a vet, Alfred. For animals. I'm not a doctor. I don't know if I can... Shit."
But you're already moving over. The kit slams down upon the mattress beside him. It all but tears open underneath your frantic hands as you delve in for a large pair of scissors. Bruce thrashes, moaning underneath as you grit your teeth and begin to peel the sticky fabric off the surface of his wound. It sticks to your fingers before you adjust your grip and begin to cut into the damp cloth.
Alfred's voice is firm, but edged in something ragged and desperate. "Please. He can't go to the hospital."
"Why not?!" The words are sharp in their panic as they leave you. Afraid. But that's when you turn to take in the man on your bed, and you finally see.
Raised remnants of past scars. Combat boots, splashed on the exterior with too much blood to be his. Smudges of black around his eyes, heavy gloves on his hands, but most importantly - the tactical belt on his waist, and the familiar, awe-striking symbol in the centre. One that you've seen on the news far too many times, and even broadcasted in the clouds above downtown Gotham.
The air catches in your lungs. All that you can manage is a simple, single statement. "... Oh."
Before you can continue, Bruce Wayne stirs. "Scout?"
It comes weakly from his lips. An old nickname. Thomas Wayne had affectionately given it, bestowed fondly in reference to the way that you roamed his lands. Your mother would come to tend to their horses, and you’d wander off - down to the gazebo, then further through the fields beyond.
Always with your eyes on the treeline. Exploring and searching. Sometimes with Bruce. Sometimes not.
But he always clouded your thoughts anyhow. Hung in the air above your head - weighty and ever present, and just like he still does now. Perhaps as he'll do even more now, given that you know his secret. After all, this new worry is unlikely to leave you soon. Especially now - fuck.
Your reply is equally soft - accented by the shift of expensive silk bed sheets as you sit yourself on the enormous expanse of mattress next to him. “Hey, Wayne.”
"You shouldn't be here. Alfred shouldn't have brought you." Despite the pain, evident in each hitch and break of a groan, a tinge of cold anger colours Bruce's weak tone.
Knowing better to be offended, you just tut. "It's not like he had much other choice. Now, quiet - we've got to stop this bleeding."
His pale lips purse. It's a worrying colour - hinting at a substantial blood loss. The lines of his face are taut as he struggles not to let the pain show.
Bruce Wayne is reserved at the best of times. Some think that he can be standoffish - aloof. And yes, that's indeed true, but it's also part of a persona. Merged into his deep rooted need to distance himself from everyone and sink behind the walls he'd built. However, luckily for him, you'd always been very good at scaling the cracks.
"Alfred," you murmur quietly. "Please go fetch a basin of warm water - not hot, but warm - and some more clean towels."
There's already a few on the bed. It's not that you urgently need more - you will, just not right now - but you can see how tense Bruce is. Despite the haze, he's angry that you're here. That you now know about his secret. It doesn't matter to you, but it does to him. And, just like with those nervous horses you used to help your mother care for, you need to calm him before proceeding.
But still - you don’t have much time.
More blood leaks out from where his fingers have pressed against his skin. Reaching for his pale arm, you peel it back from his skin - and pointedly grimace. He's been stabbed. The lines of the wound are torn unevenly. Gaping in a way that suggests not the sharpest of knives. Suturing is going to be messy. You need to control the blood flow.
Reaching for one of the towels, you only pause to grasp the sanitiser from your bag and quickly pour some over your hands. Gloves snap on next - black and rubber. Below, Bruce’s eyes trail your face. They’re slightly unfocused. Sweat beads upon his brow, and his face is eerily pale apart from the smudged black eyeshadow. Underneath, droplets of blood spatter onto the bedspread.
You take one of the towels, balling it and pressing it tentatively to the wound. Below, Bruce flinches away violently. Fuck. Hurting him is the last thing that you want to do - but the situation leaves you with no choice. Shifting in across the bed, you apply more pressure. Bruce groans. You reach for him soothingly with your other hand, brushing the hair back from his forehead as he thrashes lightly.
"It’s alright,” you murmur reassuringly, moving closer to cup the side of his face. Still, you don’t let up your hold on the compression. “I’m sorry, Bruce. I know it fucking hurts."
Alfred arrives back a short time later, sloshing water as he lowers the basin next to you. You barely even look at him - too focused on Bruce, and instead give orders through clenched teeth as you pull back to reach for a suturing kit with red stained hands. "Clean the area carefully. I need to see what I'm working with."
Your worried helper alternates between cleaning and compression. It goes on in a repeat cycle - an attempt to slightly staunch the blood flow. Once it gets to a stage that you can work with, you motion, and the butler eases back. Red stains run up his forearms.
Sweat on his brow, he turns to you. "What does he need?"
"Stitches. All I can do is stitches." Your agitated fingers almost rise to run through your hair. At the last minute, you remember that they're still smeared with your best friend's blood. Shaky, they lower back to refocus on ripping open the pack. "Jesus. He really should be in a hospital, but this is the best that I can do... You're fucking lucky, Bruce. This just missed."
Upon the bed below, the billionaire only grunts weakly in response. His eyes roll - but you don't think it's on purpose. Still, it's better than nothing. It's a better sign that he stays even remotely conscious.
Light glints off the thin end of the needle as you hold it up. Right. It's now or never. Your lips flatten into a grim line as you turn to Alfred. "Hold him."
God. It's not an experience that you want to repeat.
The sight of the hook diving in and out of Bruce's torn flesh is sickening. Mouth set into a tight line, you push on all the same - trying to block out the feeble noises of protest that spill from his chapped lips. Alfred restrains his seizing body all the while, and halfway through you can't help but wonder if you should have dosed him with some horse tranquilliser before beginning.
You feel like crying by the time it's finished. Tears well thick in the corners of your eye, and the back of your wrist presses against your forehead while pointedly blinking them away. Bruce lies slumped on the bed underneath - unconscious, with his strength now visibly abated.
Voice cracking hoarsely, you begin - turning to Alfred. "Right. I've done what I can to close it. He's holding up well. We'll need to stay up tonight and keep an eye on him."
Even though exhausted, Alfred nods. His arm wraps around your shoulder, tugging you into a half-hug of silent thanks. Lips press against your temple in a kiss - platonic, and almost parental. A wave of tiredness rises and you slump into him.
"Thank you, darling," your godfather murmurs.
Your hand lifts in a wordless wave - yet the silent response of 'you're welcome' is clear in the gesture.
Alfred's hold tightens as he guides you into a chair across the room. Those firm, bloodstained hands allow no protest as he lowers you into it. Despite seeming somewhat shaky on his feet, the butler staggers back to reach for the door.
"Do you need anything?"
You shake your head - lying because the dryness in your throat screams for a glass of water. But you can get it yourself in a while, as Alfred seems just as exhausted as you. Relieved, he sits. The night passes with sparse conversation. Both of you are too focused on Bruce for light heartedness.
This exhaustion continues for another day. Morning trickles through, followed by afternoon, and then evening.
The bandage that you'd originally wrapped around him when finished suturing is changed twice. Bruce sleeps almost the entire time, but some semblance of less-deathly colour reassuringly trickles back into his cheeks. His vitals slowly steady, and yourself and Alfred breathe a joint sigh of relief. It's the next night when those hands fall on your shoulders again.
Alfred's tired voice in your ear as you remove the stethoscope from your ears. "Darling, you should go to bed. It's been almost a day of this. He's going to be fine. It seems that Master Wayne is made of strong stuff."
"One of us should-" you begin to protest, but below, another hoarse voice cuts you off.
"I'm alright." It's Bruce. His eyes are heavily lidded in exhaustion, but he offers the ghost of a smile when your torn gaze falls on him. "Do what Alfred says, Scout. Go to bed."
As much as you don't want to - you do.
Sweeping you before him, Alfred leads you down the vast hallway to one of the many guest rooms. A particular, designated space that has always been yours when you want it. He knows this one to be your favourite - facing the east so that you can see the sunrise on the nights when the dreaded insomnia kicks up.
A night like this one, that is.
Worry swims thick in the back of your mind. Both Alfred, and Bruce himself, have said that it's fine - but you've always been stubborn. Lying in the wood framed bed, anxious thoughts swirl repeatedly through your mind.
Is he alright? Should you both have just left him like this?
Perhaps you should, but still, you can't quite leave it alone. That's why you kick off the sheets and make your way back to Bruce's quiet room.
Around you, the hallways are quiet. Having grown up roaming the space, you've never found the manor eerie. Some would - given its sheer scale. It's always felt homey to you. A vast maze that you could navigate in your sleep. You know all of the creaky floorboards, and so avoid them as you open the door to slip back inside Bruce's silent room.
He's nothing more than a dark shape in the bed - slumbering in slow, heavy repititions.
You watch him from the threshold for a few moments. A soft smile twists your lips - he's still alright. Crossing the room, you take a seat on the same chair as Alfred led you to the night before. The chair is comfortable enough. More than anything, however, is that it provides the perfect view to his sleeping form. Your fingers slide up the arm rests, back settling into place, as you prepare to sit until sunrise.
It certainly won't be the best night's rest that you've ever had. Not that it matters. You know that you wouldn't be able to sleep anyway.
Not when he's here and still somewhat hurt.
It's impossible to fight the urge to be close to him - to keep an eye on him just in case. Or, so you tell yourself. As the hours tick on, the repeated rise and fall of his chest is soothing. Eyelids growing heavier, you struggle to stay awake - until you fail entirely.
Those eyes wake you up. Prickling across your skin in a silent surveillance. It feels like they scour every inch of you - an invasion that would be unwelcome if it hadn’t been him. But it is, and so a soft, tired smile twists your face in greeting. “Hello.”
Your neck is sore. Likely a result of sleeping upon this hard leather chair with your cheek slumped into your hand. The rest of your body feels equally stiff, as if it were you who had been out fighting crime on the streets of Gotham last night. However, that’s probably just a dramatisation. Realistically, you’d put money on the fact that he’s most definitely feeling worse.
His tongue darts out - tracing over cracked lips as he answers roughly. “Hi.”
Some of the colour has crept back into his cheeks. Just a little. After all, there was not much there to begin with. Bruce has always been almost deathly pale - but that ‘death’ part seemed slightly too real for comfort last night. That thought causes a wealth of concern to balloon within your chest, and you push yourself upright using the sturdy arms of the chair.
“How are you doing?” The words breathe from you softly, but you make no move to approach. Instead, you awkwardly linger, hands clasped at your front. “You lost a lot of blood, Bruce.”
That silent gaze assesses you more. Still, he doesn’t speak. There’s a rustle, and then Bruce winces - lifting up the bedsheet that covers him in silent invitation. Your eyes widen. A sudden rush of uncertainty laces your veins. Still, you don’t make to go to him.
Noting your indecision, he speaks quietly again. “I’m okay. Just... Come here. Please.”
Something about his voice compels you to move. Your footsteps remain slightly hesitant as you cross the room. Nervous resonates from you in palpable waves as you slide in next to Bruce. During the night, he’s shifted over, and thankfully there’s no remnants of blood on this area of sheets.
An arm wraps around your waist, as Bruce shifts in - adjusting himself further. His chest presses against your back. The increased heat of it is reassuring. He'd been cold the other day, on account of losing all of that blood, but appears to feel better now. Not quite a furnace, but still comfortable.
Your fingers find their tentative perch upon his forearm. Uncertainly, they tap lightly against his skin in indecision. The air between you is soft and weighted all at once. Unspoken words drift through the space around you both, before you finally build the courage to reach up, grasp one, and speak it aloud. "So... Turns out that you're the Batman."
"Yes." It’s a slow affirmation. Coming after a pause, and not so readily offered. Even in lieu of that first admission, Bruce still hesitates as a few more seconds pass before continuing, "Will that scare you away?"
Your head shakes firmly. "No. It just makes me scared for you."
"Don't be." The words are firm - but his attempt at reassurance doesn’t make you feel too much better.
In reality, it just makes you scoff. "It's pretty rich of you to say that, with everything that happened over the last few days. You were bleeding pretty badly, Bruce.” The memory has you break off - swallowing against the rising lump in your throat. “If that knife had struck another centimeter to the right, you would have been dead."
"Well, first off - I am rich,” he retorts - a rare show of comedy. When you don’t laugh, a tired sigh leaves his lips. That strong arm tightens around your front. You can feel the tip of his nose on the back of your neck. Your travelling fingertips bump against those raised litter of scars. He must sense the resulting tension that hunches your shoulders as he murmurs again, “ But it didn't hit further to the right, and I'm fine. Stop worrying, Scout."
"You don't know that it won’t happen again. You might be smart and rich, but you’re not clairvoyant, Bruce. And before you ask - no. Money cannot buy the fucking gift of Sight."
Bruce laughs softly at your short barb - a low chuckle, knowing that making a joke, as half-hearted and dry as it is, means that the soft reassurance is tentatively getting somewhere. "I do know that I'm fine right now. I promise."
Your lower lip rolls indecisively through your teeth. Seconds tick by. One after the other. Below, Bruce’s thumb begins to rub soothing circles upon your stomach. The t-shirt that you wear has risen up. His bare skin is warm and comforting against yours. A thick swallow constricts your throat.
He’s held you before, but this feels different. The softness of the contact - the strange yearning that trickles between you both in currents - has you feeling suddenly nervous when you go to broach the silence once more. "... Can I see?”
Without context, Bruce knows what you mean.
It’s still dark. The thick curtains are pulled, blocking out the initial golden rays of daylight. You don't see Bruce's nod but feel it. It dips against the back of your shoulder. And, catching you off guard, there's the briefest brush of something else. Pausing momentarily, your heart stutters as you wonder if you've just imagined it, or if that sensation was really the barest glance of his lips.
That just adds to this whole new wealth of confusion.
Brushing it aside, you struggle to push yourself into a sitting position. His arms unravel reluctantly behind you, and you turn - guiding a fallen strand of hair behind your ear. Shit. It feels greasy to the touch. You could really use a damn shower.
Bruce is watching you intently as your hand falls to his shoulder. A simple, gentle push, and Bruce rolls obligingly onto his back. That black eyeshadow is still smeared around his eyes - and you make a mental note to joke about it later. He's not usually too good with humour, but you tend to be one of the few who can conjure a smile from him.
Perks of being friends for so long.
Your hands skate anxiously over his skin as you bend inward - seeking out the rise of the bandages that wrap across his stomach. They're slightly scratchy against your fingertips. Despite the low light, you can see some darker patches staining the otherwise light gauze. It doesn't appear enough for concern, but you'll keep an eye on it for now.
His thumb sweeping across your cheekbone shocks you. Head snapping towards him, you meet his stare - hovering above the flat plane of his muscular abdomen. Your breathing accelerates, and he seems to shiver as it washes across his skin. Goosebumps rise along his stomach. You’re not sure if it’s due to the slight chill in the air, the residual blood loss, or something to do with you.
The hold tightens along the side of your face. Bruce cups your cheek, and then slowly begins to pull you closer. It’s not firm. There’s no true insistence to it - just a silent plea spoken from the depths of his clear blue eyes. One that you are helpless to ignore.
You rise with his touch. It should be ungainly - the awkward shuffle on your hands and knees back across the sheets to him, but you almost feel like you’re gliding. His tongue darts out as you hover above. Indecisive, you glance between the lure of his mouth, and the abyss of those sad eyes. Always seeming so sad, even in odd moments like this.
Bruce’s fingers slide around the back of your head. They tangle in your hair, weaving through the unwashed strands. Fuck. You should have showered before bed tonight. What does your breath smell like? Would he be repulsed if - The thoughts cut off with dizzying finality as Bruce draws your head down to press his mouth to yours.
The kiss is a little cold - like his lips. Slightly dry too. It shouldn’t rate. Maybe should make you want to draw away but God, you don’t fucking want to.
A low moan leaves your throat as you open up to him. His tongue is hesitant at first. Tentative and a little unsure. You lean in closer, bumping against his side as your chest brushes over his, and the kiss deepens further. But below - a sharp hitch of pain bursts from Bruce as you accidentally press into the still tender wound of his side.
Eyes flaring wide, you go to pull back - to apologise. He doesn’t let you.
The grip on the back of your head tightens. Chilly morning air whips around your body. A gasp of surprise leaves you, then your back is suddenly pressed against the mattress, and your surprised hands splayed upon the hard lines of a muscular chest. Bruce leans in once more before you can protest - stealing the air from your unsteadily working lungs.
His breath is soured with the stale taste of morning. It makes you feel better about the potential state of your own. All of it does, now that you think about it - because as grim as you feel, there’s no denying that he looks worse. Somehow, you can’t remember a time when you were more attracted to him.
And so, as his hands begin to glide down your body, you don’t stop his hand from pawing upward at the rise of your chest.
There hadn't even been time to put on a bra the other night, and it means that you can feel each catch of his calloused palm. Your nipples almost instantly grow stiff underneath your shirt. The tickling heat of his hand teases your skin. Slowly, he kneads it between his fingers - the motions hungry and savouring, teasing, as his tongue laps gently against yours.
Intent on reciprocating, you reach up - fingers seizing the sides of his face as you pull him more firmly against you. Your head is spinning. It doesn’t quite feel real.
Fuck. You're kissing Bruce Wayne.
He seems to feel the same, stirred by the effects of that low and simmering heat that stokes something near animalistic inside you both. Eyes flashing, you seize his bottom lip between your teeth - biting down harder than you had intended to. The sudden nip of iron tinges your tongue. Bruce makes a low sound, almost a groan, and draws back.
An unruly sweep of hair hangs over his forehead, and his gaze burns heatedly underneath. Those firm fingers tighten on your breast - squeezing the stiff nipple. Your mouth parts in a gasp at the slight ache it brings. Still, you can't quite tear your eyes away from the slight trickle of blood now running down his pale chin.
Bruce reaches up curiously. The pad of his thumb sweeps underneath the swell of his lip, gathering the trickle of blood. Bruce's blue eyes darken upon drinking in the sight. They flicker to you - ensuring that you are watching, before placing it into his mouth and sucking it clean. Watching how his lips wrap around it does something primal to you.
A low, pleading noise wavers out into the air. It's pathetic and embarrassing - and spilling from you. Below, your thighs rub together in a needy bid for friction. Bruce's eyes flutter closed in ecstasy at the sound.
He leans down again, the tip of his nose skating teasingly up the centre of your chest, to return his lips to yours. You can taste copper on his tongue. It makes your head spin. Bruce presses you further against the bed. Underneath, the sheets whisper as his forearm skates up to help brace him above.
Your fingers tighten upon his back. Nails dig into his skin as they slowly rake down the expanse. Bruce hisses against the press of your mouth. One firm hand wraps around your throat - squeezing lightly to make you gasp and open up further. The short loss of oxygen has you spiralling, buckling softly against him.
He teases you with the touch, alternating between gently tightening and lovingly releasing his unwavering grip.
All the while, his hips press between your legs. There's a hardness swelling at the front of his trousers. You can feel it as he grates against you. The covered mound of his stiffening cock rubs over your now aching cunt, repeated, and slowly gaining in strength. Between those earnest bouts of friction and the air hitching and seizing from your lungs, nothing else but Bruce makes it through the haze of your mind.
He releases a final time, and you inhale stiffly - fighting off the stars that dance across your vision. Dimly, you are aware of Bruce shifting off you. He slips down the length of your body, trailing kisses along the twisted fabric of your shirt and the point where it rises to reveal bare skin. His mouth is hot and cold all at once. You can still taste the barest tinge of blood on your tongue.
Insistent fingers curl in the waistband of your lounge pants. Bruce's rough voice rings out from above. "Lift your hips for me, love."
Air catching in your lungs, you do. He slips the fabric down your thighs - panties and sweats in one. They are cast away into the darkness, but your gaze stays on Bruce instead of following them. His tongue traces his lips hungrily as he lowers himself between your spread thighs.
His cold breath wafts against your bare clit. The sensation has you writhing as a pronounced shiver ripples down your spine. Your fingers tangle in his hair as Bruce leans forward to nip the soft inside of your thighs. His bite is sharp - and not quite gentle. A slight cry bursts from you in response.
But, he apologises with a soft kiss over the stinging spot.
Eyes narrowed, you shoot him a rueful smile. All of that smeared black still surrounds his eyes. Once again - you remember what you've just found out.
The fact that he's Batman.
It's surreal and ridiculous. Unbelievable, but makes perfect sense too. It feels right - just like this moment. Yet, that train of thought abandons you instantly in the delicious moment that Bruce Wayne finally dips in to lick a firm strip up your cunt.
His tongue burns across your clit. The noise that you make is ragged. Broken. Your hands tighten, tugging at the strands of his hair as you arch against his mouth. Bruce leans into the pain - a low rumble hitching in the back of his throat. He sounds starved, almost shattered with need, and you're aware of the slight grate of his hips as he grinds into the mattress.
Still, the way that the tip of his tongue traces your clit, lapping teasingly over it, swallows everything else. His lips wrap around your clit in firm suckles.
The sensations ripple across your skin. Fire spreads through your veins at the touch. Down below, Bruce leans further into your core, head shaking lightly. The vibrations have you panting. Those high pitched noises rise to the high-arched ceiling. Your eyes flutter closed.
Heaving breaths burst through your chest just as hazed words slip free. "Just like that. Good boy."
"Fuck," Bruce curses brokenly at the praise, mouth moving against your core. There's audible strain in the words - a tremor.
As you watch, his hand dips lower to adjust his stifled cock through his trousers. Damn. Overwhelmed by both his touch and the effect that you have on him, your head falls back against the pillow. He leans in again - tongue stroking through your soaked folds.
Christ. It's almost too much.
His tongue teasingly pushes through your entrance. Gripping his hair tighter, you push yourself down upon him. Hips grating, there's no stopping the slow rotation of your body as you fuck yourself down upon his face. Bruce's hands snake around the tops of your thighs.
There, they hold you in place while letting you ride him harder, until you can feel the wetness of your cunt on his cheeks - smearing across his face.
It swells inside you. Each flick of his tongue sends a jolt of electricity straight through your veins. By now, you're utterly lost amidst the overwhelming sensations, teetering on the edge and so close to utterly falling. It swells and swells, until each quick stroke of his tongue causes the air to catch in your lungs.
But then, it happens. The push of one long finger deep into the blistering warmth of your core, perpetuated with the tight, purposeful suck of his lips - and then you are gone. Fingers twisting into his hair, back arching, and voice resonating in a sharp keen.
Your body seizes. Almost shuddering. Threatening to break apart with so much pent-up want.
The hold on your thighs tighten. Muscles ripple in his biceps as he strains to hold you down. There's no pause or break - just Bruce licking you through the wave of climax. Unrelenting, until it almost seems like you can't breathe anymore. Only then does he let up.
His chin glistens as he crawls back up to settle above you. Eyes glinting, Bruce leans in to kiss you, and you can taste yourself upon his tongue. Coupled with his own saliva, it's like fucking heaven. You can't help how your hand seizes his chin, pulling him closer to lick up the line of stubble to get more.
Warm lips seize yours once more. His tongue invades your mouth, lapping against your own as Bruce groans, rolling his hips into you. His cock feels almost painfully hard. Smirking against his mouth, you lower your hands to fumble along his belt.
Along the way, they bump into the scratchy windings of gauze around his stomach, and you pause. There's a moment of uncertain hesitation before you breathe a question. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," he whispers in response, nuzzling your earlobe and trailing tender kisses down the curve of your neck.
The buckle comes undone underneath your hands. Shaking slightly with a sudden, almost insecure brand of nervousness, your fingers hook around his belt loops as you begin to lead the trousers down. The ridges of his cock ripple against your fingers - thick and damp, wiry with short curls of hair. Your throat goes dry as you reach in to pull him out. The girth of him, you're not even sure how -
A knock - two sharp raps - sound upon the door to the bedroom, rising alongside that familiar, inquiring voice, and you shove Bruce off as if stung.
Heat crawls across your cheeks as you scramble back, tugging down your shirt and frantically attempting to find your sweatpants just as the door handle creaks downward. Fuck. You spot them just in time, forgoing panties to yank them up your legs as the door swings inward, and the familiar form of your godfather looms in the threshold.
He takes in the scene with widening eyes - catching on the sight of you in the bed, and the scowl that is now twisting down Bruce's handsome mouth. Quickly, Alfred clamps down on his surprise. You can feel the embarrassment flood your cheeks. Everything in you just wants to burrow under the covers and hide -
"My apologies," the butler says, clasping his hands behind his back and looking at anything but you. Still, the beginnings of a smirk ghosts across his expression as much as he attempts to swallow it down. "I simply came to see if Master Wayne needed tending... I had assumed that you'd still be in the guest room."
"I... I was just..." Your mouth is open, scrambling for words. This man has known you since you were an infant. It's mortifying. "I was just checking on him too." Face burning, you slide out of the bed, wincing as the cold flooring collides with the soles of your feet. "Seems alright, so... I'm going to go take a shower. Back in my room." That last little bit is hastily tacked onto the end.
You risk a glance at Bruce - blue eyes simmering, chin still slightly gleaming, lips swollen and split in one small nick. Christ. It's hard not to linger on him. To rake your gaze over the messed strands of his hair, and the slight peppering of fresh blood upon the bandage around his waist.
But Alfred's loafers awkwardly scuff the varnished planks underfoot, and send you intent on scrambling from the room once again. You go to move, but firm fingers latch around your wrist. His catch is gentle but unyielding, and when you look back, Bruce's hoarse voice rings through the private space between you.
"Don't use up all the hot water before I get there, Scout. This isn't over yet."
Comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!
A/N: Apologies for mistakes and inconsistencies - I have COVID right now and was having massive brain fog the past few days!
Read the second part, ‘cerulean shaded,’ here.
PART TWO || DCEU || MASTERLIST
Idk it this is how I'm supposed to request hc but. Hcs for Bruce when his s/o wears his clothes?
he just makes me so grrrrrr. slight nsfw in these hcs but nothing too graphic!
okay so i just know this man has like, 0 experience with relationships, so the first reaction to his s/o wearing his clothes or asking to wear his clothes would probably be visible and very obvious confusion.
like OKAY. he probably notices that you wear his clothes when he comes back in the morning from a night in the streets and finds you tucked up in his bed all cozy wearing one of his old, oversized shirts (maybe one that he'd worn earlier in the evening) and he'd be like ??? why ??? and also like. you look so fucking cute and it makes him melt but also why are you wearing the shirt he's been wearing for two days straight that has a very obvious hole in it ??? but i don't think he'd say anything about it.
so you keep stealing his shirts. like when he showers, you steal his worn shirt to wear to bed. when he goes out at night you raid his drawers and take his biggest, comfiest shirt and sometimes a pair of his sweats bc they're warm and comfy and they smell like him. it probably gets to the point where he takes his clothes off and just . hands them to you straight away. he's still confused bc like . why would you want to wear his old ass, sweaty shirts but like. whatever. it makes you happy and you look really cute swamped in his huge shirts so he's not gonna complain??
i feel like one day curiosity would definitely get the better of him and he'd have to ask why. like if you get out of the shower and immediately raid his wardrobe looking for the biggest, comfiest shirt you can find he'd just be like "why do you do that" rly softly from the bed and you'd be like huh??? and he'd be like "well you have clothes and pyjamas and if you want big comfy shirts i can buy you some of your own and—" and you'd just have to stop him right there. bc you don't want big, comfy shirts of your own you want his shirts and his sweats bc they smell like him and you miss him when he's out and it comforts you
he'd probably just die on the spot. like then and there. he's a poor baby meow meow who blames himself for a lot of shit that's happened/is happening and like. he pretty much pushes anyone and everyone away but not you and he knows that you love him but hearing that you miss him when he's out and you want to feel close with him always would just make him :') like he'd go WEAK and it'd kinda scares him because he tries so hard to not be weak but man. MAN.
he'd probably just respond with "oh" though. like he wouldn't say any of that shit to you or make it obvious that he's having heart palpitations and his knees are fucking weak.
catch him secretly buying more comfy shirts and sweatpants and hoodies
if he thought you looked cute in his clothes before you're downright irresistible after he figures out why you do it. i think it'd make him more needy and handsy maybe even a little possessive. like he'd always want to be touching you, grabbing your waist or your hips over his shirt, slipping his hand under the shirt you're wearing and resting it on your stomach. no one else is around because he never fucking has anyone at the tower he's antisocial ok so it's not like he has anything to prove to anyone but he just loves knowing that you're his and you want to be his
also like. fucking you while you're wearing his shirt would send him fucking feral. but he'd also be kinda soft abt it.
okay so he's out on the streets and he's been missing you all night, constantly distracted by thoughts of you in his bed wearing his shirt, his hands on your clothed hips and his cock stuffed inside of you and. man. he'd probably come home early. you'd be sleeping, and he'd watch you for a little while from the doorway before cleaning himself up. when he gets into bed, you're roused from your sleep because you know that familiar dip in the bed and you'd grab him instantly and he'd be all over you 👀
y'all would have the best sleepy morning sex. one hand on your hip and the other gripping on to the neckline of his shirt. he'd bury his face into your neck, nipping and sucking on your neck, leaving marks while he fucks you gently. then he'd pull you into his arms, slip his hand up his your shirt and stroke your back gently until you drift off to sleep again.
sometimes he'd just fuck you into the mattress while you're wearing his clothes, mumbling into your ear that you belong to him and he belongs to you and begging you to repeat it back to him :')
also like. you'd wear other random pieces of his clothing. like his sunglasses or that huge leather jacket he wears when he goes out at night. like if he's in the batcave and it's super cold but you wanna join him you'll grab the jacket and go sit with him and he'll think it's the cutest thing ever because it's big on him so you're practically drowning in it. and the sunglasses,,,if it's a bright day and you wanna go lounge in front of a window you'll grab his sunglasses but you end up falling asleep and he walks in to find you asleep with his sunnies halfway down your nose he'd be so <<<333333333333
Quite the Revelation
Pairing: Inexperienced!Bruce Wayne (The Batman 2022) x (female) Reader
Summary: you and Bruce and been friends since childhood, meaning you’re the one he usually comes to for help after a rough night of seeking vengeance around Gotham City. One night Bruce reveals more than he means to; just how sexually inexperienced he is. You, being the good friend that you are, offer to help in that area…
Warnings: bit of fluff, lil bit of angst, smut, soft dom reader I guess? sub!Bruce, praise kink, fingering, penetrative sex (m+f), minors DNI
A/N: yeah so this is based off the headcanon that (Pattinson’s) Bruce Wayne is a virgin, as soon as I saw that idea I was like um yeah I can see it and then I just had to write something for it! So here we are, my first writing for Bruce Wayne, I hope you guys enjoy😘🖤
Also sorry this is quite long, I really just ran with it lmao
Read Part Two
This is for people 18+ only. Minors do not read on. If you click ‘keep reading’ you are hereby agreeing that you are 18 or older.
It had been a night like any other; Bruce calling upon you to help patch him up after a night of running around Gotham City as The Batman. Tonight he wasn’t injured as badly as he usually was. His torso was mostly just bruised in various areas, there was only one cut across his bicep that really need any tended to. He was sat on the exquisite table where Alfred usually did all his paperwork. If he could see the two of you now, bloody bandages laid across the expensive mahogany, he’d have a fit.
You’d both been drinking a bit when the revelation had suddenly slipped from Bruce.
You’d made some offhand joke about how women must fall at his feet, both as The Batman and as Bruce Wayne. You’d made a small, slightly jealous, dig at how many women he’d slept with.
But, to your surprise, he’d mumbled an awkward response telling you that, in fact, he’d never slept with anyone, let alone a whole hoard of women.
“Oh come on” you say now. “You can’t tell me bat boy has never touched a woman” you chuckle lightly. “I find that hard to believe” you laugh to yourself again.
Bruce’s jaw locks, the muscles jumping in his cheeks. His eyes retain their glare, but their focus shifts away from you and to the floor.
That’s when the realisation hits you.
“Oh shit” you scoff quietly. “Really? Millionaire playboy Bruce? The Batman? The terror and vengeance of Gotham City? Is… a virgin?”
He continues to sit there; his silence is somehow swallowing the whole room.
“Well well well, that’s quite the revelation” you hum, smirking.
“I’m not in the mood for your teasing tonight, y/n” he sighs gruffly, jumping off the table before heading past you towards the door.
“Wait” you grab his arm, careful not to touch where you’d just bandaged up his small wound.
He stops, his face turning to look at where your hand lay on his bicep. His eyes then shift back up to meet yours, his gaze just as hard as ever.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tease” you tell him sincerely. “I was just… taken aback slightly” you shrug.
He continues to look at you, his mouth pressed into a hard line. For a moment you just stare back into his eyes. Something in the air changes, an electricity crackling through the room, around the two of you. The hair on the back of your neck stands up and a small shiver runs down your spine as the two of you look at each other.
Something comes over you, a kind of tender confidence; a want, a need, to have Bruce touch you, for you to touch him. You couldn’t deny the satisfied pleasure that already sat in your stomach at the idea of being Bruce’s first time, being the one to teach him all the ways of sin; to have that kind of control and power over The Batman? You were already wet at the thought.
Bruce’s gaze quickly flickering to your lips and back again was the final nail in the coffin for you.
You swallow the last bit of nerves that sit in your stomach and look at Bruce determinedly.
“Do you want to?” You whisper.
A flash of uncertainty sweeps across Bruce’s eyes.
“Do you want to... to touch a woman? To touch... me?” Your voice is barley audible, your words slow and deliberate as you try to gauge his reaction, attempting to read his impossible face.
You swear under the hard gaze you see something like fear flicker in his uncertainty.
“Do you want me... to teach you?” You ask gently, staring to rub your thumb across his bicep where your hand still rested.
He doesn’t answer, just continues to stare at you so intently you think he can see right into your skull. The electricity crackles in the air again, like the air around you is tightening, pressing you closer to him.
His eyes flick to your mouth again, lingering a fraction longer before he meets your gaze again, something like an unsure apology now in his eyes.
His eyes stay on yours even as you slowly lean forwards, pushing up on your tiptoes, to angle your face just an inch away from his. You stop for a second, your mouth so close to his you can feel his warm breath ghosting over your lips. You stop to assess his face one more time. His face is as unreadable as always, but being friends with him all your life meant you’d learned to read his eyes instead, read them the way no one else could.
You see the uncertainty and fear still, but beyond that you see a kind of curiosity, a want.
You finally push up the final inch to press your lips against his. He freezes beneath you for a second, but you persist gently. You press your mouth against his again, slightly firmer now, and this time you feel him tentatively respond. His lips purse to meet yours, no longer remaining passive in this kiss; his lips slowly but surely start to actively move with yours.
His lips are ever so slightly dry and cracked, exactly how you’d expected them to be, but you didn’t mind, regardless, they felt incredible against the softness of your own lips; their rough texture only added to the sensation of the kiss.
You tentatively reach up your other hand, slipping it behind Bruce’s head, gently pulling at the hair on his nape. A tiny groan escapes him, causing you to smirk into the kiss.
You twist your body to stand in front of him, pushing your body against his, your other hand moving from his bicep to join the hand that was playing with his hair.
Your tiny gasp gets lost in the kiss when you feel his lightly shaking hands find their way to your waist. His hands rest lightly on your body. You can still feel the uncertainty radiating from him. You silently encourage him by pushing your body flush against his, you clothed chest colliding with his bare one, your hips brushing against his, his thick belt digging into you.
He groans again, louder now, as he feels the warmth of your body against his. You take advantage of his groan, opening his mouth with your own, quickly darting your tongue into his mouth. You feel his fingers dig into you briefly as your tongue collides with his.
His hands are still tentative as they start to roam your body, running up and down your waist, almost going to the curve of your ass before he pulls back and lands on your waist once again.
You could almost roll your eyes. This fearless man who jumps off buildings, dives headfirst into danger almost every night, dances with criminals frequently, this man, was afraid to touch your ass.
You break the kiss for a second, leaning back slightly to look at him. He stares right back at you, his eyes just as wild as his hair where you’d mussed it up with your fingers.
“Touch me” you breathe against his lips.
He looks at you quizzically.
You keep your eyes on him as you whip your shirt off, tossing it to the side. You hadn’t been wearing a bra so your chest was now as bare as his.
“Touch me” you repeat, grabbing his hands and placing them on your breasts.
Bruce’s mouth hangs open in surprise but you capture his lips with yours again before he has the chance to overthink.
It was your turn to moan into the kiss as you revel in the feeling of Bruce’s hands on your tits. His hands are cold, causing a shiver to run through your body, goosebumps raising on your skin. You can feel your nipples harden under his touch and you arch your back slightly, pushing into his palms. Bruce’s touch is soft and gentle, taking his time as he palms your breasts, softly kneading your skin.
When you moan and buck into his touch again he seems to gain some more confidence, his hands moving to pinch your nipples between his fingers. You gasp softly, the cold of his fingers on your nipples almost taking you off guard. This time Bruce takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue breaching your mouth, sliding languidly over yours.
After a moment he breaks the kiss. His mouth hangs open as he looks at you, revelling at the sight of your bare chest against his. Your breaths are mixing as you both breathe heavy, recovering from the kiss.
“I- I- want to touch you...” he stammers through his ragged breathing.
You cock your head at him in response.
“More” he breathes. “I want to touch you... more."
You smile at him softly, kissing him tenderly once more. You then grab his hand and lead him over to the impressive couch that sat in front of the even more impressive fire place. You push him down gently until he’s sat down on the couch.
“You sure about this?” You ask him gently.
“Are you?” He asks, again that uncertainty sits behind his eyes.
You smile reassuringly at him.
“Yes, I’m sure."
He nods again.
You keep your eyes on him as you slowly shimmy out of your skirt and panties, leaving you completely naked in front of Bruce. You hear his sharp intake of breath as he observes you, his eyes drinking in every beautiful inch of you. There’s warmth on your skin, both from the fire burning behind you, and from Bruce’s gaze.
You take the few steps towards Bruce and carefully climb over his lap, swinging your legs to rest on either side of him. You push up on your knees so your ass is hovering in the air, just above where you could already see his bulge growing. His hands instinctively land on your hips. His touch is soft and unsure but you smiled to yourself that he’d taken even just that step by himself.
You grab his right hand with your left, bringing it up to place a soft kiss to his knuckles. You then trail his hand down your body, down between the valley of your breasts, down your stomach, until you reached your pubic bone. You look up at him again to find him completely entranced by your actions, his eyes fixed on where your hand was guiding him.
“When you touch a woman, you need to make sure she’s nice and wet first” you whisper, your breath ghosting over his face.
You then adjust your hold on his hand so that he had just two fingers sticking out. You then take his hand lower, pushing his two fingers between your folds. You run his fingers through your folds, brushing them up and down your slit a few times, collecting the wetness that had already pooled there. You gasp lightly each time his fingers glide across your clit.
“You feel that? You feel how wet I am for you?” You hum.
Bruce lets out something like a choked groan as he nods again. His eyes, however, never leave where his fingers were lost between your thighs. You rub his fingers up and down your slit a few more times before speaking again.
“Most women get pleasure from their clit rather than internal stimulation like penetration, me included, so that’s where you wanna focus most of your attention, okay?” You tell him softly.
Now he looks up at you again, something helpless and lost in his eyes that almost makes you want to giggle from how absurdly innocent and cute it is.
You deliberately smile warmly and reassuringly at him, placing a quick kiss to the tip of his nose.
You move his hand again until his fingers brush against your clit again. You gasp again and your body instinctively bucks into his touch.
“There. You feel that?” You moan softly.
“Yes” he breathes quietly.
“That’s what you wanna focus on. Just rub it gently, in small circles. Like this” you whisper as you start to help move his fingers on your clit.
You let out a quiet content sigh as you feel his fingers begin to circle your small bud of nerves. His fingers are still cold, sending more shivers down your spine, but again, it only adds to the feeling; it’s not exactly unpleasant.
It doesn’t take Bruce long at all to figure the motion out for himself, his fingers working of their own accord against your clit.
“Oh shit, yes. Just like that Bruce” you moan softly.
You retract your hand, letting him work you on his own. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, steadying yourself as your hips involuntarily begin to rock, grinding your cunt against his fingers.
“A lil faster” you whine into the crook of his neck. “Please” you add softly as you begin to pepper small kisses across his skin.
He groans and leans his head back, letting you have better access to his throat as you assault his skin with kisses. He quickly obliges your request, speeding up his circle motion. You moan into his neck, your hips starting to grind even harder to match his speed.
“Yes, yes” you sigh encouragingly. “You’re being so good for me” you praise him as you continue to kiss him.
You’re almost surprised by how good he is off the bat, circling your clit expertly, with a steady and unchanging pace.
“More” you whisper. “Faster.”
You feel more than see him nod this time, his fingers immediately obeying your instruction again, taking his speed up a notch once again. You moan louder now, feeling that familiar burn begin to build in the pit of your stomach.
“Shit yes” you sigh. “I’m close. Just keep going baby, don’t stop. Please don’t stop” you whine.
“Wait” he says suddenly, his other hand reaching up to gently grab your jaw, lifting you up to look at him.
“I want to watch” he mumbles softly. “I want to see your face as you... as you...” he trails off.
You kiss him, cutting off his small ramble. You then sit up again and nod, letting him know it was okay for him to watch as he made you cum.
You do your best to keep your eyes open and on his but you almost couldn’t help letting them shut as you get lost in the pleasure of his fingers on you.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes...” you sigh under your breath as you finally feel yourself brought to the edge of pleasure, your core tightening and ready to snap.
“Oh fuck, Bruce” you cry, your head tossed back as your orgasm crashes over you.
You body convulses slightly as you rock desperately against his hand, riding out your high. You hear a deep groan rumble through Bruce’s chest as he takes in the sight of you on top of him, losing yourself to the pleasure that he’d provided for you. He keeps up his circling motion, even after you’d milked as much of your orgasm as you could. Your body shudders and lurches away from his touch as you feel yourself get sensitive.
“Okay, stop, stop” you whine quietly, grabbing onto his forearm.
He stops his movements immediately, panic settling in his eyes.
“Sorry” he stammers quickly. “Did I do something wrong?” His voice almost sounds pained.
You shake your head softly, leaning forwards to place your forehead on his.
“No, no. You did amazing. It’s just, we can get a bit sensitive after we’ve orgasmed” you pant. “I just need a few minutes before we can start up again, okay?”
He nods again. “So... what... what do we... what do I do in the mean-"
“Just keep kissing me” you cut him off, grabbing his face in your hands and crashing your lips against his again.
He groans as you catch him off guard, his body freezing momentarily before he leans into your touch again. His lips move in synch with yours, the two of you learning each other’s mouths quickly. His hands move back to your hips, his grip stronger and more sure now, like seeing how good he’d made you feel had given him some confidence.
Now you can feel his hips buck instinctively as he desperately seeks some friction, rutting his hardened cock against the strain of his thick trousers. You smirk against his lips again as you feel the need radiating off him.
You let one hand move from his cheek back to the nape of his neck, tugging on his hair again now that you knew he seemed to like that. Your other hand trails down his body until you reach the thick belt of his trousers. You quickly undo his belt, unzipping his trousers, and begin to palm his cock over his underwear. He groans again as you cup his aching cock, feeling where his precum had left a tiny wet patch on his boxers.
You keep kissing him even as his mouth starts to lose focus, his mind getting lost in the feeling of your hands sneaking under his waistband and finally grabbing his dick in your hand. You bite his bottom lip, tugging on it as you lean back slightly again to look at him, releasing his lip when he lets out a slight hiss.
You keep your eyes on his face, even as his gaze travels down again to watch as you pull his cock free from the restraints of his pants. A curse mixed with a groan escapes him as you slowly start to pump him with your hand, running your fingers over his tip, collecting his precum, using it help your hand slide up and down his length. You can feel in your hand just how big he is, bigger than you’d imagined him to be. You join Bruce in looking down at your movements, letting out a moan yourself when you take in the sight of him.
Bruce’s hips rut up into your hand, small groans mixing with his panting breath as you work your hand over him.
“That feel good baby?” You start to kiss over his cheek, over his jaw, peppering him with your lips.
He nods and whines a quiet “y-yes.”
You hum an acknowledgment against his skin.
“Now,” you whisper against the shell of his ear, “you need to help stretch me open a lil bit before you get inside me, okay?” You tell him gently.
He turns his head to look at you quizzically. You smile again at his almost innocent eyes. Somehow so innocent and unknowing despite you having your hand still wrapped his cock and the fact that he’d just made you cum harder than any other guy had and he wasn’t even inside you yet.
You kiss his cheek again as you use your free hand to grab one of his and drag it once again towards your core. You smile softly at him as you once again push two of his fingers through your wet folds. This time, when he reaches your entrance, you help curl and push those two fingers inside you.
You moan and arch forward into his chest instinctively, your body leaning into his touch.
“That’s it, push your fingers in deeper” you tell him as you let go of his hand, leaving him to his own devices.
Your hand once again finds purchase on his shoulder, holding yourself upright. He obeys your instruction, slowly and tentatively pushing his two fingers as deep as they could go inside you. Both of you moan as he does so.
He looks up at you with that wonderful look of quizzical innocence again, his eyes silently asking you if he was doing this right. You move your hand from his shoulder to his cheek, rubbing over his cheekbone with your thumb.
“You’re doing so good baby” you tell him. “Now move your fingers, scissor them for a bit to stretch me open. Then curl them forwards, that usually feels quite good for us.”
Again, he nods and obeys your words quickly. He’s surprisingly gentle and tender in his actions, scissoring his fingers open slowly, giving you time to open up on his hand. After a short while you begin grinding into his hand, your pussy already aching for another release. Bruce takes initiative this time, taking it upon himself to switch tactics and begin curling his fingers forwards inside you.
You gasp, something akin to a squeak escaping you as he lightly brushes against that sweet spot inside you.
“That’s it Bruce, you’re doing so well” you whisper, your voice cracking with pleasure as he repeats his action.
Your reactions and your praise encourages him, he starts to curl and pump his fingers a bit faster inside you, working with you as you buck and grind against his hand. Your heavy breathing is mixing as you both watch each other get lost to pleasure as you each work the other with your hands.
Bruce let’s out something like as strangled groan and suddenly it hits you how close he is. You quickly retract your hand, leaving him groaning in frustration and throwing his head back, his hips bucking up into nothing.
“Patience babyboy” you kiss his neck again. “I’ll let you finish, don’t worry. I just want you do it inside me” you hum.
His moan gets lodged in his throat at that proposition. You keep peppering his neck and jaw with kisses as you gently guide his hand away from you, his fingers slipping out of you. He lets you place his hand on your waist once again.
You move you lips back to his once more, kissing him roughly for a moment before you pull away.
“You ready?” You ask him gently.
In a surprising moment of tenderness from Bruce, he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing over your cheek gently. He nods firmly to answer your question before he takes it upon himself to lean forwards and kiss you, wrapping his arms around your back and pulling you close against him, your chest colliding with his.
You moan into each other’s mouths, the two of you getting taken over by a kind of frenzy, a sudden urge to just be as close as possible. The kiss leaves you dizzy and breathless, making you sit back to catch your breath. Bruce looks at you, his mouth hanging open, his eyes glazed over with lust, his pupils blown in the dim light of the room.
You keep your eyes locked together again as you reach between your bodies, your hand once again finding his aching cock. You grab it gently and move your hips to align yourself with him, letting the head of his cock brush through your wet folds.
You give him a last questioning nod, checking in with him one last time.
He nods back.
And you finally sink down onto his cock.
He whimpers as he feels the warm wetness of your cunt wrap around him, his voice cracks and his groan gets lodged in his throat.
“Fuck” he murmurs under his breath, his eyes squeezing shut, a hiss sounding from his mouth as you take him to the hilt inside you.
You moan loudly at the delicious stretch of him. His thick cock just made you feel so full. Bruce shifts his hips under you, desperate for you to start moving.
He’d been so good for you so far, obeying your every instruction. You decide to take mercy on him, on you both. You start to rock your hips slowly, taking the time to roll your hips against his. He groans again and his fingers dig into the flesh of your back. He starts to match your rhythm, bucking his hips softly up into you.
The room is filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing, the wet sound of his cock lost inside you, your moans, and behind it all, the quiet and steady crackle of the fire behind you.
“Fuck” Bruce curses under his breath again. “You feel incredible” he grunts, his fingers digging harder into the flesh of your hips.
You can feel his body trembling under you and know that it won’t be long until he cums.
“Remember what I said about women not finishing from penetration alone?” You pant, letting one hand slide down your body, your fingers about to find their way to your clit
But your movement is stopped when Bruce grabs your hand and yanks it away.
He shakes his head as he growls, “let me.”
You moan at the commanding tone in his voice, a wave of euphoria pulsing through your body as you watch his hand once again find its place between your folds.
“Oh fuck, Bruce” you sigh contently as he’s quick to find your sensitive bundle of nerves.
He does exactly as he was taught, starting off slow and gentle, being deliberate in his motions as he begins to circle your clit once again.
But that’s not what you needed, nor wanted right now.
“Faster Bruce, please” you lean forward and tug his earlobe between your teeth, extracting another deep groan from him.
You release his earlobe with a moan as he speeds up his circles on your clit, his pace matching that of your own as you continue to bounce up and down on his cock.
“Ugh, yes baby. That’s it. You’re doing so good for me” your words are mumbled against his neck as you arch into his chest, your mind almost going dizzy and blank with pleasure.
“I’m... I’m close... I’m gonna...” he whines, throwing his head back again.
“Me too baby. Let go. Cum for me Bruce” you whisper.
You place a quick kiss to his cheek before you lean back to look at him, let him look at you.
The pure look of bliss on his face is enough to tip you over the edge. You gasp raggedly just as your climax tears through you, pleasure coursing through your veins, burning as hot as the fire behind you. Your noise causes Bruce’s eyes to snap open again to drink in the sight of you as you cum. You feel your pussy contract over Bruce’s cock, squeezing him inside you.
“Ugh, shit” he cries as your convulsing cunt causes him to tip over the edge himself.
You feel his cock twitch inside you, his hips stilling as he pushes up inside you and he spills his release into you. You watch in satisfaction as his face contorts in pleasure, his typical hardened facade dropping. His one hand trembles as he continues to circle your clit, his pace slowing gently now he knew that you would get sensitive. You slowly decrease your pace of riding him as the two of your draw out your highs. When a shudder runs down your body Bruce takes the signal to stop rubbing your clit.
The two of you just sit for a moment, looking at each other contently, as you both attempt to catch your breath. Your hands move back to his neck, cupping the back of his head as your fingers scratch his scalp lightly.
“You did so good baby. That was amazing” you smile down at him before pressing your lips against his again briefly.
“Is there anything else I should know?” He murmurs after a moment.
He brushes your hair out of your face, his fingers moving to gently graze over your cheekbone.
“Umm, well I can’t speak for them all, but most girls really like to kiss as much as possible. Before, during, after. We just like to be kissed. Or at least I do” you shrug and laugh softly.
Bruce’s leans up and captures your lips with his, gently coaxing your face toward his with his hand still cupping your cheek. This time the kiss is soft, but sure; Bruce was a quick learner. This kiss felt fuelled by something different; there was a kind of energy behind it that you hadn’t noted before. His lips move against yours with confidence, drawing you into him even more.
When he stops, his lips barely an inch away from yours as he looks at you intensely. There’s something in his eyes that even you couldn’t read.
He then whispers, so softly you’d have missed it if his face wasn't so close to yours.
“I don’t think I care about most girls… just one.”
A/N: okay no bc I’m already thinking of a part 2 where reader teaches Bruce how to eat pussy too😵💫 we’ll see if I have time / if you guys like this🙈😅 anyway, I hope you guys did enjoy this, it was definitely a fun time to write!!
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Be Safe - Bruce Wayne
Summary: Bruce is worried about you walking home.
Warnings: No spoilers (unless you count his outfit as a spoiler). Height difference. Fem!Reader. Walking home at night, being in the subway at night. Mentions of crime in Gotham, being followed, and being scared of drunk men. Mentions of a knife and, well, Bruce being batman.
You’re stubborn. Bruce has, very much, noted that. No matter how many times he asks you to not leave your job so late at night, you still do it. He understands why since you’ve explained it to him. You like your job and sometimes it really doesn’t hurt to work extra hours. Yet, what you don’t seem to understand, is what risks you take by walking home the way you do.
Gotham is not a nice city at any time of day. But at night especially? That’s when crime skyrockets. You don’t have a car, so you take the subway and make the rest of the way home by foot. And Bruce absolutely hates it.
He has asked (or, better, begged) to get someone to drop you off at work and take you home, but you have refused both of those offers because you actually like walking home. Nothing has ever happened to you and you have lived in Gotham all your life. And you’re also not stupid, you know how to take the safest routes home… the ones with the most light and people, that is. But that still doesn’t make Bruce feel at ease.
You know of his ‘night antics’ and you know, by the many times he has told you, that he can’t be looking out for you when you walk home. He needs to be around the city, doing his bat duties - as you like to call them - as he does every night. To which you answered that it is totally okay since you have made this walk home years before you even started dating him in the first place.
You know he’s worried and you love him more for it, but you really couldn't care less of the dangers you could face. You live in a nice area - the best a middle-class individual can buy in Gotham - and crime is very much a good few streets away. It would make no sense for all that danger to just move over to your side of the city.
That is the only thing that makes Bruce somewhat calm when you two have this sort of conversation. You two have only started dating two years ago, meaning that you’ve had to make this walk home every day for many years before he ever came along into your life.
You know that if you ever text him around the time you know you’re going to stay at work late, no matter at what hours you leave the building, a very expensive car will be parked at the front, with a driver half asleep and ready to be at your service.
That one time got your coworkers talking for weeks and you hated every bit of it. You like to keep your relationship with Bruce a secret to the people you’re not very acquainted with, for obvious reasons that come with his name, and having a whatever luxury car and a driver to come to pick you up, does, obviously, make people talk.
And, tonight is one of those nights. You had known it would be a long night as soon as lunchtime hit the clock. And you didn’t text Bruce about staying late at the office knowing how his reaction would be.
The thing is, tonight is rougher than other late nights. It came to a point of everyone holding their heads in the conference room while just staring at their laptop screens. All in hope that ideas come to everyone’s heads, so you know the company's next move. But tonight really isn’t the night for all of that.
You found yourself staring out of the window a few too many times. The Batman logo is clear and perfectly drawn out in the night clouds of Gotham. It gave you all sorts of security, as well as to many other people in the city, you’re sure. But it also gives you an extra weight on your shoulders. You had already faked a text at around your usual time to get home, letting him know of your (fake) whereabouts. But you know that Bruce is smarter than that.
By the time your boss has finally had enough of everyone’s stress, he says the words to lead everyone out of their chairs and to their homes, where a less stressful weekend awaits them. You were slow to pack up your things, not exactly in a hurry to get home, and, once done, you offered your usual sweet smile to the security guard at the door and the lady at the front desk. To which they smiled and even waved or said a little ‘good night’ to you too.
When outside, you tighten the belt of your cardigan around your waist, covering yourself from the cold breeze of the night. You notice all of your coworkers getting into their cars after throwing their things onto the backseat and you don’t hesitate before making your way home.
Your heels click over the sidewalk and you cross your arms over your chest as you try to seek some warmth within yourself. The lights of the streets flicker on top of you and you continue to stare forward, looking at the subway station just a few feet away.
You walk up the stairs and already hear the subway coming in the distance. You smile at yourself due to your perfect timing and, when up at the platform and in front of the transport, you walk inside the near-empty carriage.
With a huff, you sit down on one of the many empty seats and stare out of the window as the subway moves at its usual fast speed. You watch, relaxed, as one or two people get in and leave by each stop, enjoying the silence of the night at each time the doors open to the outside and await new passengers.
Your stop is almost at the end of the line, so you have more than time to sit back and just watch as you count each spot that it makes.
By the time you reach the stop before your own, a group of young men walks into the carriage. They’re loud and look around the age of college kids, so you can only assume that they’ve had a few drinks. They cling onto the pole by the doors as some of them confirm your assumptions.
You try to look at them as little as possible and the subway begins to move once more. Their loud voices seem to not affect the other person in this carriage with you, but their voices almost seem to make your ears vibrate with each of their drunken shouts. They are a group of maybe 7 men, and 4 of them are screaming.
You get up when your stop is just a few more seconds away and you look at the ground as you walk over to the door. Unfortunately, you do have to use the door that the men are crowding as there is no other one to your side of the small metal room.
You’re not sure if you even got any of their attention as you did not dare to look up and when the doors open, you are quick to step out and swing your bag back over your shoulder.
The cold air hits you again and you swear under your breath as your body erupts into chills. You try to be quick on your steps as you can only get through your head the warm blankets that you left on your couch this morning, and, hopefully, a warm boyfriend that happens to just get inside your home by the time sun rises.
You make your way down the final steps of the platform and your heart eases at the familiar streets, just a bit away from your apartment building.
As you carelessly walk home in your well-lit streets, a sound makes your ears perk up. Voices. Male voices. The same ones in the subway, just a few feet behind you.
You look over your shoulder to see the group standing off a good few feet, still making their way down the stairs. Right as one of the men lifts his gaze down the street, and at you, your heart naturally speeds up. He says something to his friends but you’re too far to hear him.
They’re standing under a flickering light, making their presence known to you and then making you stare at nothing but darkness for a few seconds. You turn your gaze back to the front and notice how your body has grown tense, very tense.
You try to speed up your steps, but one in heels can only do so much in such uneven ground, and your ears make you notice how the voices have grown closer.
Their slurred words and drunken chuckles make every hair in your body stand as your heart pumps blood as if adrenaline has just been pumped into you. Your hands are now by your sides as you clench your cold fists and you continue to look forward.
“No, man, come on, don’t do that.” One of the men says it in almost a shout. “She won’t like it.”
You speed up even more, not exactly knowing if it has anything to do with you or even wanting to know if it does. You fight your urge to look again, but fail as fear starts to get the best of you. You are not too far from your building, but it still is a distance that makes you somewhat uncomfortable.
The men are closer to you by a few more feet and you notice how some of them miss a few steps when walking. You look forward once more when you notice that some of their attention is naturally going forward as they hold onto each other. Or in other words, their attention is going to you.
You make a turn into the street that can work as a shortcut to your own and you keep your quick steps. Your breathing has begun to be somewhat uneven but you keep going straight, your ears serving as the eyes behind your head.
After a few feet, you look over your shoulder to find the men continuing to go straight instead of making the turn just like you had.
Your chest aches as relief washes over you, almost as if your body has grown sore from the panic. Your steps slow down and you run your hand through your chest over your jacket, smoothing it down and letting out a quick sigh of relief.
Step after step, you continue to make your way home.
The silence around you cracks with the light sound of a small rock rolling over the ground, and as you stare at it stopping close to you, it looks like someone kicked it. You look around you, trying to understand where the sound came from in such a narrow and echoey street, but you find nothing and no one.
A few more steps of silence, or rather, the sound of your own steps and uneven breathing, you notice all the shadows around you as you walk. Your scared mind looks for something to cling onto as you try and find answers for the sound you had just heard. And shadows just so happen to circle all of what’s not under the light, right where you stand.
Anybody could be in there, lingering, waiting for their victims to pass. There’s still a few hours before the sun rises and for natural light to fill the streets, even when filtered through the usual clouds that crowd the sky. So, you’re left to stare back at the shadows.
You continue to walk, slower this time, and you keep your gaze in the darkness as you walk right past it. Your body has gotten back to its tense form and you hear a pebble, once again, roll over on the ground.
You finally look over your shoulder and your heart sinks. It’s a man. He’s taller and, even with the lack of light, he looks much stronger than you just by his silhouette alone. He is just a few feet away from you staring directly at you.
His hands are in gloves by his sides, he has a hood over his head, dark pants and boots, a baseball cap, and a bomber jacket on. All his clothes are dark, his face completely non-existent to your eyes in this darkness of the night.
You should be scared, terrified even, but your fear doesn’t last for enough time to make you feel it.
“You’re an absolute asshole.” You tell your boyfriend.
That makes Bruce start to walk towards you and you stay put where you stand. He comes closer and closer to the light and you aren’t even surprised to see the familiar gray fabric that covers half of his face . The one that only leaves his eyes uncovered - yet those are hidden with the cap still.
He comes slightly closer and when he finally gets to you, his eyes stare you down and you stare up at him, your slight anger slowly subsiding.
“Missed me?” He asks.
His voice is deep, as it usually is, and you notice how his tone is not exactly monotone - quite an ability you’ve grown to catch with the time you spend with him - and it’s like you can hear a hint of a smile behind it.
“Not sure.” You tell him, “Do you deserve to hear such a thing after scaring me like that?”
He does a small shrug, just enough to make it noticeable in all his layers of clothes.
“Thought you weren’t scared to walk home.” He teases you back.
“And I’m not.” You lift your chin as you speak, “I just happen to have a boyfriend that likes to test that theory countless times.”
A small chuckle is heard from him.
“You’re not scared, uh?” He asks and you give him a look as you already await him to let out his new piece of evidence against you, “Not even from the men at the subway?”
“What men at the subway?” You play dumb.
“The ones you were just running from.” He accuses you and you let out a dramatic gasp.
“Mr. Wayne,” You pat his chest playfully, “I appreciate how much you believe in me with this heels.”
There’s a small silence.
“Why did you lie about being home?” He asks.
His tone is different this time, making your playful smile fall ever so slightly. It drips with worry and his eyes narrow as he asks the question, almost as if he’s flinching from it.
“Didn’t want you to give me a ride home.” You admit. “How did you know I wasn’t home?”
“I have my sources.” He tells you and you roll your eyes at him, a hint of a smile on your face.
“Does a source happen to be the driver to one of the cars that were parked at the front of the building when I walked out?” You test him.
“Might have.” He tells you, making you actually chuckle at him, “He was supposed to take you home, but he said you walked too fast.”
“And I’m okay.” You tell him, to try to remind him that nothing happened, even after his driver failed to take you home.
“You’re okay.” He reassures with a nod, and with a stressed sigh, he continues “I just want you to be careful.”
If his tone sounded worried before, now he sounded terrified of what could’ve happened. Your heart squeezes at his words and you lift your hand to tilt his cap a bit so you can see his eyes better in the light.
“I am.” You tell him with a comforting smile, “I always am.”
His silence gives you enough of an answer to what you have just said.
“I promise.” You tell him while leaning closer to him, “I even have that little knife you got me a few months ago.”
That makes Bruce smile at the memory. He had been working on new blades as extra weapons when you had gotten yourself into the cave for the first time. You had liked the little bat blade, and found it cute, so, all nonchalant, Bruce told you to keep it. And you did it. You kept it.
“You do?” He asks.
You fetch something in the pocket of your cardigan and pull it out, showing it to him. He stares down at it. It’s still perfect, with no marks of use or any dents, shining under the yellow lights.
He looks back up at your face again and you offer him a grin before putting the blade back in your pocket.
You look tired, which is really a no-brainer since you spent your whole Friday in an office, and yet you still radiate the energy of someone that could still talk to him for hours upon hours in this street.
You two do a short extension of the conversation which does lead to Bruce beginning to walk you home. Your cold body is shielded from the wind as he stands close to you with one of his arms over your shoulders, offering a comfortable amount of pressure. You cross your arms again, trying to protect your hands and warm them under your arms.
The two of you finally get to the front door of your building and you begin to look for your keys. Bruce lifts his arm from your shoulders and watches as you search your bag before pulling out the keys by its keychain.
You unlock the door and Bruce pushes the heavy door open for you. You step inside, and some of the warmth of the building is already getting to your body. You turn around to face your boyfriend who still holds the door open, yet stays outside, and he’s already looking at you.
“See you at 7?” You ask him before stepping closer to him.
“Around that time, yeah.” He confirms it.
You bring your hands to his face and pull down the fabric over his mouth down softly. Bruce, already knowing what you’re aiming for, leans down and lays a kiss on your lips before you even get to do it. The kiss is sweet and slow and it makes the two of you get lost in each other for a bit.
You pull back, not wanting him to forget his duties while with you, and your cold fingers caress Bruce’s cheeks. Some of the dark tint around his eyes is already smudged and now staining your fingers as it has covered the top of his cheeks.
Bruce gives you one last peck on your lips and you smile at him while you step back.
“Be safe.” You tell him as he uses his spare hand to cover his face once again.
“Lock your doors.” He tells you too and you can’t help but laugh at him while giving him a bit of the shake of your head.
You step back once more and mouth him a small ‘bye’, to which he answered just with a look. Bruce finally closes the front door and you notice how he pulls on the door slightly to make sure it locks into place.
He steps back and you wave him goodbye, to which he answers with the lift of his hand. He watches as you turn your back to him and make your way up the stairs of the building off to the side. When you’re out of his field of view, he takes slow steps back and waits to see the light of the apartment light up from one of your closed windows.
Your curtain opens just as Bruce was about to move to get back to his bike and you appear.
His heart swells at seeing you staring down at him and you offer him another wave. He chuckles to himself and you watch as he begins to walk away, now knowing that you’re more than safe.
You look over at your couch and the first thing you notice are the blankets you had thought so much about.
Oh, I’ve missed you.
I hope this was good, I got stuck on this story for a whole day and it was driving me insane. I’m sorry there was so much narration of walking home, I just wanted to set the scene. I will be posting more soon, especially when it comes to smut!!
Hope you have a great day!
Battinsin show up all cut up from another night of fucking Gotham up. You always help patch him up but still don't know who he is. Until that night when you have to take of his mask to stitch up his head...
Summary: After unmasking Batman's identity, you grow closer.
Pairing: Batman x Reader
Warnings: Language. Smut.
A/N: The Nurse Trope isn't something that's usually my thing. I hope I did it justice. Pun intended.
"Mornin' sunshine," you say, slipping a cup of hot coffee into Bruce's fingers. "Took one helluva beating last night."
The caffeine is freshly brewed and makes his splinting headache a little less bad. If only for a second, Bruce revels in how soft the mattress is against his aching back. It's a second that is fleeting. The realization of last night hits him with a vicious punch.
Twelve of Cobblepot's henchmen. A barbaric fight at the Iceberg Lounge. Bruce barely makes it out.
"Came here yourself, you're lucky I wasn't pulling a double." You drink from your paisley ceramic mug. Looks like there's tea inside. "Muscle memory, I think. M'guessing you were in deep shit. Needed stitches on your shoulder from being stabbed multiple times with a fork. Shrapnel was lodged in the sharp tissue of your thigh. Needed tweezers for that. You're definitely nursing a concussion so be careful when you stand-"
Covers fling away and free his body. On a mahogany nightstand, Bruce sets his coffee. Knots in his back are screaming in pain whilst he wades through a home he originally thinks belongs to him. He's not at Wayne Manor, you're not his maid, Stella, and it's as clear as the sunshine burning through your window that he's made a grave mistake.
"Careful," you say, "Gotham's Crowned Prince can't get too hurt."
You're standing in the archway of your bedroom. An ER Nurse should be able to afford more than just a 500 square foot studio Downtown but this is Gotham so you're gonna get charged a metaphorical arm and leg for a shoebox.
"You could've told me, you know." You place a hand on his bare chest when he attempts to sidestep you. "Night after night, fixing your ass up because I thought what you were doing was admirable. This changes everything."
"You're right," he says. His voice is hushed, the quietest thing Gotham has ever produced. "This makes you a liability."
"I became one the night I found you bleeding out by the river."
He says nothing, but gives you a cruel look that is intimidating, to say the least. It's hard as stone and unwavering, but you don't cower. Not like everyone else.
"All I'm saying is, had you told me you were Bruce Wayne," your fingers trace the stubble outlining his beautifully strong jaw. "I would've made sure you had more expensive linens to sleep on."
"Move," he says and you listen, but give him an earful of your laughter as he sulks by.
"I bought you clothes because obviously you can't wear your gimp outfit in daylight," you say. "So not only am I Batman's nurse, I'm Bruce Wayne's personal stylist."
"Both pay better than what you currently make."
He rifles through a CVS bag that sits on your couch. Black sweats. He pulls them on. The look on his face as he unfolds the hot-pink shirt you've bought him is priceless. Nose scrunching in confusion, Bruce turns to you. "Hello Kitty?"
You blow the steam away from your tea before taking a sip. "That's all they had."
Without complaint, he dons the shirt and the slips on the flip flops you got him. "Where's my-"
"Batsuit is in the garbage bag." Sure enough, next to your entrance door is a hefty bag. "Didn't want all that blood staining these fake wooden floors."
"We're done here," he says so flippantly that it makes you second guess if you really did just reveal Batman's secret. Almost as if the notion of you spilling his secret doesn't even matter to him. "Goodbye."
You let Bruce and Batman leave without protest.
It's not over. Not one bit.
He needs more stitches. Took one hell of a stabbing through the kevlar of his suit. They're getting smarter, aggressively more familiar with his tech. He has to regroup and rethink his strategy and rebuild his armor.
"Stop moving," you swat at his arm like he's a pesky fly. "Almost there."
You bite at the suture thread with your teeth, lips pressing against his bare chest. The scissors you typically use have somehow misplaced themselves and you had to act fast.
"Done." You smile. In his lap, you're straddling him. He's down to only black boxers. It's easier now that you know who he is. Before you had to craftily workaround somewhat accessible pieces of flesh which really slowed down the process. "That'll be nine-thousand dollars."
He cracks a smirk. It's a start. "I'm friends with the nurse. She gives me discounts."
"Sounds like a real pushover."
You start to remove yourself from Bruce's lap and are startled when the slip of his fingers wrap around your waist. He seems a little startled himself, unsure of what he wants to do next. Why he's keeping you here against him. But you dare try to escape.
The first move is yours for the taking. You kiss him, softly pressing your lips to his in the same fashion he did all those nights ago when tensions were high. It's a night that has been spoken of since – neither of you want to break the ice. Until now.
You teasingly pull away when he kisses you back. "Thought I was a liability."
He's helping you take your panties off without having you break your contact with him. He likes how warm you are compared to everything else around him. Wants to keep you anchored.
He kisses you as if he wants to capture the wind in your lungs. He tastes mechanical. Smoke and oil paint. It's a weird concoction that you shouldn't enjoy but do. "I could tell the world your secret."
"You're smarter than that. They won't believe you," he says. "Except the loons in Arkham. Don't draw that attention to yourself."
"Do you really want to do this?"
He answers, quietly, "yes."
Bodies clinging together, you sink into him. Slowly. Carefully. And expose yourself to the fervor. The soft pitter-patter of rain and thunder playing between the moans you both illicit.
Bruce's head is tilted back, eyes closed, as he dives into the pleasure the bounce of your ass gives him. You're doing all the work, something you both enjoy. There's not been a time he can remember where he didn't have to take the reigns. It's a pleasant reprieve to watch you claw your way to orgasm. To pull what you need from him without questioning.
"Christ," you shudder, rhythm verging on sporadic as you succumb to everything. You want to be gentle, not wanting to erase the handiwork that you've done. The bruises and contusions. All that violence that's beating onto him on a daily. You want to take it easy. Tedious rolls of your hips keep the pressure building, but it isn't ravaging. Take your time.
He jerks hard. Intuition taking ownership of his actions if only briefly. He meets your ministrations with a deep thrust and it feels so fucking good. But his back spasming makes him groan in both pleasure and pain.
The noises you're making are driving Bruce crazy. Soft whimpers, hungry for more, and he wants to satiate every last craving you both have.
"No," you whine. "You'll reopen your stitches."
"I know someone who can help."
"You wanna argue, or you want me to make you come?"
He can tell it's happening – a fire that's slow to start until he's engulfed. He reaches out, grabs you by the back of your hair, and pulls you even closer to him. You writhe in the seat of his lap, moans melting in the air. You're both falling into each other, all the way down until everything coalesces into a molten black.
You're surprised he's still with you when the morning light hits your eyes.
Let me know if you want a tag in future Batman stories.
love me by the night.
part two | masterlist
premise: the relationship shared between you and bruce was anything but perfect. it was raw and caked with blood and pain, but it worked.
pairing: bruce wayne x (f)reader
word count: 5.4k
warnings: unprotected sex, pain kink (just a little taste, more or less emotions wise), toxic relationships, blood (wounds, cuts, and bruises mentioned), needles mentioned, tragic pasts (readers family life was crap and domestic violence is mentioned briefly), arguments, angst, scratching, probably slightly unrealistic when it comes to certain things lmao. 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI.
etc: i swear i’ll stop writing shitty angst after this lmao. obviously there’s no spoilers and this leans more towards au since we don’t know too much about the batman and his characterization just yet, i literally took what i’ve seen in trailers and ran with it. let’s hope this doesn’t flop and here’s to all of us becoming completely whipped by robert pattinson this month <3
i do not give anyone permission to translate or repost my work, please be respectful — if you enjoyed please comment or reblog!
You’re not sure if it’s the low hiss that shakes through him as you pat the disinfecting cloth to one of the many open wounds littering his back, his body's instinct to shake and move away from the sting—no matter if it's helpful or not—clearly being fought off by its host. As if proving, to no one, that a little antiseptic was not a big deal. Especially with gashes as deep as these. His ability to hide any sort of pain he may, or may not, be going through being one of his least rewarding qualities. In your opinion.
Or maybe it’s the gashes themselves that has your stomach flip flopping, jumbled with nerves, and in the trenches of an all too familiar feeling, from an all too familiar scenario—much like this one—playing through your head the minute you saw Bruce Wayne clad in his batsuit, cuts and tears distinguishable from a mile away. Coated in that dark crimson that looked tar black when it laid upon his suit—stood at your balcony door, having let himself in like he did most times he would find himself out of options or needing a quick stitch.
And sometimes for other reasons.
It had become an old song and dance you wished you could stop moving to. Wished that that year ago when you had let your journalist drive get the best of you, had peeked your head into a world you truly knew nothing about, but labeled as ‘your big break’—your promotion to the top. If you could have taken back that drive, that need for power in a dying industry: you would have.
Would have taken back being in the wrong place—or right one your boss would have said—at the wrong time. Would have stayed home that night and had a glass of wine, read a book, laid in bed daydreaming about an unobtainable future—any of that was better than getting in the mix of Gotham’s savior doing what he did best and you getting caught in the crosshairs. You know it would have saved both yours, and the infamous Batman’s, time and energy. Would have saved you a deep purple spreading along your eye socket and a rusty knife to the ribs for him. But you were there and had made the wrong call.
You had all but disclosed that your mother was once a nurse and you knew how to tend to wounds thanks to her—not disclosing that the only reason she had taught you was because you had a meaner than a skunk father when he was drunk and had once beat your mother so badly she needed stitches. Those stitches coming in the form of her sitting shaking and bloody on the side of the tub while she taught you, at the mere age of ten, how to sew up a wound—Another recurring event in your life you wished you could have missed out on.
The two of you finding yourself in your dingy studio apartment, your thoughts more than hyper aware of the judgment that could possibly be flashing across The Batman's face. An assumption that was more than delirious as the pounding in your eye had made its way throughout your entire membrane, the pain shooting through your body as if it was more than just your eye that took the beating—and like most of Gotham’s population, and why you were tailing him—you knew next to nothing about the masked savior, so maybe he had lived in a bigger dump than you.
An incorrect fact you eventually learned by the many recurring visits that had him ending up on your doorstep, apparently your first encounter not going as botched as you yourself thought; the dead silence as you fixed the wound at his side, patched the material of his suit the best you could. The low and husky thanks, his gloved fingers flinching and flexing tightly as it looked as if he might, or wanted to, reach out and check your eye, but didn’t. And he quickly left without another word.
The journalist part of you wanted to grab your laptop and type away at what you were sure was going to be the juiciest story of The Batman to date, but instead found yourself having zero desire to share the time, and humiliation on your part, the two of you had spent together. Because in reality it was nothing. You stuck your nose where it didn't belong, got hit, got the Bat stabbed, and you dressed his wound. If anything people would, most definitely, call you a liar or add you to one of those crazed Batman fan sites. Neither things you wanted. So you kept your mouth shut and moved on to other projects.
And maybe it was that fact, that you had kept your mouth shut, that had him coming back to your apartment the second time, the third, the fourth, and then the fifth.
Blood had caked around his mouth and jaw, a visible trail of where it could be coming from—under his mask—apparent. The wheeze in his breath an indication that he could, and most likely, had broken ribs, falling on deaf ears as he barely made eye contact with you. Had barely said more than three words to you as you began to locate each wound and patch it.
It didn't take a genius to know that The Batman didn’t want to be known, was not meant to be known, his identity seeming more important than the actual ‘saving’ he did. You knew you couldn't have just asked him to take the mask off and that would be it, that the frigid man sitting upon your couch—most definitely staining it—in his bulky suit would just comply. But you figured you’d try. So you saved it for last. Put antiseptic here and there. Pressed cloths to deeper wounds to stop the blood. Stitched a knick on the side of his jaw. Until the elephant in the room became too big and the blood on his face too harrowing.
You didn't really even have to ask. One look, one stare, the shift of your eyes as you kept looking back at the blood on his face, at the mask that covered half of it. You were sure he knew already, had tensed so much because he could feel it coming, could feel the request, the dare, the speculation that he would actually take off his mask for you.
But you still asked, adding that you wouldn't tell—which was as cheesy to say as it sounded, so amateur of you, it holding no solidification in the grand scheme of ‘everyone says that and you're a journalist so why should he believe you’. And that's exactly how it went. His ‘no’ coming out more of a grunt as he stood up and headed for the door.
And maybe it was your curiosity, or maybe it was because you felt actually needed by Gotham’s own little celebrity of vengeance. And it felt good to be needed, a feeling you didn't quite get writing boring columns and non-break through stories. “I wont look!” You declared as he reached the threshold, “I’ll keep my eyes closed, I even have a sleep mask I can cover them up with if that will make you more comfortable.” You felt stupid for even suggesting, he was clearly done with your help, probably for good now that you’d attempted to unmask him.
“You can just guide my hands where they need to go. I’ll feel if you need any stitches, or antiseptic. I won't peak.” You were surprised to see him stop in his tracks, his back turned to you for a beat longer, your heart in your throat from nerves, before he turned and gave you one quick nod. A small smile had spread across your lips, a feeling of triumph that–may have had no right being placed—lingering in your bloodstream.
And you kept your word, had let his gloved hand wrap around your wrist, your two fingertips brushing his skin; along his temple, his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose—his grip tightening so hard on your wrist as your fingers scraped against the culprit for all of the blood on his face. The wince you let out from the heavy strength of his palm squeezing your wrist dredging up a gravely “sorry” from his lips. It had all been oddly romantic now that you had looked back on it—fucked up none the less though, as you held a needle to his nose and tried to sew up a wound you could only feel with your fingertips. The heat from his leather gloves burning your skin. The hot puffs of air he would sometimes let out, or the twitch of his own wrist as he moved your hand in the right direction so you wouldn’t impale a piece of him you didn't need to.
You think that had been the turning point in the fucked up relationship the two of you had. What had completely solidified whatever the hell the two of you would grow on to have, to become. And the night he finally let you see him, had taken off his mask, had given you the darkest look of both trust and distrust all in own brooding glance; his eyes darker than his suit, the permanent scowl that you've come to know so well. It had started a fire inside of your belly that leaked into your veins to the point of succumption. And you knew then that no matter what time it was, how dangerous it was, or how stupid it was for you to do a real doctors job, half as good as them; you’d always let Bruce in.
Even if he didn't do the same.
Him proving that in tenfold along the way in more ways than you had fingers and toes to count. You had lost count of all of the ways Bruce Wayne—The Batman—had broken your heart, and had seemed to do so without any deep reflection of the fact in his zero attempts to fix said broken heart. Or acknowledge it. The turning point of your relationship slipping into something more than just you tending to his wounds, into the two of you also sharing a bed some nights—not the full night though, he had always refused to stay and you had grown tired of asking him to. Of offering him more than being his on call nurse and another warm cavern to sink into.
And maybe it was your own doing, your own foolishness for falling for such a man; mysterious, frigid, thinking he needs to prove something to himself, to put his mind at an ease you don't think you'd ever really understand because Bruce wouldn't let you. Wouldn't let you see into the dark crevices of his mind that you knew would explain all, tell all, bring you closer to this man you (unfortunately) loved.
The hopeful part of you wanted to believe that it was because you were a journalist, that that's why he was so closed off with you. He still had doubts that you wouldn't rat him out and get famous off a story you've swore time and time again you'd never tell. But the part that knew that that was just Bruce, that he had conditioned himself into this hard brute on both the inside and out, a loner billionaire without parents who no one really knew, and would never get to know; a man stuck on the hopes of vengeance and violent acts being more of a warm blanket, a warm home, more than you could ever be. It was just Bruce. How he was. And maybe, sometimes you think, with the way he would look at you, the way he would try to open up, that he had wished he could be more for the both of you, but this was him.
And despite your broken heart you'd accepted that, accepted him. That didn’t mean it hurt any less though, that you didn’t have doubts and fears.
But it’s the reasons why it was not a surprise he showed up at your apartment tonight, and it wasn't a surprise he was stripped down to only a pair of pants, cloths stained with blood littering around your bed, winces of pain as you stitched up wounds, touched bruises, and tried not to be angry at the fact that another set of your sheets were now stained because of him.
“How many were there?”
“Less than you think.”
“Mmm,” you hum as you press the needle into his skin one last time, the ends poking through him easier than leather, the string pulled tight, the wound closed, and then wiped. Bruce barely flinching now that, you were sure, his back had become numb to the needle. But not your fingers it seemed as you ran the tip of your index along one of the deep purpling bruises in the middle of his back, his torso flinching slightly in contortion. It was hard for you to tell when Bruce was lying, even after all the time the two of you had spent together. And instances of you probing and it ending in a fight had stopped you from fully questioning when you get the suspicion of him lying. But you knew he was lying about this. You didn't get this many cuts, bruises, and chunks of flesh opened from there being ‘less than you think’.
“I understand why you do it,” and you did, to a certain extent. “I just wish that-”
“Don’t.” It’s authoritative, threatening and stings all the same. It's a tone you've grown to hate, but know it's like poking a bear if you go against it.
And maybe the two of you have been doing this dance for so long now that you didn’t care, because it does little to deter you. “Right.” You stand from the bed, your chuckle is anything but humorous, joyous, having any good sentiment of what it's supposed to, without a trace. You grab the used rags and cloths from your sheets, ignoring Bruce’s eyes on you as he turns towards you. The wince from the stretch of doing so is heard before he can swiftly hide it.
“Thank you.” Is all he says and it makes your blood boil. Makes you stop your actions and scowl at him, because you’re so sick of hearing those words from him. Sick of them being the only true sentiment you can dredge up from his dark soul.
“For what, Bruce? For stitching you up for the millionth time? For dressing a wound that may get infected because I'm. Not. A. Doctor. That's who you really should be seeing, not me.” You laugh. You throw the bloody remnants in your hands in the trash beside your bed, turning back to see him no longer looking at you. His eyes cast across the room. “What if you show up here one night and I can't help you?” Your arms cross around your chest, your frustrations more than prominent in your tone, and of the heavy thud of your heart you can feel against your flesh. “What if your wounds are so bad that you bleed out on my floor? What then Bruce, you still going to tell me thank you for trying to save you. For staining my hands with the blood of someone else's that's mixed with yours to the point of it being caked on your body? To the point where I have to rub your skin red and raw to get it off, is that all worth a big thank you to you? Is that all its worth to you?” You chew on your lower lip, can feel your breath pick up from the octaves of your voice going up, and to a tone you hate using. To a point of boiling in your veins you hate reaching. “Is that all I'm worth to you…Is a thank you?” You hate yourself for even asking, knowing it’s just going to escalate into something more vicious between the two of you—or worse he’s going to ignore it. “More importantly, is that all your life is worth to you? Going after these men, getting hurt, being stitched up by some woman you sometimes fuck; is that worth it to die on my fucking rug?”
“That's not important to me.” His eyes burn into you as he turns, his pupils filled with fire and rage—a look you've grown to wonder if it's the last one his enemies see, if this is the only time you'll get another glimpse into the dark world of his alter ego. “My death has no meaning when the bloodshed from it is more important.”
Your heart would break if you weren't expecting such a response. But the one thing you did know about Bruce is his one track mind on the reasons he does what does. The reasons he doesn't care who he has to hurt or get back at to get his message across, to achieve what needs to be done. To itch a sad sadistic ache from the wound the death of his parents left.
“It's important to me. I don't want to watch you die on my floor, this apartment is shitty enough.”
“I wouldn't-” he growls, “I wouldn't come here if I knew that's how it was going to end, if there was a chance that you'd be a part of that I wouldn't-”
“You’d die in some cave? A back alley? Some psychopaths fucking lair? That's how you want your story to end? The legacy of the infamous Batman, the great Bruce Wayne unmasked and found bloody and beaten, his fortune and birthright torn through the mud because-”
“Because what? Because I chose to do something? Because I am doing something?”
“Just because you’re choosing to do something doesn't mean you’re choosing the right reasons to do it!” A thud comes at the other side of your wall, your neighbors voice muffled but understood enough to know that a noise complaint was a sure thing. You close your eyes, breathe through your nose, out through your mouth, give yourself five seconds, ten, fifteen, before you open them again and Bruce still has his eyes on you. His expression withdrawn, as always. “I would never ask you to stop being The Batman, I’m not your keeper, Bruce.” You laugh, “I'm not even your girlfriend.” This gets a reaction from him, for the ten seconds he lets it swim across his face before he's looking down into his lap. “I’m just saying you’re wrong about your death not being important. You're wrong about not caring about your own life as both of these…people, things.”
You swallow back the emotions that are begging you to let out, the tears you know you could shed but refuse to let be seen by him, be shared between the two of you. An intimacy you're not sure will ever be shared, as much as you would be okay for it to be. But it's hard to throw your emotions at someone who is never willing to catch them, to hold on to them, to grasp them with open and returned devotion, care, love. You never doubted that Bruce cared for you, he had to, even if it was a little bit. You knew he wouldn't have shown his face to anyone, keep showing up at anyone else’s doorstep—unless he was there to take his so-called vengeance. So you knew he cared, just not as much as you for him, or the way you deserved, in reality. And if he did, if your assumptions were wrong and those of a toxic mindset; you knew you’d never know because he would never let you see it.
“No one can make you care about your own life. Only you can do that. I just wished you’d leave me out of it, because I cannot go another day wondering if you're going to show up worse than before, I” you swallow, take a deep breath “I can't deal with it anymore, Bruce. I’m sorry.”
He doesn't go to answer and you don't wait for him to. Distracting yourself from letting the tears that are burning your ducts fall in front of him, with picking up the rest of the medical contents on your bed and putting them away. Taking a moment to grip the sink in your bathroom, to let the few tears you actually do allow yourself to shed for him to fall, to help ease a part of your heart that’s screaming for you to have a breakdown right now. Before wiping them just ask quick as they had fallen, righting yourself, and walking back out into the main room. You expect to see him gone, he usually leaves promptly after arguments like this. A bad habit the both of you have; yelling, declaring avoidance, Bruce disappearing for a few days, your heart aching more than it does when he’s actually around, and then he’s back and you’re forgetting your past declarations and letting him.
The song and dance you need to give up. Are going to give up because you’re sure about it this time.
You were not lying when you said you were done with the caked on blood you have to scrub from your fingers every other night. Or the scent of metal that you can't get out of your couch cushions. And the many nights you've gone to bed and woken up with him sitting at the end of your bed barely breathing and cut all over.
But if you didn't do it, who would? Alfred? Perhaps. That had been the only part of Bruce’s life he had told you about, had shared with you the bare minimum of information. No thanks to your prompting. But if he had neither of you, trusted neither of you any longer than who did Bruce Wayne have? A lot less friends than Batman did. A lot less people who loved him.
Because yes, you loved Bruce on the same bitter vine of fruit that you hated him. The two forging together into something ugly and overlooked, something no one would want to even buy, touch, let alone sink their teeth into. It was a fruit you needed to give up. A dance you needed to stop moving along with. A love you needed to get over.
Bruce could darken someone else's door and heart because yours was closed off to him.
A notion set in the stone of your brain, carved with the broken pieces of your heart; sharp and cutting your chest open like shards of glass only meant to cause pain and bleed you dry until that satisfying, sickly, numb sets in and you forget even why you were hurt in the first place. Why you even cared. It being why you would never let someone into that now dark cavern of your chest cavity again because you didn't want to feel that numbing pain again.
But as you walk past him, his reflexes faster and stronger than yours, giving you little time to wrench yourself away; he grabs your wrist, the warmth of his skin burning that stone, that notion, into molten pieces that forge your heart back into something misshapen and even more fragile than before. Your brain singed by the very heat as your heart is the only thing that calls out to the warmth of him, pulls you into the warmth of him, begs you to take back every word and to just love this man. To ignore the bad and succumb to the good that is there, the good that does show itself. To the way Bruce’s eyes are soft as they look up at you. As he pulls you between his legs, as there's a sorry on the tip of his lips but he can't seem to get it out. Can't seem to get past anything other than the twitch of his bottom lip and the heavy swallow breaths of emotion that he's not used to feeling. Or showing.
It’s all such an overwhelming feeling of everything that you don't have the will power to fight it, because fuck this man, fuck Bruce Wayne and fuck the way he made you feel, fuck fuck fuck.
Bruce cups the back of your neck pulling you down to meet his mouth in one quick motion, before either of you can think differently, can pull away or scream, or remember why you shouldn't do this, again. Why he should walk out of the door and out of your life for good, and why you should let him. It's all washed away, torn and shred, by the penetrating tongue slipping into your mouth, an unspoken apology written in the way your mouths work together. As Bruce’s lips burn against yours, as his teeth nip at your seams of lust and love and forgiveness.
He pulls you onto his lap, your knees finding a home on either side of him. Both of his hands resting on your neck, holding you steady, close, in a grip that says he's not letting you move. That even if you kick him out after this, if the two of you actually follow through, that he’s taking this moment to have you. Close. And moaning into his mouth. It's almost primal the way Bruce can be sometimes, the way he kisses you with such fervor and hunger, the way he strips you bare as quickly as he can, as if if his palms didn’t touch your bare skin, cup your breasts, run along the seams of your body soon, that he might go mad.
Your hips stutter against him, the cotton of your underwear the only thing between you and his covered cock. The barrier that drags along your growing ache the more he pulls you close, the more you gyrate your lower half, rubbing against his growing cock. The sighs of pleasure falling from your mouth into his, Bruce swallowing them down with a low hum. Accepting them like a precious meal.
Once your shirt has been discarded to the floor and the two of you have switched positions; Bruce hovering his weight above you, your legs spread for him, his body just as naked and bare as yours, the heat from his cock warm and throbbing between your thighs. Only ever scraping lightly against your slick slit, enough to have your hips chasing after it, and needy whimpers vibrating against his tongue. Your lips already feeling swollen and bruised from his relenting mouth, his devours; the words you know he can't say swallowed down and settling into that hopeful part of your pathetic heart.
“Please, Bruce,” you whine as his mouth trails wet kisses and nips down your chin, to the junction of your neck, to your breasts where his tongue draws a slow circle around one of your nipples. Making your intake of breath burn your throat as your chest pushes up into him, your cunt throbbing even more as he takes the other one in his hand and squeezes. You had never understood how good it could feel to feel the warmth of someone’s mouth sucking on your skin, your breasts. The shot of desire and burning aching lust that shot through you when their teeth grazed your nipple. Not until Bruce. He toyed, sucked—and even fucked—your breasts with a type of worship that made God himself jealous. The times you would look down and his eyes would be staring up at you in awe. Like watching you wither in pleasure and the taste and feel of you in his palms and mouth was like drinking from the rivers of Eden.
He ate your pussy the same. Some nights it's all he would want to do. You’d finish patching him up and he would drop down to his knees and fuck you with his tongue until his hair wasn't just sticking to his forehead because it was wet with sweat. Like all things Bruce did he did it with vigor, with devotion to the cause, and like it was going to fucking kill him in the end and he was okay with that.
But tonight all you wanted was to feel him inside of you. To be fucked so good by him you forgot everything, all the bad gone, all the heartaching pains. You just wanted to feel Bruce’s breath against your neck and his cock against your walls, fucking you so deliciously raw and hard that he was the only thing you could feel, could reach out to, could wrap around in excruciating ecstasy and pain.
You pull him up by his chin, pull his mouth from your body, your breaths mixing as you bring him inches from your lips. “Fuck me, Bruce,” you pant, whine, beg. Looking up into his eyes you can see the dark fire of lust and want burning in them. And it's all you need to ask of him because in his next motion he is grabbing his cock, rubbing it along your wet folds, the head of his cock rubbing against your needy throbbing clit, watching your mouth as it hangs open in a gasp. And he doesn't stop staring as he pushes into you, so slow, so gentle, dragging it out so he can watch the emotions of relief on your face contort in pleasure. Swallowing down your breathy moans when he presses his lips back to yours.
The pace of his thrusting hips against you slowly pick up, once you’ve gotten used to the girth of his cock stretching your walls. The pain from it always one of your favorite parts about Bruce fucking you, you think. As fucked up as it sounded. And maybe that's why you kept letting him, into your apartment, into your heart, into your cunt; because while his words, and lack thereof, had pained your heart, his cock had been the sting of the salve to put it back together. His mouth and his hands had been the words he couldn't speak. The look of pure devotion in his eyes as he told you how pretty you sounded as he fucked you, the bandage to hold it all together.
It was a fucked up relationship the two of you had. A fucked up tune for a fucked up dance. But deep down you knew there was no stopping in sight.
Not when it felt this good. When you loved Bruce like this. When the world got to see the gruesomeness of the Batman, and you got to see the aftermath, the tiredness in his eyes, the aching muscles, the torn skin and soul from his alter ego; and then help put it back together.
His breath is hot against your skin as he fucks you harder, one hand gripped above your head in the pillows, the other wrapped around the column of your neck. The slap of his hips against your thighs, your loud moans, his low heavy grunts deep and vibrating against your chest are the only sounds in your dingy apartment.
Your nails dig into his back and the gravel of the hiss of pain he lets out makes your stomach twist. Your mind too clouded with sex and lust, and him, that you forget that he is in fact still hurt. You open your mouth to apologize to move your hands to cup his face, but he quickly stops you with the lift of his chin. With his lips devouring yours with that same heat and hunger and the low mumble of, “do it again.” He grunts, “hurt me the way I hurt you. Show me your pain.” If you had a sane mind, if his words didn't make something burn in your lower belly adding to your arousal, to your lust; you'd know his words would have cut you differently. Would have brought something new and aching to the pile of your already severed heart. But it doesn't. It makes you whimper, it makes you want to pull him closer and drag your nails down his back, reopen his wounds, show him that pain so you can both wallow in it, feel pleasure from it, bask in it, drown in it; because that was your love, that was your devotion to each other in the end; pain. Desirable, lust filled, pain.
i cant talk rn i’m doing hot girl shit
sleeps for 12 hours
Jason Todd(ler) - Batfam x fem!reader Batmom
Synopsis : Your son, Jason, the fearsome Red Hood, got cursed somehow and...turned into a toddler. Shenanigans ensue.
Please. I’m very proud of the pun in the title. For once, I found the title instantly haha. Anyway, here’s a “bonus” story, sudden burst of inspiration, had to write it. I hope you’ll like it :) :
My masterlists : @ella-ravenwood-archives
It was a calm afternoon, which was rare enough, in your household, for you to notice it.
When was the last time you and Bruce had time to relax like that ? Time to do nothing, and spend a lazy afternoon just the two of you ?
Too long ago to remember.
You’re running your hand through your husband’s hair, as his head is in your lap, and he’s in a half-sleep state, just content being near you, taking a well deserved rest. You were reading, quite enjoying your book, and soothed by Bruce’s warmth.
This was such a nice moment. Relaxing. Silent. A rare moment of stillness, which you appreciated all the better.
“PARENTS, THIS IS AN EMERGENCY !!”
Dick just barged in, clearly panicked. And you understood instantly why, as you spot, settled in his arm…A small child ?! Wrapped in a, is that a hoodie ? You feel like you’ve seen that hoodie somewhere, but you don’t have time to look at it further as your eyes are attracted towards the kid.
A toddler. A little boy. No more than two. With big blue eyes, and the cutest tiny face you’ve ever seen. With a white streak in his hair you’d recognize anywhere.
“How did this happen ?!”
There were no doubt in yours, nor Bruce’s mind, that this was your Jason.
Same eyes, same hair, and he turned to you whenever you and Bruce said : “Jason”. So, either this was your son, or it was your son’s secret son, but you somehow doubted it. Sure, kids could look exactly like their parents, but to this extent ? He even had that little beauty mark under his ear…
This was Jason. You were sure of it.
You’d recognize your boy anywhere. Now, the question remained : what the hell happened ?
“I don’t know ! I went to his place to check on him, and I found him like this. It’s Jason. It’s definitely Jason. I found him asleep on the floor, in a pool of his clothes. Definitely too big now. But it’s him.”
“Yes, it seems like him. But, again, how ?”
“Honestly, I wouldn’t put past him actually pissing of some kind of magician or something. Last time I spoke to him, he said he had a lead on a possible metahuman who was doing some shady business, could be it.”
Could be, indeed. This was so odd. What were you going to do now ? There was no way you could-
Ah. He was waking up. He yawned (most adorable things you’ve seen in a long time), rubbed his eyes and theN.
Then he pointed at you, and said, smiling : “Mama”.
“He knows who you are, my love.”
Bruce said, matter of factly, his initial shock vanished as he was now studying the situation.
Jason turns to him then, and says : “Dada ?”
Evidently, there were some remnant of Jason in there, as he recognized both of them. But as soon as he turned to look at Dick, he started screaming and kicking, wanting to get away, and only calming down once he got into your arms.
What was this ? A reaction like little ducklings ? Recognizing the first people you saw as your parents ? Or some distant memories ?
The situation was getting more and more intriguing. But you were sure you’d all figure it all somehow.
None of you could know that Jason would be stuck in this state for a few months…
We need supplies
How to go buy a bunch of baby supplies without looking suspicious ?
Damn, it was annoying sometimes (often), to be so well known in your city. For sure someone would notice Bruce Wayne, no matter how he would disguise himself (ironic, isn’t it ? Everyone always recognized him in the streets, no matter what, yet nobody ever realized he was the Batman). And the same went for each member of the family.
Especially if you’d go buy baby supplies. Imagine the gossip the next day, in the paper ? You couldn't have Jason’s condition known !
You were trying to figure something out, because you did need the supplies. You had to be discreet. Because-
“What about Uncle Clark ?”
Tim’s idea. Of course. And...OF COURSE.
Clark DID have a baby.
Maybe he still had some of his stuffs ?
Also, nobody would bat an eye if they saw Clark Kent (who ?) buy diapers and whatnot. And then he could fly right to the Manor, he knew how to be discreet.
It was perfect !
You know how you recognize good friends ? They’re here in less than an hour when you need them. With everything you need, too.
Well. It did help that said friend was a metahuman with super-speed. But still.
Clark was there quickly, with clothes, diapers, a baby bed, formula. The perfect “a baby appeared in our life starter kit”.
“Someone gonna tell me what’s going on ?”
Yes, a true friend indeed. The kind of person who comes with “baby supplies” when you ask him to, because it’s an “emergency”, and he doesn’t even ask why up until he did it.
You quickly explained the situation, and after he laughs a little too much, he settles down and asks :
“So, what are you going to do ?”
“Still figuring that out. Have a few lead.”
Clark knows Bruce enough to know that the man isn’t going to tell him more about his plans, so he doesn’t push it. Instead, he turns to Jason, and smiles at him.
“Hey there buddy, how are you doing ?”
He reaches to ruffle his hair, but Jason slaps his hand away, and goes to hide behind his father, reaching up, asking to be picked up.
“He doesn’t like you.”
Bruce says, smirking, way too pleased about what just happened. You can’t help but roll your eyes at his childishness (which always seemed to get out when around Clark), as Superman says :
“But Jason loves me !”
“Adult Jason maybe, but baby Jason knows better.”
“What do you mean ? Hey, hey ! What do you mean ?!”
Bruce doesn't answer, and just snicker, amused by his friend’s reaction. And you find the situation too funny to tell Clark that : Jason is simply a very shy child. He runs away from any person he doesn’t know, you noticed very quickly.
You could’ve told Clark that, and it would’ve settled thing. But it was too funny to witness THE Superman trying to get a one year old kid to like him by bribing him with a wide array of toys, yet failing each times. All while THE Batman kept mocking him and telling Jason that Clark was a “bad man”...
Oh. Oh this would be a memory to preciously keep in mind. What a sight.
Slowly, life went back to “normal”. Just, with a toddler Jason instead of an adult one. Which you weren’t sure was more calming, in the end.
Your other children quickly heard the news, and slowly but surely, a sort of routine started in Wayne Manor, in which all of you took care of the boy.
You knew he’d do the same for you.
“Yes, indeed. Very good choice.”
Damian didn’t notice you, as you snuck up in the room him and Jason were in, and you just looked at the both of them. Your youngest son was such a good older brother, who would’ve thought ?
He was currently drawing with Jason. There was paint everywhere, and Alfred would probably not be very happy (although he actually didn’t mind cleaning this kind of mess). The questioning “gah” Jason gave Damian was apparently about whether he should use blue or not. Of course, Damian said he should. It’d go nicely with Jason’s adorable mess of a painting.
Who knew Damian was that good at baby talk ?
They were calmly drawing together, both laying on the floor. You noticed Damian was actually painting his “little” brother, while Jason…It was abstract, but his “older” brother influence was clearly there as the colors mixed nicely together.
Jason finished his masterpiece, as he held it up with his little hands and exclaimed : “Babaaaa” (his version of “tadaa”, surely).
“Very nicely done, Little Bird, very nicely done indeed.”
“Little bird”…oh, your heart was going to melt. This was Dick’s nickname for Jason (and all his little siblings really, although Jason was the first he called like that, and it was definitely happening more with him, simply because it annoyed him so much, and Dick LOVED to get on his siblings’ nerves).
You never thought Damian would use it one day, after all, you and Bruce never really talked about having more children. You had already quite a handful of them…And no, definitely not, having little Jason around DID NOT make your baby fever go wild.
“You’re very talented you know”, Damian says, patting his brother on the head. Jason seemed so pleased, so proud of himself. And then, then he let out the biggest yawn you’ve ever seen coming out of such a little mouth.
“Ah, it is nap time I see. Come on little bird, I’ll-“
As if it was the most natural thing in the world, Jason just snaked his way in Damian’s arms, and got comfortable. In just a few seconds, his eyes were closed, and he was fast asleep. Aaah, to be a toddler, capable of falling asleep anywhere in a matter of seconds. What a dream.
You thought Damian would stand up, and go to Jason’s room (where you installed a little baby bed,Jaso’ns actual bed being way too big…Bruce had it custom made for his son, which like, is not surprising to anyone). But instead, Damian sat up a little, rearranged Jason in his arms so the little boy would be more comfortable, and stayed still.
He wasn’t moving at all, his “baby” brother cradled in his arms. And here you were, as if hypnotized by the cuteness of the scene.
Your son still hadn’t notice you, and was looking intently at Jason. He brushed a few fingers on his chubby little baby cheek, and after a long silence during which you felt you were literally melting because this was so sweet, you heard Damian’s voice :
“You know, you used to do this for me. I don’t- I don’t really remember exactly, but I just feel it. You used to hold me just like that, when I was a toddler, and I just know you were one of the only person who were able to instantly soothe me. It’s a gut feeling. I know you were there.”
It doesn’t take long before you understand, and you find yourself chocking up.
Damian is talking about his own childhood, foggy memories of a lonely upbringing full of training, fear and harshness. Ras’ was not a tender man, and his grasp on his daughter was, at the time, too strong.
Damian did not grow up like most kid. Like any kid. And yet, amongst all the tough moments, there was one memory he seemed to be holding on…
Jason taking care of him.
You knew your son had been assigned to Damian’s protection. When he didn’t really have any memories of what happened to him, or of who he was. When Ras, out of the compassion he still had hidden deep in his heart, resurrected your boy after the Joker killed him, feeling guilty.
But Jason came back altered, the trauma of his death was too much. He couldn’t quite remember, and with reasons, Ras thought it was better to keep him with the Assassins instead of sending him back to you and Bruce. Of course, Ras being Ras, he took advantage of the fact your son was a well trained boy who could probably do his bidding…
And that’s how Jason became Damian’s protector (and an assassin for a while, but that was another story).
“You’re one of the first memory I have, Jason.”
Damian continues, as you look at them, feeling your heart filling and breaking at the same time.
“You took care of me, protected me from people who wanted to end the “Demon”’s legacy. You don’t really remember, I know. And I don’t either, I was too young. But I have glimpse of moments, furtive memories of it.”
You know Damian would never talk about this to Jason if he hadn’t been turned into a toddler. Both Damian and Jason had trouble expressing their feelings (can you say : “like father, like son” ??).
But it felt like Damian had waited a long time to finally get this off of his chest. To finally speak his mind about it.
He remembers Jason. He remembers how he took care of him, how he was there when nobody else was. He remembers.
“I’ll protect you, Jason. I will. Just like you did for me. I’ll protect you.”
The flood gate was now opened, tears running freely on your cheeks. You discreetly left as Damian was slowly swaying his brother from side to side, and the little boy drifted off to sleep, a sleep full of pleasant dreams as he knew...He knew, he was safe in Damian’s arms.
He was safe.
Not him !!
Zatanna was busy, but she promised to come by as soon as she could, which could take months, given her schedule.
“Bruce, I’m afraid we don’t have a choice.”
“No no, we do. There’s always a choice. And other options.”
“Do you really know that many people with magical powers ?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Ok, fine. But he’s the one we’re sure is going to be available.”
“I’d rather call Black Adam than him.”
Silence. He doesn’t look at you, turning away, clearly pretending to type something on the Batcomputer.
Yup, he’s definitely ignoring you now.
“Are you sulking, my Broosh ?”
He turns around quickly, and says, a little too intensely :
“I am NOT sulking ! Why would I sulk ? There’s absolutely no reason whatsoever I would. I don’t sulk anyway.”
“You do. Sometimes. You definitely always sulk when we talk about him.”
He glares at you (or at least, he tries, to you, he just looks like an adorable grumpy bear), and you hold his eyes. After a while, seeing you’re not about to back down, he sighs and says : “Fine. Call him.”
“When I received your call, I knew it meant you got yourself into some shingles. But I didn’t expect that.”
John Constantine was standing in front of you and Bruce, and stared at Jason, who was in his father’s arms.
Jason. Jason Todd. The Red Hood. Batman’s son. That tall jacked “boy” who always seemed like he could snap anyone like a twig if he wanted to (and honestly, John wouldn’t put “snapping people like twigs” passed that “kid”).
Jason grew up to be such an imposing man, that it was quite a surprise to see him...Like that.
John thought he couldn’t be more than two years old. Probably one and a half (John had a knack at guessing people’s age, it was...useful for his craft).
He quickly gave his diagnostic of the situation :
“Well, he’s been turned into a toddler.”
Silence. And then, Bruce, will all the sarcasm he could muster, says :
“...Thanks. We didn’t notice.”
John smiles, always happy to get on Batman’s nerves. He adds :
“Cooking up such a spell requires quite a bit of power. It probably left a trace where it happened. If you show me the place, I think I can figure out a way to retrace it, recreate it, and therefor, hopefully, reverse it. It might take some times, of course.”
“Of course. Thanks anyway for coming.”
“Oh no worries beautiful, for you, I’d always co-”
“Ok thank you, bye now.”
You and John exchanged an amused smile, it was always fun to make Bruce jealous (although he was adamant he never felt jealousy. What a load of cr-). He was now quite literally pushing Constantine out of the house, because he knew the warlock was about to flirt with you.
On purpose. Just to piss him off.
But also, Bruce knew you and John Constantine had a quick fling in the past, and he knew John himself. No way he was about to let him flirt with you. The man had quite a reputation...Nuhu.
Making sure to have a promise from him to work on your son’s case, Bruce then chased him out of the house. Later, he turned to you and said :
“Black Adam would’ve seriously been better.”
“No, Jason. Noo. Oh my god please boy, stop touching all the button. No, JA-”
The boy almost pressed quite a dangerous button, “autodestruction” and all that. And Bruce had enough. He put him on the floor and-
Big sad cries. Jason was just balling his eyes out now, and Bruce knew he wouldn’t stop up until he would pick him up again.
You knew he wasn’t going to resist. You gave him 10 seconds max. And ah, you overestimated him. 4 seconds later, Jason was back in his arms, trying to reach every single buttons possible, getting frustrated because Bruce kept stoping him from doing so.
Your husband turned to you, sighing deeply, and you couldn’t help but laugh.
He ended up building a “sensory box” for him. Jason always wanted to be held, for some reasons, and disliked being anywhere else but in someone’s arms. The problem was, when he was in Bruce’s, he kept wanting to touch everything on the bat computer.
Of course, for a child, it was quite an attractive thing to touch.
And so, after a few researches, Bruce found out that kids Jason’s age had a lot of “sensory experiences”, and couldn’t help but just touch everything (the same way babies always put stuffs in their mouth).
It didn’t take him long to build a little box, with a bunch of buttons on it, some making noise, some just nice to the touch. It occupied the boy nicely.
Jason would giggle away, playing with his box, and it made Bruce’s heart full, to hear that little laugh.
One night, as he thought you fell asleep in your desk chair (it happened often, although this time, you were just resting a bit), Bruce turned to his son and asked :
“Not tired yet champ ? Should be time for a nap, no ?”
The boy just looked up at him, smiling widely, clearly not tired. He always smiled when looking at Bruce. Of that smile that-
That Bruce hadn’t seen in years.
He felt a tear on his cheek.
“I’m sorry Jason, I’m so sorry..;”
It was like he felt something break in him. Something he held on for so long. Looking at that little boy, who bore the smile of the son he lost all those years ago.
Jason still hadn’t smile like that again yet. You knew it would happen some day. That he would finally heal. But it didn’t happen yet.
And the fact that as a child, innocent and trauma free, that smile came to him so easily...It awoke all of Bruce’s guilt. All of his heartbreak.
Bruce’s sadness distressed the boy.
“ ’Ou ok ? Ok dada, ok ?”
“You ok ?” he was asking. Which made Bruce’s emotions surge even more. Jason as always been such a nice kid. He didn’t deserve what happened to him.
He didn’t deserve it. If only he never met him..
Jason was standing in Bruce’s lap now, on tippy toes, barely reaching his father’s face and…slowly comforting him.
That was your Jason.
Even as a small child, always so compassionate, sweet, and caring.
“No cwy, no cwy, all ok.” He said, patting his father’s cheek, and smiling, hoping he would console his father.
Yes. Jason has always been such a good person.
Bruce knew he wasn’t going to be able to stop his emotions, and so as to not further distress his son, he just hugged him tight. Close to his heart. And his warmth and little giggles were such a nice comfort...
When John was here, he said that it was possible that he had some remnant of memories of who he was. Which was probably why he called you and Bruce “mama” and “dada” right away.
But it was also probably why at night, when he was all alone in his bedroom, he would have horrendous nightmares and scream his lungs out.
You learned to recognize his cries, over the months. Sometimes, he was hungry, sometimes, he demanded attention, sometimes, he wanted this or that...His cries during the night were haunting.
There was no doubt in your mind, neither in Bruce’s, that he had recurring nightmares. And you didn't have to think much about it to know what those were.
You didn’t want to think about it. You didn’t need to. As long as you were there, when he woke up, panicked...
Exactly the word that would describe the first time it happened, on the first night Jason came to the Manor, turned into a young child.
Screams. Of a deep seated fear.
It was horrible, to hear such a sound knowing it was your “baby” who was currently very afraid.
Both you and Bruce rushed to him. He was just coming back from patrol when Jason started to wail.
You barge in his bedroom, and he’s crying. Big salty tears running down his face, crying so much it’s hard to breath.
Bruce is faster than you, and he reaches for his son. Jason’s naturally put his arms up, definitely wanting to be picked up.
It took a good ten minutes before the boy calmed down, exhausted from crying, slowly falling back asleep in his father’s arms.
Bruce didn’t leave Jason’s bedroom that night, and you didn’t either. You all cuddle up in his actual bed. The double bed he usually use when he crash at the Manor.
Jason falls asleep in the middle of you and Bruce, his tiny little hands clutching your fingers. Yours, and your husband’s, each arm on each side of him.
You don’t dare to move, afraid he’ll wake up. And in the night, when Bruce moves a little too much in his sleep and Jason’s hand sleep away from his finger, the boy wakes up, and starts to panic as he thinks he’s alone, before being soothed back to sleep by his father, who always had a light sleep, and woke up the instant he heard the smallest of whimper.
Each night. Each night he wakes up at least once, screaming, crying, afraid. Afraid of what ? You can only guess.
John did warn you about this. During his sleep, he’s most likely to remember his past life.
You can only assume than when he’s all alone in his bed, he has horrible nightmares. But when you sleep with him, or when he’s asleep with Bruce or his siblings, the way he clutches at you, the way he peacefully sleeps...it feels like he remembers the good time.
He seemed terrified of the dark. Understandably so, when you knew his history.
Poor baby, always so afraid to be all alone.
“Um, was spaghetti really the best idea, Tim ?”
You came in the room just as Bernard was asking this question to your son, and. Oh. Oh the carnage. (A/N : For those who don’t/didn’t follow more recent comics and such, Bernard is a childhood school friend of Tim with whom he sort of lost contact after he got adopted by Bruce, and they recently reconnected and are now dating J)
“It’s his favorite food ! I mean, adult him. I swear once, I saw him only spaghetti for two weeks straight, with different sauces every time. But his favorite is bolognese. I guess...It wasn’t the best idea here.”
Jason is COVERED with pasta. His entire face is red, tiny pieces of meat stuck to his cheeks. The little fork Tim gave him is discarded on the floor, and the boy is eating with his hands.
Handful of pasta, out of which very few actually reach his mouth, and even less enter it. Most of it is just splayed all over his face.
“I see babysitting is going well.” you say, amused.
Bernard stands up quickly, as if you’re his boss or something. You smile at him, and say : “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you boys. Having fun ?”
Tim sighs, knowing you’re mocking him a bit. But Bernard is still a little tense. After all, he’s been introduced into the family not very long ago. Tim finally felt confident enough to introduce him to you guys, and of course he was met with a warm welcomed. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t still a little nervous in your presence.
Especially since you were THE (Y/N) Wayne. And oh god, he could never relax around Bruce (which honestly was your husband’s fault, he was always suspicious of his children’s boyfriends/girlfriends at first, and still considered Tim, one of his youngest, like his baby bird).
“Mama !” Jason said excitedly, and then he took another handful of pasta, and threw it on Tim. You could see he didn’t do it on purpose. That he was just SO excited his body didn’t quite respond with the proper coordination.
Tim turned to you, blasé.
You and Bernard burst out into laughter, this was quite the scene.
Jason giggled, and Tim couldn’t help but smile. Who would’ve thought that his brother could be so adorable ? Adult Jason was quite different.
Still adored his brother though. Jason often bragged about how smart Tim was, as if him himself wasn’t (which wasn’t true, Jason was extremely intelligent, he just had a massive imposter syndrome). And Tim was Jason’s first little brother, he doted over him all the time.
Of course, Jason was close from Damian too, but with Tim, it was something different.
Because Tim “replaced” Jason. In a way. He was the one which brought some light back in Bruce’s heart. The one that helped you start to heal from the wound Jason’s death gave you.
Jason thought he had to hate Tim, at first. Because he was “replacing” him. But he quickly realized he couldn’t do that.
Because Tim was Tim.
And he was himself.
Jason had never been a hateful person. So sure, he was angry at his father, angry at the world for how unfair he was treated. But he couldn’t be angry to someone who had nothing to do with it.
Plus, when Tim came in, he was so adorable, and SUCH a fanboy. How could Jason not instantly adopt him as his brother ?
“Adorable”. That’s what Tim was thinking about baby Jason now.
Funny, how life could go full circle like that, sometimes, right ?
“Pabgeti !” Jason yelled, happy, showing his food (that once again was more all over his face than anywhere else). And then he pointed at Tim, and repeated : “Pabgeti !”
You smiled, and said : “Tim made you some spaghetti ? He’s nice isn’t he ?”
Jason nod his little head, and smiled widely at Tim and-
Any trace of annoyance, or anything else, vanished. Ah. Funny. Even as a baby, Jason was always there to make sure Tim felt home.
Sat down in the sofa in his room (with the door open, Bruce’s rules...he was so old school), Tim and Bernard were holding hands as they looked at Jason who was playing on the floor in front of them.
The little boy turned around, saw the linked hands, and creased his eyebrows. He crawled on all four towards the sofa, managed to get on his feet and he separated both hands.
“What, not you too Jason.”
But the little boy would have none of it. He refused to let Bernard get back closer to his brother, and kept glaring at him, as if afraid he was going to still Tim away.
It was very cute, to be honest. And although Tim could’ve been annoyed, he actually felt quite happy and warm.
Jason had simply refused to walk so far.
So, nothing prepared you nor Bruce to witness what was about to happen.
It had been a month since Jason turned into a toddler. John did say he never heard of such a spell, and would have to do some thorough research (although Bruce suspected him to take his time, just because he thought the situation was funny, and because he loved to spite him).
He crawled everywhere, for sure. It was a nightmare, actually. He truly only listened to you and Alfred, and would way too many time try to escape his siblings’ surveillance.
He hid in a basket once, fell asleep in it, as they all looked for him, panicked.
Yes, he crawled, and got into tiny spaces where it was hard to get to him...But he never walked.
You were laying leisurely on the couch, legs across your husbands lap, looking at your son playing on the floor, thinking about how weird your life was sometimes.
One of your boy turning back into a toddler. How odd really.
Jason was sitting on the floor, playing with some toys. And then, he got on all four, and your heart beamed as you noticed Bruce’s body tense. He was ready to get his son if need be (for real, that kid really managed to get himself stuck in the strangest places).
But Jason didn’t move. Instead, he pushed with his little arms and...
He was on his feet.
Standing. Standing ! Albeit his legs were shaky and it felt he would fall back on his butt any seconds, he was standing !
He took one step, and was falling forward wh-
You felt your legs being pushed aside. Not violently or anything, Bruce knew how to be delicate.
You felt it, and then somehow, your husband was near your son, catching him before he hit the ground. Damn. You forgot sometimes that he had insane reflexes.
Jason was giggling now, evidently very pleased with himself that he managed to stand up. He looked at Bruce, smiling widely, and started to blabber in baby talk. Non-stop.
Bruce chuckled. An affectionate and sweet chuckle. And he said :
“Yes yes, very impressive. You’re so strong. You’re so strong, little one. Can you do it again ?”
Bruce sad the boy back on the floor. Jason smiled, looked at him again, said :
“Dada ! Babubya !” (whatever it meant)
And he stood up once again. Took one step, two, once again his father’s arms caught him before he could fall.
“Aaaah baba baba !” Jason exclaimed, very proud of himself.
“You did so good !”
Bruce was as excited as his son, and it was the cutest thing to witness. Leading the life you lead, you never got to have a baby in the house before then...So this was how it felt, to saw them take their first steps.
This time, Jason made four steps before crashing in his dad’s arms (which you suspected he did on purpose, because he thought it was fun).
By the end of the day, he could walk on his own and on quite a distance. When Damian came home from school, he was greeted by an extremely proud little Jason, who walked towards him, exclaiming :
“DamDam wak !” (which you translated to something along the lines of : “Damian I can walk”).
Oh. The feels.
Dick found Jason first. He hadn’t heard a word of his brother the entire day, and got worried. Which yes, for many it’s ridiculous but...
Dick cannot help it. He HAS to have at least a text from his family members every 24 hours, or he freaks out. And, could you blame him, with the life you lead ?
The only exceptions were if you warned him first. “Hey, I won’t be there for the next four days, don’t worry before the fifth one haha !” then he wouldn't insist. And all of you knew by then, that you “needed” to give him a head’s up whenever you wouldn’t be reachable.
And to be honest, if it could reassure your son, you’d definitely go the extra mile. Every member of your family would.
So when Jason didn’t warn him about not being available, and didn’t answer his texts and calls, Dick panicked.
He knew he shouldn’t, that his brother was probably all right. But he couldn’t help it, he had to quickly check.
He went to where Jason’s phone pinpointed (of course he put trackers in everyone’s phones. After all, Bruce was his teacher, right ?), one of his hideout, on the outskirt of Gotham.
He came in through a window, as usual, and...
That where he found a baby. A baby fast asleep, in a pool of what he knew were Jason’s clothes.
A baby that, evidently...was Jason ??
“Do you think he remembers us ? Or who he is ?” Dick asks you, looking at his little brother who’s happy to be held in your arms.
“I’m not sure. He did call me mama, and is calling Bruce dada. I don’t know if it’s just natural, or if he has some remnants of memories. Because clearly, he’s “just” a baby, and not Jason stuck in a baby’s body. I mean. It is Jason. But an actual baby version of him. Know what I mean ?”
“Yes, I do.”
There’s a small silence, before Dick has an idea :
“Ok well, let’s see if he does sort of remember but can’t quite voice it. Hey little man, I’m-”
“NO !” Little Jason says, slapping Dick right in the face and pushing him away.
“Ok, it’s definitely Jason...Except, like him when he first came here. He used to downright hate me haha.”
“He didn’t hate you...”
“He kind of did.”
“No, he didn’t. He just- He just wanted to show everyone he could be just like you, if not better. He wanted recognition.”
“Which I...did not give him.”
Regret was obvious in Dick’s voice, and it broke your heart. For once, you weren’t sure what to say. Because it was kind of true, that at first, Dick wasn’t the nicest towards Jason. Things didn’t go as smoothly as you wished.
But neither you nor Jason or Bruce ever blamed Dick for it. It was a time in which he was lost, and always so angry. He left the manor because of it.
Long story short, Dick hadn’t always been the best brother. Jason’s death profoundly changed him...
Now, he couldn’t imagine his life without his siblings. And he could definitely not imagine not being the oldest one.
It actually hurt a bit, Jason’s rejection. The boy was now hiding his face in the crook of your neck, clearly not wanting to be held by Dick.
Ah, but your son had an idea.
“Coming back in a sec.”
He disappears for a bit, and comes back indeed just a few minutes later with a- Ah. Yes. Of course.
He has a cookie in hand. Jason’s weakness. He’s never been able to resist a cookie, especially not those baked by Alfred, like he one Dick was holding. The boy looks curiously at him, and then at the cookie, obviously interested.
Dick breaks it in smaller pieces, and hand it to him, Jason immediately proceeded to suckle on it and-
That was it really. Dick managed to get him in his arms, and from then and on, Jason never rejected him again.
“Bribing him with cookies always worked.”
“Um, excuse me, bribing ? Why did you need to bribe him before ?”
And then he was gone, escaping your question by quickly leaving the room. You shake your head, aaah, those boys.
Jason started to seek Dick, now. Whether it was because he wanted more cookies, or to see his brother, nobody could quite say...
Baby Jason adored Bruce.
Adult Jason too, though he would never admit it. Not anymore. Not after what happened to him...
But he did. Adore his father. That’s probably why he found it so hard to forgive him for not killing the Joker after what he did to him. Ah, but this was another story. For now, Jason as a one year old was an absolute Bruce fanboy.
He loved you too, it was obvious. He came to you whenever he wanted comfort, or cuddles, or anything of the like. You were his mama, and at that age, he would choose you over anybody else.
But, Bruce ?
Jason would exclaim whenever he saw him in the evening, when your husband would come home from work. And then he'd do his little toddler run towards him, and Bruce would catch him in his arms.
You took time off of work, you were pretty independent anyway so nobody really minded. You took time off of work, so you could help Alfred with Jason. You saw that little boy all day.
But Bruce ?
Ah Bruce. He still had to work. The responsibilities of owning such large enterprises made it impossible to take more than a day or two off. So he would see your son only in the morning, and evening before bed time.
It was enough, though.
Jason would yell excitedly, running to him.
Bruce found himself waiting for this moment with great anticipation. Your son would melt anyone’s heart, with his cute little face, big blue eyes, dark hair and that infamous streak of white...He was such a cute toddler.
But Bruce ?
Ah, Bruce’s heart had always been soft for his family, unbeknownst to many. How could he resist that child ?
Running little feet on the floor. Giggles as he was lifted off of it. And then he’d put his hands on his father’s cheeks, and just...smile.
Of that recognizable and pure “Jason smile” he used to always have before-
What if Jason couldn’t be turned back into an adult ? Was that such a bad thing ?
He had another chance right now.
Bruce had another chance. Another shot at not screwing up. At keeping him far from this “Batman” business.
But was this really your, or Bruce’s decision to make ?
No. No it wasn’t.
Run. Catch. Hug.
A shame, that you both knew this was but a chimera which had to end one day.
You almost missed it. But as often in your life, fate made it so you managed to make it just in time.
A few minutes before or after, and you wouldn’t have seen it. Because for sure, if he had seen you, he wouldn’t have done it. And if you came just a little later, you simply would’ve never had any idea it happened.
Here they were.
Baby Jason laying in Alfred’s arms, as the butler sat in a comfortable arm chair, in the library.
🎵🎵 “Puff the magic dragon lived by the sea,
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee
Little Jackie Paper loved that rascal Puff
And brought him strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff
Oh, Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sail” 🎵🎵
Alfred was singing to him.
And Jason was utterly enthralled by the song, his big blue eyes staring at his “grandfather”. He was holding one of the butler’s hand with both of his, tightly. And you were sure your son didn’t even notice how much he clutched at the old man’s hand.
Neither of them noticed you, standing there, looking through the crack of the half-opened door.
🎵🎵 “Jackie kept a lookout perched on Puff's gigantic tail
Noble kings and princes would bow whene'er they came
Pirate ships would lower their flags when Puff roared out his name” 🎵🎵
Captivated, Jason let Alfred caress his little head with his free hand, not realizing what he was doing.
Putting him to sleep, surely.
🎵🎵 “Oh, Puff the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee
Puff the magic dragon lived by the sea
A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys
Painted wings and giant's rings make way for other toys
One gray night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more” 🎵🎵
Oh my God. This song was actually incredibly sad. But Alfred’s soft voice interpreted it so perfectly, that it was beyond soothing at the same time.
Baby Jason didn’t really understand the lyrics anyway, he just seemed to find the song beautiful. It was made obvious by how his eyes got a little misty.
The boy was moved, and it was truly magical. Such a young mind, touched by all the love poured into this song by his grandfather.
🎵🎵 “And Puff, that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar
His head was bent in sorrow, green scales fell like rain
Puff no longer went to play along the cherry lane
Without his lifelong friend, Puff could not be brave” 🎵🎵
The song reminded you of Jason and Bruce too much. You felt like crying, and you didn’t hold the tears back when they started to fell.
It was a bittersweet feeling. Sadness because of all the hardship they both went through, but happiness because they managed to overcome them.
Because their strong bond, their father/son love, was so important to both of them, that it became the source of so many conflicts and pain.
🎵🎵 “So Puff, that mighty dragon, sadly slipped into his cave
Oh, Puff the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee” 🎵🎵
“Sadly slipped into his cave”, was this song specifically written for your Bruce or what ? Yes. Yes it fitted Bruce and Jason’s story so well.
It made you choke with emotions.
“He used to sing that to me when I was a child.”
You didn’t hear him come in, in fact, you felt his arms wrap around your waist before he even made a sound.
Your Broosh. And his warmth is so comforting.
In the library, Alfred starts singing the song again, after Jason was babbling in baby talk, clearly asking for more. Ah, and the old butler was never able to resist any of those kids.
“What is it ? The song.”
“Puff the Magic Dragon, by Peter Paul and Mary. It used to be my favorite song. I think it still is...” (A/N : I highly recommend listening to it once, just to get the feel...I love that song)
You both listen to Alfred sing to Jason. The boy is clearly in love with that song, too. Bruce whispers :
“It used to soothe me, no matter what. As a baby, at least according to my parents. And I’d only want Alfred to sing it, nobody else. Not even my mother or father. When they died he-”
🎵🎵 “Oh, Puff the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee”🎵🎵
“He used to sing it every single night. And it always helped me to fall asleep, even when I thought I wasn’t going to be able to. I love that song.”
“Yes, yes I think- I think I do too.”
You and Bruce stayed there for a while. Holding onto each other for comfort. Listening to that lovely song, while Jason was slowly falling asleep, a smile on his lips.
Trouble and Jealousy
Jason wasn’t even two, in that state, yet he was already quite a smart boy.
Everyone always thought Tim was the brain of this little cluster of siblings, and although often they weren't wrong, all of your children were intelligent, and great strategist.
And evidently, it showed in young Jason right now.
He quickly found he had a knack to get out of trouble. He just had to look at people with cute eyes, and boom. It was done.
Something his siblings weren’t too fan of, because it worked way too well on their mom ! And ever since Jason was turned into a toddler, said mom, you, got her attention a little too focused on him !
The kids were rarely jealous of each other, especially because you and Bruce always found time for each and everyone of them. There were NO favorites, in the Wayne household.
But a toddler demanded much more attention than a, say, 8 years old child. And definitely more than an adult.
Oddly enough, Damian didn’t mind too much. He took his big brother role very seriously, and had a very : “Jason (as a baby at least) can do no wrong” kind of mindset. Even if it was obvious the boy did something he wasn’t supposed to, Damian would defend him, and fight anyone who wouldn’t leave it alone. Which Jason noticed quickly.
Running to his mom or to Damian became a habit, when he caused...Utter chaos. Honestly, there was no other words.
He was a very energetic boy, and although he was very sweet, obedient and nice, it seemed he always came up with the worst of ideas !
Which is what Tim discovered, as he came in the kitchen and found his little brother devouring cookies, sat in the middle of SO MUCH FLOUR !
“Jason, what did you do ??”
Jason looked at him, and giggled. He giggled, the little devil ! Tim went to him, picked him up, and was about to scold him a little (as he should) when you entered the kitchen.
“Oh. My. God. What happened ?!”
Tim was of course about to say Jason somehow got on the counters and such, but the little boy in his arms, after looking at him, a mischievous look in his eyes...started crying.
Big cries that Tim knew were fake. Oh, the crocodile tears !
But it worked on you. It worked really well indeed.
You went to him, took him into your arms, patting his back to comfort him, holding him close.
“Shush shush, it’s ok baby, it’s ok. Tim, please can you clean the mess ?”
And then you left, consoling little Jason...Little Jason who wasn’t sad at all ! He was still making crying sound, but Tim swore he saw a smile on his face as he looked at him and their eyes crossed when their mother left the room !
Dick was easily jealous, if you gave more attention to another of your kid. After all, he had been a lonely child for quite some years before Jason came in. He was used, for so long, to be the sole receiver of your attention (fighting for it with Bruce, though).
Even as an adult, when he came to see you, you’d make sure to have time for him. You saw less of each other since he moved to Bludhäven, so when he came by, you dropped everything to spend time with him.
Dick LOVED it. Maybe he had always been a bit of an attention seeker, but you couldn’t blame him. He had been an only child for years, even before he met you and Bruce. Old habits die hard.
So recently, when, whenever he came by, you would take care of Jason, he couldn’t help but feel a little jealous.
He hated to feel jealous of his siblings. He thought he grew out of that. Most of his conflicts with Jason, years ago, when the boy first came in, were born from Dick being jealous and thinking Bruce replaced him without a second thought (very wrong).
Also, Jason was currently a toddler. Of course he’d have more attention.
Didn’t mean Dick didn’t feel jealous though. Sigh. Damn.
Then whenever Jason saw his oldest brother, he would jump on his feet and run to him, and Dick felt like he was the most important person on the planet because of how the boy looked at him.
He would never admit it now, but Jason had always greatly admired Dick. He was his model. His hero.
Seemed like things never changed, eh.
Ah. Well, Jason always got away with almost everything, with Dick. Some things will never change indeed, no matter the age.
And just like that, any jealous feeling vanished.
Jason was mesmerized by Cass.
Whenever he would start to cry, or feel cranky, she’d dance for him.
He loved it.
He would instantly stop crying, and just stare, utterly captivated, entranced. And then when she’d be done, he’d smile, widely, and raise his arms to make her understand he wants her to pick him up.
And she would, of course.
Cass and Jason never spoke a word, never made a sound. They seemed perfectly content in just being with each other.
Often, Jason would look for his “big” sister, and just sit with her, looking at whatever she’s doing. Even if, say, she read a book with no picture. He’d just look at the words, and at his sister, perfectly content.
Tim quickly renamed Cass “The Baby soother”.
Jason could be a little destructive, as a toddler. He broke way too many vase, and the more people (that weren’t his mom or Damian) told him “no”, the more he wanted to do it.
Yet Cass would come in, and it’s like she knew the button to turn him off. Even if in the middle of a tantrum, she’d just dance, and Jason would calm down.
It was magic, really.
Jason and Cass had both very strong childhood trauma. It seemed to please her that her brother’s bad experience had now been erased.
“Can’t we keep him like that ?”
She once asked. You answered : “I wish. But it’s not our decision...”
You couldn’t possibly decide for your son like that. You couldn’t, for selfish reasons, decide to keep him as a baby, letting him grow up differently. You couldn’t.
She said sadly. Seeing her sad made Jason sad, and the boy was about to cry when-
His favorite thing. She started dancing for him. This time picking him up to dance with him.
Because she was going to take every chance she got to make her brother’s “new” childhood the most memorable, calming, and warm possible.
Finally, after three whole months, Constantine came back.
With good news.
“I found a way to reverse it, but it might be a little long.”
And long it was indeed. With the help of Bruce, it took him the entire day to perform the ritual that would give Jason his adult body back (and mind, hopefully...John wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t about to tell that to any of you. Oops).
Jason was there, actually Jason. And according to John, there would be no permanent damage. He managed to bring both body and spirit back.
He warned them he would sleep for a while, the shock of the transformation being exhausting.
Jason slept the entire day, when he woke up, he was groggy and still tired, his first words being :
Of course, because he saw you first.
Bruce felt a pang in his chest. Jason’s first instinct was to call for him too.
“...The FUCK happened ?!”
And your Jason was back to his normal self, for better and for worst. You wouldn’t have it any other way. As you told him the story of the past few months, you realized that you would never forget the memory of Jason as a baby, and how sweet that kid has (and will) always be(en).
And when he says : “The last thing I remember is being with that girl, oh I forgot her name now. Anyway I was with her, because I suspected she was a metahuman and wanted to make sure, but she didn’t say anything. Then she was all like : “well if you’re going to act like a child, then you might as well be one” and...And that’s it, that’s all I remember.”, you all bursted out into laughter.
“You might as well be one” indeed. Of course, Jason would piss of a magician capable of transforming people.
Years later, you’d learn said girl was a disciple of Klarion, and everything finally made sense.
I want to be an older brother
Damian started to understand, those months. The feeling you get, as an older brother. The intense need to protect your younger sibling, to teach them things, to be there for him.
And looking back on his life since he joined you and Bruce at Wayne Manor ? All his older brothers and sister did exactly that for him.
Jason, always did that for him. Ever since he was a baby. And Damian ? He wanted to be that for someone too.
“Being an older brother is pretty fun...”
Damian told you, not long after Jason turned back into his adult form.
And you could see he wished he wasn’t the youngest one, for once. Damian definitely enjoyed his junior status, he knew he could get away with a lot of things with his siblings and parents (funny enough, Jason was the softest one who would let him get away with stuffs that honestly weren’t too good), but having a toddler around seemed to make him want to be an older brother...How funny, how destiny works.
You weren’t going to lie. It was nice, to have such a small kid home. You and Bruce never got to raise a child from birth, for obvious reasons. Not that you regretted anything, or the life you lead until then. It was just...Nice, to have a little kiddo around.
Funny, how things work.
Was it fate, that made it so you had a certain news not long after that adventure with Jason being turned into a toddler by a wizard he offended ?
Fate, that made Damian’s wish a possibility. Fate, that made it so you discovered that you were actually...
To be continue ?
If you thought this was another excuse for me to write more toddler with Bruce and Batmom...then you were right haha. I’ve been in a mood my friends, and I love writing babies. Jason as a “lil lad” who has (almost) a chance at a good childhood makes my heart warm, but it can’t happen so next best thing ? Wizardry. Haha. I almost want to write a “turned toddler” story for each batsiblings hehe.
Hope you enjoyed ! As per usual comments and reblogs are very welcomed :)
PS : I tweaked a little Jason’s story with the Al’Ghuls after he got resurrected, just because…I wanted to haha. So, Damian’s part is heavily inspired by actual canon stories, but maybe, JUST MAYBE, I made it so Jason and Damian’s relationship was stronger that it is portrayed to be, just because, again, I can. And I love that headcanon.
Don’t Be Voyeur with Me
Bruce Wayne x F!Reader
Rated E - 2.3k
Tags: inappropriate use of contacts, (filming a sex tape), fingering, spitting, PiV, hand on throat (not choking), begging, suit sex, implied voyeurism, cream pie, cum play, size kink, praise kink
“Are you recording this?”
The drag of his eyes is slow, passing over the curve of your hip, the soft swell of your breasts - up over the column of your neck until he meets your eyes.
His lips part.
Or - Bruce’s contacts aren’t just for solving crimes
“Are you recording this?”
The drag of his eyes is slow, passing over the curve of your hip, the soft swell of your breasts - up over the column of your neck until he meets your eyes.
His lips part.
His fingers haven’t slowed, two of them knuckle deep within you, pressing and pumping and curling, working you slowly open for him. Your thighs spread just a little wider as you suck in a shallow breath to answer, “Good.”
There’s the slightest tick to his lips, a split second as they turn up before his eyes drag back down, casting them into shadow as he pumps. His slick fingers are loud as they disappear into you, each thrust punctuated with your sharp exhale of breath.
You’re spread out before him, the work table you’re laying on looking sterile as he stands between your bare thighs - wiped clean of his work, of any evidence. The lighting above is turned down dim, casting soft shadows against the curves of your body, contrasting with the sharp sheen of the metal.
He’s focused, you can see it in his expression, the steady curl of fingers. Methodical, carefully preparing you for him.
But really - you just want him to fuck you.
Split you open on his cock, make you come so hard you can’t even think.
So you tell him this, though in a way that’s little but more refined, his jaw clenching as he bites back a groan as his fingers flex within you at your words.
“Should make you wait,” his voice is low, eyes dark as dark as the shadows he hides in. “Should make you beg for it.”
You’re begging now, you want to tell him. Can’t he feel how much you need him? His fingers are just not enough, you need more. You need him.
“Please,” your voice comes out ragged, your eyes fixed on him, the powerful spread of his shoulders, encased in all that armor. He’s big with it on, intimidating in a way that makes you ache, knowing that despite how he’s feared, there’s nothing for you to be scared of.
“Please, what?” His hand leaves you to drift down, damp fingers drifting over the clasps on his suit, where you’re sure he’s rock-hard beneath.
“Please fuck me.” The claps loosen, the codpiece clattering to the ground as he draws himself out, heavy and thick in his hand.
Fingers wrap around the base, squeezing and pumping for show, spreading your arousal on his shaft before his thumb swipes over the damp slit at his tip.
“Do you think you’ve earned it?”
You blink, your tongue peeking out to wet your lips as you nod, “Yes.”
He moves closer, until your hips are flush, letting his cock drop against your stomach, leaving a smear of precum against your skin as he imagines just how far into you he’ll go.
“Are you going to take what I give you?”
Your breath is a whimper, needy and high, your hips rocking against him. He drags his cock down, pressing it against your slick lips, tapping it against your clit as your hips jerk.
“Fuck, yes. Anything.”
His eyes leave your cunt to watch your face as his head dips down, jaw flexing before his lips part, before his spit drips hot and wet down your slit.
You gasp, both of you watching the way his cock drags though it, running over your clit before it’s moving down, pressing against your entrance.
His eyes flick to yours, waiting for your nod before his hips snap forward and he buries himself in you.
The stretch is exquisite, your back arching against the table, your moan loud as fingers scrabble over slick metal for purchase - searching until you reach your own thighs, fingernails biting and sharp as they dig into flesh.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans when he bottoms out, his hips bumping against yours, pressed so deep that it feels like he’s in your guts.
The quick snap of his hips might hurt if you weren’t so wet, so fucking needy - wondering if he’ll watch this later, the same hand wrapped around his cock as he remembers just how good you felt.
“Is this what you wanted?” His voice is low, desperate, gritted teeth blurring the sharp edge, “Just needed my cock, didn’t you?”
His hands are holding you wide, thumbs digging into your inner thighs as he draws back, sliding half-way out of your heat before rocking back in.
“Yes.” You choke out, and you see it again as he hums, the slightest curve of lips.
And it is - he is - and he’s barely even moved yet. The feeling of him pressed deep, filling you, his handsome face almost impassive behind the angular cowl.
He finds a rhythm, head carefully still as he looks downward, hips slapping against you again and again, until the strip of matte black armor above his groin shines with you, until each of your breaths is short and sharp.
His hands adjust, leaving your thighs as you keep your legs spread wide with your own, almost forgetting about why you’re doing this, forgetting any self-consciousness as his hands roam, up to your waist - one digging in to your hip, the other still traveling upwards.
You jerk against him, the pleasure red-hot in your belly, another soft cry leaving your lips. His eyes drag upwards again, pausing to watch the bounce of your tits with each of his thrusts, his hand stopping to cup one with a wide palm.
Fingers pinch the pointed bud of your nipple, drawing another gasp before he moves again, brushing over the column of your neck. The palm of his hand goes flat before his fingers curl around, not pressing - just holding your head still, his thumb brushing against the edge of your jaw.
His look is intense, and this only adds to your heightening pleasure, his eyes dark and unblinking as he sees just how big his hand looks against you, how your lips part in a gasp with each thrust.
Your skin feels hot, buzzing with desire beneath his cool palm, and you wonder if you look as wrecked as you feel.
“Are-“ you start, before you lose the thought on a soft “oh!”, before you suck in a breath to try again, “Are you going to watch this later?”
He’s looking directly into your eyes now, you can see how they move, taking in each expression, each breath. Analytical. Observing.
“Yes.” His answer is the same as before, short and certain.
And you know he will, playing it back until he’s cataloged every sound, every move you make. That he gets off - just a little bit, or maybe more than that - on it.
Watching, listening, learning.
Rewind, replay. Repeat.
You don’t mind thought, the thought as ripe and sweet as fruit - the Dark Knight, the Defender of Gotham, jerking his cock to you until he’s spilling across his gloves.
You’re brought back as his answer is slowly amended, “Only when I can’t have you.”
His words makes you clench down hard around him, his groan joining yours as he pounds into your heat.
The hand moves, until his thumb brushes over your lower lip, until your tongue darts out to brush against his skin. The noise he makes is low as you nip at it, tasting yourself, sharp and tangy on him.
His head dips as if you kiss you, before remembering, before he stills - making a frustrated sound low in his throat as his back curves to hover over you. The angle of his cock has you crying out, each of his thrusts sends him over your spongey inner wall, against the spot that threatens to break you.
Your cries has become loud, the vast room doing nothing to mask the sound, and perhaps that’s what he wanted. He’s never been much of a talker, his low groans sliding through gritted through teeth, as if he’s holding them back. But he’s never objected to hearing you, all the sweet noises you make.
The rough pace slows as the hand on your hip ghosts downwards, hoisting your thighs over his hips - around his waist, pushing himself deeper.
They linger on your skin, his fingers drifting down over your slick folds, thumb moving until it glides against your clit. A jolt runs through you, everything winding and twisting so tightly you feel like it’s about to snap.
Unable to stop you hips rocking to meet him, you push yourself eagerly against his fingers - your own hands flying to grip his arms, needing something to hold onto. The table under you rattles with each thrust, from the force of his hips banging into the edge.
Your brow furrows as your eyes drift closed on their own, your face turning until your cheek presses against the cool metal, the sensations almost too much.
The hand comes back, forefinger and thumb touching the hinges of your jaw, tilting your head back.
His voice is low and rough, “Look at me.”
You do with an effort, your brow still pinched, mouth open as you pant out a breath. Focusing on the pair of sea-blue eyes, you cling to him, your fingernails digging into the suit covering his arms.
He has you close, incredibly so, his wide frame filling your vision, the low timbre of his voice making your stomach clench. Bruce’s other hand is still between your thighs, pressing and circling and stealing your breath.
“Are you going to come?” He asks, and it’s those eyes again, unblinking as they gaze down at you, full of hunger.
His voice alone almost does, low and rough as it is, his lips parting as he wets them with his tongue, his breath going sharp as you nod.
“Yes-“ You can feel it, feel him, wanting to shut your eyes as it builds, but you keep them focused on him, “Yes, fuck yes, please-“
His eyes flicker downward for a moment, to where he’s speared deep, unsure of which he wants more - to see your face, lips forming his name - his true nature - when you come. Or whether he wants to see how you’ll gush around him, soaking his cock, the tight flutter of your hole.
His hips snap forward as he makes his decision, eyes rising back up to watch you, with so many pretty details to capture there. You watch his lips part again, the words always starting to sound muted in your cock-drunk haze.
“Come on my cock, sweetheart. Fuck, let me feel you.”
And with another flick of his wrist, you’re there, crying out as you clench down around him, until he can’t hold back the long, low groan that finally bursts forth.
His hands drift to your waist, using his grip as leverage as he fucks you through it, each thrust a spark that seems to draw the feeling out for ages, the radiating pulse that travels down your limbs.
All the while you keep your eyes on his, where you know his contacts are still recording, taking every detail in.
Your cunt is louder now, wetter with your release, as he thrusts into it, his breathing going shaky and his hips not quite keeping the same rhythm.
“You feel so good, I’m not-“ he groans, his composure starting to crack.
His eyes roam freely now, down to where’s he’s fucking you, his thrusts short and shallow. With a thought, you legs unhook from his waist, your fingers hooking under your knees to pull your thighs up towards your chest.
“Oh fuck-“ He groans, the words sounding broken, watching the wet shine of his cock, the angle pushing him deeper, his strokes slowing so he can deep the way he disappears into you, how you stretch wide around him, “Baby, I’m going to come. Can you take it all for me?”
“Please,” and you arch into him, thighs shifting wider, “Please, I want you to come in me.”
With a ragged groan his hips snap forward, his back arching, eyes locked on his pulse and jerk of his cock as he spills into you. Bruce pushes himself deep, grinding against you, until he forgets himself, his form changing, curling over yours so he can meet your mouth with his.
It’s sloppy - messy, teeth scraping lip, your hand cupping the curved cowl at the base of his neck to keep him close. He licks into you, as you take the last of his spend, pressed to the hilt until he finally starts to go soft.
He pulls back after a long moment, a low hum in his throat, his eyes softer than before. Carefully he eases out of you, and you already miss the stretch. Your legs dangle from the table now, pressed together - limp with satisfaction, an arm thrown across your face as you catch your breath.
But there’s one last nudge between your thighs, his finger sliding down between puffy lips until the tip sinks inside you, coming out slick and shining - covered in your combined release.
“Show me, sweetheart. Please.” His voice has lost the rough edge, and the sound makes you shiver, goosebumps pricking your skin.
Carefully, your thighs spread again, opening yourself up, and his groan is sinful - his thumb stroking over where you drip with him, his release warm against your skin from as it leaks to pool on the cool metal below.
“Good fucking girl.” If he had stopped recording earlier, he is now - you’ve never seen him so still, so fascinated, “Just look at that mess.”
A finger swipes through his cum and up, pushing himself back into you, a moan of your own joining his. It’s dirty, but fuck - it does something to you, the fire sparking again in your belly.
“What do you think?” You ask carefully, and his eyes reluctantly leave to focus on you, “Did you get everything? Or…. or do you think we should try again?”
You can’t see his brow but from the look in his eyes, you think they might be furrowing, uncertain.
“I’d just hate for you to miss anything. After all the work you did.” Your teeth sink into your lip to hide your smile, and understanding flickers across his face.
He moves closer, pulling you up until you’re pressed against him, his cock trapped against your slick, used cunt.
“I think you may be right.”
He grinds against you, and you can feel him twitch, start to swell again.
“We’d better try again. Always better to be thorough.”
A/N: there’s just no way he hasn’t used those contacts like That before
(And fic title comes from the soundtrack!)
cerulean shaded. || bruce wayne x f!reader.
Bruce makes good on his earlier promise. (Part 2 to ‘copper stained.’)
Hurt and Comfort. Smut. Friends to Lovers.
NO SPOILERS FOR ‘THE BATMAN (2022).’
WARNINGS: 18+ ONLY; Explicit Sexual Content; Descriptions of Blood & Injuries; Likely Inaccurate Medical Care; Pain Kink; Praise Kink; Oral Sex (M!Receiving); Vaginal Stimulation; Face F*cking; Unprotected Sex; Very Minor Breeding Kink; Some Rough Sex Elements; A Single Spank for Good Measure; Reader Has Long Hair - But No Other Descriptors Used; Not Beta-Read.
Word Count: 5.4k
PART ONE || DCEU || MASTERLIST
Likes, but namely comments and reblogs are much appreciated!
A flood of steam fills the room.
The humidity only makes the embarrassment that you feel more tangible. Unbearably pronounced. It’s an unwelcome sensation that crawls up your neck in burning tendrils. But, no matter how unpleasant, it does little to wash away the lingering prickle of desire conjured by his touch.
Nervously, your eyes fall to the door. Will he actually follow?
You wait a moment, chewing your lip, but it doesn't open. Fuck.
There's a low ache between your legs. A repeated reminder. Wetness is smeared at the apex of your thighs - a leftover remnant of what only just happened. You can almost feel his kiss lingering upon your lips still.
The drawer underneath the long sink scrapes out. Small wicker-lined baskets dot the space inside. It's one of the handy things about staying in Wayne Manor: All of the cabinets are readily stocked with whatever the guests may need. A sigh of relief almost leaves you upon finally being able to get your hands on a toothbrush and some paste.
Using it is a profound relief.
The day old sourness swiftly fades. Your breath feels better almost instantly - and a decent scrub of your tongue doesn’t go wrong either. After gargling some mouthwash, your breath feels satisfactorily fresh. About time for some humanity to finally begin to creep back through your veins.
Across the room, the shower cascades behind the fogging glass wall. It falls in a visibly warm flood onto the flat tiled floor. The steam looks soothing. Enticing. Suddenly impatient, you strip off the rest of your clothes - neatly draping them across the towel rack upon the wall. A groan leaves your lips upon the moment that you finally step underneath the cascade of hot water, sliding the door closed behind you.
Fuck. It's heaven.
The hot flow spreads down to your bones. It chases away the lingering mix of morning chill, and drowns some of the low hum of anxiety. Your eyes flutter closed in relief. God - it’s a nice shower. Far more luxurious than the one you have in the gate house. That one is a lot more compact. Visibly not designed for more than one person, unlike this, where another person (or even possibly something obscene like seven) would fit with ease.
And suddenly, you feel his eyes upon your bare skin.
Breath catching in your throat, you turn - eyes seeking out a familiar shape from over your bare shoulder. They settle upon him instantly. His stare is burning. You could hit the notch controlling the temperature of the shower as far to the right as it could possibly go, and the heat would still not compare.
It barely even registers that you're utterly naked. This is not like earlier, where you were still in some semblance of dress. Now, you're bare before him, and he drinks you in, shirtless, and shifting hungrily upon his heels. That simmering gaze - sky cerulean shades blazing from the remnants of still smudged black - fix on you.
His lips form words that are altogether drowned out by shower spray, but you can read them all the same. "Hi."
The repetition of earlier makes you smile. Seeing the look in his eyes makes you feel braver - courageous enough to lift a hand, and curl two beckoning fingers towards him.
At the gesture, one side of his mouth twitches into a wry smirk. There's a rare sparkle in his eyes. Inside, another embarrassed wave of heat crawls up your cheeks as his hands go to grasp the waistband of his trousers. Ensuring that you are watching, Bruce slowly pushes them down.
The waistband snags on his cock, dragging it down, and then his length springs free. A flare of cold shock blocks out the heat of the shower. Your eyes widen almost comically. Down below, your core simultaneously clenches, and your legs subconsciously cross over one another - thighs rubbing together in a bit for friction.
It's a struggle to stop yourself from swearing softly, because - Christ - Bruce is huge.
And sure - you'd already thought so earlier. He'd be in your hand, after all. It had let you feel him. Yet, seeing it clearly now takes things to a whole other level.
The urge to make a joke rises - something to downplay how your throat is tightening almost comically. It'd be a flippant comment. Something like "I guess Batman is packing more than just what's on his utility belt," but it doesn't feel like the right time to brush off the effect that he's having on you. It might only scare him off.
Bruce Wayne is a hard man to read, and more confusing still to navigate.
His shadows and secrets have different depths, ringed in a gyre. The further they are, the harder to reach - even if you stretch. However, in this moment, he's close. Coming closer. So, when he silently opens the water-flecked glass door to step inside, you don't have to strain to touch him.
Bruce looms closer, and that firm chest brushes yours. Sharp face angled down, water runs from the tip of his strong nose - dripping in a steady funnel as it spills onto your chest. The cascade barely teases past the swollen peak of your nipple, and the soft tickle has the breath catch in your lungs.
That sharp toothed grin of his reveals itself again - pleased at the response. Slowly, you can sense a breakage from the reserve that normally holds him so stiff. A tentative act of opening up. Silently bidding to reassure him, your hands slide gently up around his neck, clasping over the rippling muscle of his back as your head tilts coyly - eyes meeting his.
Underneath the shower spray, the black soot that Bruce smears his face with is washing away in streams. Your tongue traces your lower lip thoughtfully as you look at him. Those blue eyes are so prominent against the darkness. Light in the shadows. The type of abyss that you could drown in.
He leans in. Your eyes catch on the bruised flush of his own mouth, and the notch in his lip, the one left from where your teeth caught him earlier. It brings another thought to mind - and you shrink back to stop him.
"Did you lock the door?"
“Yes.” There's another rare laugh after that - and the sound has a well-familiar, unsteady heat coiling in the pit of your stomach. "But even for Alfred, bursting in on me in the bathroom might be a step too far."
Despite the rebuttal, you’re not entirely sure if that’s the truth.
"But what if you have Batman things to do?" It still sounds a little surreal. The fact that Bruce is Batman. Your quiet childhood friend is Gotham’s most famous vigilante superhero. “They can’t exactly wait.”
Bruce shifts in, his mouth trailing in gentle nips and kisses across the curve of your jawline as a husky murmur spills from his lips. "I can't focus on anything until I've gotten you out of my system. Can you let me?"
Instead of responding, you just shift in to kiss him again. Hungry. Open mouthed.
The remnants of the smeared eyeshadow seep from his cheeks, speckling the stream of falling shower water. You can taste them in the whisper of his mouth against yours. How the travelling droplets spill across your tongue - mixing flecks of soot with the taste of his earlier remnants of you.
He still tastes like your pussy. Wants more of it too, if the way that his swelling cock relentlessly prodding against your front is anything to go by. Moaning into his mouth - you reach for it.
His hands are already sliding around your back. Fingertips skate across your wet skin, tingling as they mix with the heat of the shower, until he grasps a fistful of your hair and pulls. It tugs at your roots - a slight sting of pain that forces you to break from his lips. Head tilted towards the ceiling, you yield away with a moan as his other hand grasps your rear and squeezes.
Your hands have fallen. Nails dig into the rippling flat of his muscular shoulders, and Bruce's hips flex at the pain when you tighten. He grinds himself against you. The tip of his cock is firm against the pit of your stomach. It nearly throbs against you - needy, eager, and resentful at the delay all at once.
His mouth skates down the curve of your neck. There's teeth too - loosely veiled. Stinging and catching on your tender skin, until you can feel the beginning ache of bruising beginning to dapple over the flesh.
And down below, his cock slips to bounce between against the apex of your thighs.
Your legs open as much as they can with his hand still kneading your ass cheek. Silent invitation. There's no need to ask him twice.
With the pointed flex of his waist, Bruce pushes his swollen head through the gap of your legs. It bumps against your clit - slides teasingly past the entrance of your folds. The sensation of him, the slipperiness that eases the bumping friction, has a low moan spill from your lips. His hold on your rear tightens - firming as he molds his body closer against yours.
Water peppers you both. The mist of the spray makes it harder to breathe. You're already gasping - and his cock isn't even inside of you yet. The length is pressed against your burning slit. So close, but still so far - and it's fucking torture. Unable to form coherent thought, you just whine against his lips.
He reaches up to pry one of your hands from his shoulder. It's only then that you realize the skin there weeping thin tears of red - that you've dug in far enough to draw blood. An apology begins to form, but then you see the look in his eyes. Those usually cerulean shaded irises have darkened. It's as if the sky is fading, leaching away into the utter eclipse of his blown pupils.
He looks other. Different. More feral than the reserved man that you know by day.
This is the Batman.
His lean fingers tangle with yours. You can feel his palm - flaring with heat - and the momentary collision. Just for a split second, so he can use the push of your arm to press you back against the shower wall. The tile is cold. Pronounced chills flicker down your spine. You gasp, light-headed at that, and at how Bruce is using your entwined hands to drag yours down amidst the cramped space between your bodies.
There, he unfurls your tangled grip - and wraps your own in silent demand around his straining shaft. His cock is hot underneath your touch. Your thumb rubs over the head. He pulses within your hold - so fucking large that your fingertips barely glance as they close around him. Below, your thighs clench.
Another shudder of molten want ripples through the pit of your stomach. It feels as if your insides are on fire.
Helpless to resist, you fumble slightly as you arch backward against the unrelenting wall, and begin to rub Bruce's swollen tip up and down against the leaking slit of your cunt. Each catch of him against your clit has your teeth clamp down upon your lip to stifle the filthy moans that threaten to spill free.
It's so warm within the shower’s misty confines. Almost too warm. The type of spreading heat that fills your head and makes it hard to think past a clouded haze.
The both of you are lost in it.
Bruce's grunt sounds huff against your ear as he pushes in - fucking greedily into your palm. The head of his cock is an angry purple. Glistening, and leaking precum that mixes with the cascading flow of water. Through repeated hitches, he slides in and out of your grip. You can feel him pushing through - pounding against the outside of your entrance so that it stretches, but not slipping inside.
Making a low sound in the back of his throat, Bruce lifts a hand to grope at one of your breasts. His other has untangled from your hair, forearm now braced against the wall overhead as he leans in to close the space even further. His mouth whispers down the side of your face - your neck, your shoulder. You can feel the light scrape of his nails against your tender, stiffened nipple. It rolls in his grip, shifting as he cups and squeezes.
You move against him, hips grating in sync with his own. The head of his cock rubs clumsily against your clit, grinding in, and despite the restriction of proximity, it feels so good.
Already, you can feel yourself beginning to whimper. Electricity is jumping through your veins and it fizzles over your skin in dizzying, burning waves.
His throbbing tip catches upon your aching hole - tipping in to stretch your centre open briefly, before sliding back out. You guide the press of his head back to your clit. Bruce rolls over it, again and again, until it all starts to become too much. Your muscles are beginning to strain and shake - insides alight with twisting heat.
It feels like your lungs can't get enough air.
Soft noises tear from your lips.
"You’re so eager for me," Bruce whispers - and it's not mocking, but husky and proud. “It’s killing me, Scout.”
Your eyes seek out his. Something warm sings from their depths, hitching your heart within your chest. He dips in - blue eyes fluttering closed as his lips press hungrily once more against yours.
Bruce steals the breath from your already seizing lungs, tongue pushing into your mouth to open it wider. He invades easily. Swallowing all of the little whimpers that escape you as the stimulation he brings edges you closer and closer to orgasm. The hand playing so teasingly with your breast falls, drawing slow spirals across your skin by the fingertips.
Underneath his touch, your eyes flutter - heavy. Everything is wrapped in the golden haze of lust. The bathroom light seems too bright when you stare at him, burning like a halo around his silhouette. And then, his brow creases.
Your body seizes in protest as Bruce lowers to take hold of your fingers once more - firmly unwrapping them from his throbbing shaft. Head shaking in confusion, you begin, stumbling over your words. "What are you-"
"Ssh," Bruce whispers, and moves in to swipe two fingers through the wet folds of your cunt.
"Fuck." The back of your head collides with the shower wall as you buck against it. A ragged pant seizes from your chest as you watch him lift his fingers and slide them slowly between his lips. "Holy shit, Bruce."
Leaning forward, the billionaire presses his mouth against yours. It's a light kiss - fluttery. Not quite like the hungry push of tongue and teeth earlier, but softer. His murmur is low, suffocated by the shower stream, but you feel the words more than hear them. "I just wanted another taste. Now, what do you want?"
Down below, you can feel Bruce’s fingertips skating down your body once more. They play against your skin - whispering as they descend. You know where he’s going. The intention is clear, burning from those clear blue eyes. Gaze drinking in your expression, Bruce pauses, and his fingers draw teasing patterns on your inner thigh while waiting for your words.
“Use your words.”
"I..." At any other time, it might be embarrassing. It might make your face heat in shame, and your words hitch and stutter. But here - now - when he's so close to touching you, all of that abates, only leaving the tight throb of need in its place. "I want to come. On your fingers. On your cock. All of it."
"Then spread your legs a little bit more." His voice is husky - low and rough.
He sounds like Batman.
It reaches down to speak to something inside, and you obey. The tiles are slippery underneath the soles of your feet. His forearm cages you in above - broad chest mere inches from yours. Bruce’s lips tilt into a smirk. You can feel him then, lightly tracing over your slit in a way that makes you clench and squirm.
"Do you like it?” Bruce asks. His voice is soothing as it washes across - raising goosebumps across your skin. “Tell me. Please."
“It feels good. I need more.”
Obeying with heated eyes, Bruce pushes two fingers deep inside your cunt.
A low whine tears from you. Your fingers rise up to latch upon his chest, nails biting into his skin once again, and a palpable shudder ripples through his torso. He groans once more, stirred by the slight ache. Warm breath washes across your cheeks. Fuck. Your head falls back as the slow push of his arm deep inside begins again.
It feels fucking incredible.
Bruce watches greedily; fingers half-curled at the joint as he pumps them in and out of your heated cunt. Even over the sounds of the cascading shower, the wet noises of his repeated strokes deep within have you whimpering. You watch him through heavy, lust-lidded eyes. His teeth catch on your bottom lip. Another inhale breaks inside of you as the push and hollow stroke of his hand continues.
"Do you like it?" Bruce asks - almost desperate.
"Yes." The gasp is a broken confession, ringed with the lazy burst of stars across your eyes. "You're doing so well. It's better than I could have... Than I ever imagined."
His fingers continue to stroke inside of you. You can feel yourself dripping, slick mixing with the shower water as it coats his digits. Bruce's face nuzzles into the pit of your throat. His lips whisper in a coaxing caress across your skin, just as the pad of this thumb rolls across your clit.
"Oh, fuck-" you whisper, ragged.
Below, your legs are shaking. Electricity sparks over your skin - flaring in dizzying jolts. His pace increases, a quick, repeated strike that has you arching further into his touch. You can feel him now. Perfectly angled. The tips of his fingers strike into that one particular spot deep within, over and over, until you're squirming and gasping against him.
His teeth catch on the side of your neck. It's an unexpected bite, and a sudden, sharp pierce. The burst of pain has you tightening against him, ridiculously close to falling off the edge, and Bruce chuckles against your earlobe. "Do you like that? A little bit of pain?"
Before you can answer, his arm shifts. His thumb presses upon your clit in a painful, tweaking squeeze. It's harsh - stinging. Enough to finally break you with pathetic force, shattering around him as your body ripples with the strength of your shudders. Bruce holds you against the wall as you come utterly undone.
Those darkened, eager eyes drink in the twitches of your expression - the spasms rippling through your body, and the soft cries that tear from your lips. Still, he continues to play against your clit. Coaxes out every last tremor of pleasure. Your eyes squeeze shut - unfocused as they dance across the ceiling.
When the last quake abates, Bruce draws back. You peel yourself off the wall. Sweat and shower water have mixed across your skin. The heat in the enclosed space is stifling - but you push past the haze and turn your attention to Bruce.
Namely, to the sturdy press of his still rock-hard cock against the pit of your stomach.
With some distance, you can finally take him in once again. How he's an angry red, leaking from the tip, and near throbbing with intensity. The sight makes your throat tighten. Shakily, you reach out, running your fingers along his thick shaft. They catch at the top, fondling his swollen head and spreading the bead of precum that your thumb finds there, before descending in an experimental pump.
Against your touch, Bruce's lips tighten into a broken groan.
Watching him, you can't help but wonder if it's been a while since he was last touched. Almost entirely seems like it is - if his responding tremble is anything to go by. Your gazes catch together, sparking, and there's something desperate in the way that his eyes widen when you stroke his length.
"Do you like that?" It surprises you - the fact that you even offer the words, and the tenderness in which you do. "You've got such a pretty cock, Wayne."
He moans at that. Maybe the words, or the use of his last name in such a blatant tease. The sound reaches inside to stroke something bold and brave within you. Seeing Bruce like this, flush on his cheeks and mouth parted in a gasp, brings out a new side - one that you'd never uncovered before.
Unable to help yourself, your other hand lands on his hip. It applies a gentle pressure, and Bruce rotates - now pressing his own back against the shower wall. Your fingers slide up his shaft again, taking in the slight curve of his dick. His gaze burns into your face as you lower to your knees.
His swollen head throbs inches from your face. More precum swells on the tip, before an errant splatter from the shower knocks it askew. The rest of the water falls in a gentle flood down the curve of your back as you lean in.
Bruce's cock holds a faint tinge of something bitter and salty as it slides between your lips.
Above, he gasps. His fingers tangle in the wet fall of your hair. Pleased at the reaction, you hum, and the vibration has his waist twitch. The stretch of him already has your jaw aching. Slowly, you begin to bob against him. Bruce's cock slides through your mouth, uncertainly at first.
Your hand strokes down the length of his shaft simultaneously. The grip on your hair tightens. His pale hips grind slowly into your face. Slow initially, but then beginning to gain speed and going faster - until you can feel the push of him at the back of your throat.
His whines turn to grunts. They burst from above, low and throaty. Rising in volume as Bruce begins to lose himself in the rhythm. His head tilts back, cerulean gaze narrowed in a wave of pleasure, and pulls you closer by the hair as something a shade darker begins to dance across the recesses of his sharp expression.
Wet hair hangs over his forehead - dripping in errant tendrils. Those hungry eyes could swallow you whole. Pupils unholy black, Bruce looks down, and his hand tugs harder on your hair to make you arch further upon your knees - eyes admiring the naked curve of your ass as it juts out further in response.
His teeth catch upon his lower lip, and the cut already etched there earlier breaks. A faint stream of red runs down his chin, but the water soon whisks it away.
Unable to help yourself, your free hand runs up his front. Old scars litter the skin of his abdomen, pink and raised. You always thought that he looked harmless. Tall and thin, but nothing much more. Now, it seems that those expensive suits were just a facade to hide away the muscle and marks.
Your wandering fingertips bump into the soaked gauze. Dulled crimson blossoms across it - the increased pace agitating some of his stitches.
Tears begin to form in the corner of your eyes. Bruce is going so deep that his cock is catching - making you choke. As much as you try to hold on, to just let him fuck your mouth and use you until he's finished, the push soon grows almost suffocating. It's hard to breathe - to think past his cock in your throat and to hear the noises above and know how good you're making him feel.
But it's too much.
With a gasp, you lurch away. Just for a moment, his grip tightens on your hair - as if he means to hold you there and force you to take him further. Then, he relents. A cloud of fresh air fills your lungs as you lean back, an apologetic smile already forming as his cock slips from your lips.
"Do it, then," you smirk, tightening your grip as your hand swells against him faster, and shifting to aim his swelling tip at your face and chest. "Anywhere you want."
You take a few gulps of eager breath. Above, Bruce moans in frustration. In an effort to placate, especially given all that he's done tonight, you reach for his throbbing length once more. He curses as the tip of your tongue flicks playfully against his frenulum. Smirking, you slide it around the swollen top of his shaft, no longer swallowing, but lapping against his leaking head.
Soon, his hips are twitching with each lap of your tongue, eyes rapt as you spit on his cock, before bobbing slightly on the tip. Your hand runs down his shaft, pumping, and as you draw back again to look up - you can see that his eyes are closed in blissful abandon.
"Fuck. You're going to make me..." Trailing off, a thick swallow convulses his throat as you lick him again, soft repeated laps against his underside.
He makes a sound akin to a growl, but it breaks off painfully. "I... I want it inside of you. All of it."
The words alone have you moaning.
Hands cupping your elbows, Bruce pulls you to stand. His fingers trace upwards to cup your face, pushing his thumb briefly into your mouth so that your lips part, before leaning in to replace it with the flick of his tongue. You cling to him, kissing back fiercely. His hands rove freely across your body, tightening upon your hips before cracking across your ass in a sharp sting.
"I can taste my cock on your tongue," he growls, the arousal clear in his low tone.
The feel of him everywhere - and knowing what's about to happen - is making you grind against him freely.
Hot arousal floods through you even thicker than before. The space between your legs is tingling. Soaked. Bruce breaks from your lips, nuzzling briefly against your cheek, before those hands on your body are spinning you around.
It's masked by the shower water, but you're already aware that you're dripping onto him.
A gasp bursts from your lips as cold tile presses up against your bare breasts. Tingles spread through your stiff nipples. Your hands flatten against the wall, straining as Bruce moves into position behind. Glancing back, your eyes catch on the sight of him fisting his cock within his palm. The head bumps against the inside of your thigh. One of his arms wraps around your front, the muscles in his bicep tightening. He drags the curve of your body back into him, and his other hand fumbles between your legs.
Desperate shudders run through you as Bruce's head lines up at your entrance. It tips in - stretching the folds of your cunt. Cheek pressed against the porcelain tiles, each puff of air stains them in a haze, clouding the translucent reflection of yourself and Bruce.
His throat clears behind, low tone ringing gruffly in your ear. "I thought I'd take my time. Play with your pussy some more. Make you squirt. But... I-I can't now. I need this."
Fuck. Your eyes squeeze shut, toes curling, as Bruce tilts himself in. Air catches in your lungs. He's so big - stretching you out completely. Part of you feels that if you weren't so pathetically soaked, there's a chance that he might not fit.
A choked whimper leaves you as he fills you to the brim.
"Tell me how good it feels," he whispers hoarsely. "Tell me what it's doing to you."
Bruce's forehead presses against the back of your head. Barely restrained tremors bleed from his body into your own. Your head turns, watching him from over your shoulder. Gritting his teeth in concentration, Bruce begins to move. His hips grate into your own, and the plunge of his cock is slow and repeated - stirring deep in your core.
His palm flattens atop the back of your hand, clamping it against the wall. Fingers thread with your own. Bruce holds you there, grinding in further, and the fill leaves you light-headed and gasping. His cock punches between your walls. The drag and hollow sets your nerves alight - sends tingles of fire lacing through your veins.
"You're going to make me come," you gasp. "I can't even..."
The hand on your front rises to grope at one of your breasts. He tweaks the stiff bud of your nipple between his fingers - drawing a harsh gasp to tear from your lungs. The other releases your fingers, skating lower until he's rolling your clit between his again, teeth catching on the plane of your shoulder.
Pushing back from the wall, you use the flat surface to strain into him - meeting his thrusts with braced and shuddering arms.
Molten heat is pulsing through your body - spurred by the rapidly accelerating beat of your heart. Your head feels strange, thoughts far away. It's a miracle that the shower water is still so warm after all of this, and the stuffy temperature is making you rasp.
The climax breaks hard. Your body strains as a sudden rush of slick squirts onto the shower floor with a reverberating, high whimper that's closer to a keen.
Bruce's cock continues to strike through you, filling until you ache and stretch at the impale. Your legs are shaking. A strange, unsteady sensation wells in the pit of your stomach. It rises in a twisting wave, consuming all of you, until one final press of his fingers fumbling against your clit sends you right over the edge.
Bruce curses again, but it's far from an angry sound. Your head lolls back against his shoulder as your body clenches, squeezing around his cock. The sounds of wet fucking, skin on skin and merciless plugging, begin to grow louder. All that you can do is hold yourself against the walls as the eager shear of his cock grows harder. Faster.
Soon, the force of his thrusts are rippling through your body.
He's hitting all of the right places, and a crescendo is starting to swell inside of you once more. Bruce's hoarse breaths sound in your ear. The sounds are delicious, mixing with the glorious strike of his cock within. Your feeble noises keep coming - a gentle uh, uh, uh - that mirrors his own husky sounds.
Buried inside, Bruce's cock is starting to throb. Every plunge of his swollen head through your aching walls has him growing harder. You can feel him within, painfully hard and radiating a pent-up heat. He's impaling you, stretching and filling you to the hilt all at once. His touch seizes all over your body, until everything sings with another expectant wave of arousal.
"I can't stop," he hisses, teeth clenched tightly as his waist snaps into you again - the movement stuttering with barely contained restraint. "Fuck. I'm going to-"
The words - the torment in his voice - sends you cracking over the edge again. You come with a cry, fingernails scratching into his arm, scrabbling in an attempt to get away as it all becomes too much. But, there's no avail. Bruce's hold tightens around your front - crushing you against him with such force that you can barely breathe as he pumps through your fluttering centre.
He pushes in a final time, deep within your cunt. Inside, his cock twitches. A pulsing throb that spreads through your entire core. Teeth catch on your shoulder in a harsh flare of pain, and Bruce finally releases with a violent, growling spurt.
Warm release coats your insides. He still holds you against him in that iron grip, shaking almost feebly with each flex of load that bursts free. Christ. You can feel more quaking out. How it pools inside, already beginning to seep in sticky droplets from the point that he’s buried inside of you.
Spent, your face tilts forward. Your forehead presses against the wall in a way that mirrors how his own comes to rest against the base of your skull. There you stay, gathering yourself, until Bruce finally collects enough strength to ease back upon his heels, cock slipping wetly from your core. You turn - just in time to catch how his hand darts out to turn off the flow of water.
Standing underneath the now quenched showerhead, a tired smile lifts his mouth - slightly unsure. The absence of water allows a prickling silence to set in. It’s curious, and a little uncertain. Neither of you are quite sure where to go from here - even when his cum is slowly dripping out of your swollen and well-fucked cunt.
Just an hour or so ago, you both were simply friends. A lot has changed in just a short amount of time.
The satisfied aches in your body will more than attest to that.
There's been no time to use body wash, nor shampoo. Logic would dictate that you do so now. However, being underneath the flow of water for so long has wrinkled your skin, and exhaustion pounds thickly behind your eyes. The mixture of glorious, exhausting sex and lack of sleep has left you shaky as the tingling endorphins start to drain away.
Reading it on your face, Bruce's hand extends. Feeling strangely shy, you step forward, fingers sliding into the comforting touch of his own. A soft rumble sounds in his chest as Bruce pulls you against him. His lips are gentle as they brush over the tip of your nose.
Cerulean blue eyes dance fondly across your face - drinking in every last detail of your expression, but they are also watchful. Concerned. Perhaps a little tentative too, now that reality has crept back in. A slight blush begins to stain his cheeks.
Attempting to reassure him, your hands rub encouragingly over his sides. It's then that your fingers bump against the wet gauze bound across his abdomen. A reminder of why you were here in the first place. Tongue clicking in concern, you glance down. No patches of blood have swollen across the surface to alarm you. Still, the bandages can't be allowed to get mouldy.
"We're going to need to change these," you tell him lightly. "I wouldn't want you catching an infection because of me."
His head tilts - gaze assessing. "Wouldn't be so bad. Not if you're the one who would be taking care of me."
"I wouldn't have the patience," you reply, teasing. "I’ve seen you with a headcold. Animals don't complain, but you can be a real moaner."
His brow arches, and another trickle of that low laughter fills the tentative space between you. "Interesting, Scout. I would have thought after this exchange that the real moaner was you."
Before you can retort, those lean fingers seize your chin again, raising it to press another kiss against your lips. This one is tender. Softer still than those that came before. If the creeping chill of the now vacant shower didn't send a shiver down your spine, you think that you could have lost yourself in it once again.
"Come on, smart mouth," you smile - heart thudding as Bruce reaches up to push a soaked tendril of hair back behind your ear. "We'll change the bandages, and then you can get into my bed, and warm me up some more."
Likes, but namely comments and reblogs are much appreciated!
A/N: Okay, well... Part 2 done! I really hope you all liked it. It hasn’t exactly been easy to write through this brain fog. I’m looking forward to taking the rest of the weekend off!
PART ONE || DCEU || MASTERLIST
A World Alone - Bruce Wayne x Reader
A/N: i went from bruce wayne finger-banging to 8000 words of fluff, mutual pining and a lil bit of angst. i am not ok <3 also can you tell i listen to lorde :// anyway come talk to me about batman or the riddler or adrian chase <3
Word Count: 8.1k
Warnings: Language, mentions of alcohol, not beta read idc we die like men, spoilers for the batman, cringe fluff and i don't CARE because bruce wayne deserves loves ok???? (i think that's all <3)
Summary: Bruce makes his first public appearance since the memorial service, with you by his side.
The creaking of floorboards behind you catches your attention instantly. You place your teacup on the table gently (avoiding another lecture from Alfred about taking care with his finest China) and twist your head, a small smile crawling on to your lips when you see him approaching slowly. “Oh, look who's finally emerged from his cave.” You tease, glancing over at Alfred in amusement. He doesn't find it that funny, though.
“I can only offer my apologies, (Y/N). I did call him up an hour ago.” Alfred says pointedly, shifting to stand up from the seat beside you. You recall sitting at the table, listening to Alfred bicker back and forth with Bruce, until a few stern words and the slamming of the telephone had him making his way back to you, informing you that Bruce would be up in ‘just a moment’. An hour, in Bruce Wayne terms. “Tea, Bruce?” He offers, his hand already on the handle of the teapot.
“No. Thank you, though, Alfred.” Bruce says, his voice quiet yet polite. Like a child who's been scolded by their parent.
The room falls quiet. He hasn't made any moves to sit down, to join you at the table. He's just lingering behind you, probably wondering why the hell you're here. You know he's suspicious, you can tell by the way his gaze flicks between yourself and Alfred. Then, his eyes land on the small envelope in front of you. Now he's definitely suspicious.
You're not so sure what to say. It's been a while since your last visit, since you last saw Bruce Wayne without the cowl or the suit. You see him on TV screens much more than you see him in person, nowadays. While he's been busy helping the people, working with Gotham P.D. on search and rescue missions (you're sure he's been patrolling the areas with high crime, too), you've been working closely with the mayor and politicians. You spend most of your days in conferences and meetings, negotiating donations to whoever and whatever cause. You don't care. As long as it helps, as long as it contributes to the rebuilding of Gotham, you're game. You always wanted to do good with your money, and now you're doing exactly that.
Alfred breaks the silence, the quiet cling of his teacup against the saucer echoing around the room. You watch him down the rest of his tea quickly, more than eager to leave before your conversation with Bruce can even begin. You curse him internally for that. You always found it easier to negotiate with Bruce in Alfred’s presence. Bruce would break out the classic 'you're not my father’ line, (as if that's ever deterred Alfred from advising him, or telling him what to do), but in the end he'd always buckle. And you… well you'd sit there with a smug smile, watching the whole thing go down. You're on your own this time, evidently.
“Well…” Alfred starts, picking up the saucer from the table, “It's certainly been lovely seeing you, (Y/N). Unfortunately, I can't stay and chat any longer. The Wayne household doesn't run itself, you know.” He jokes. Though it's not really a joke.
You smile up at him, “It'd be lost without you.”
“Oh, I know that.” His gaze lands on Bruce for a moment, before flickering back to you.
“It's been so great seeing you, Alfred. And thank you for the tea.” You say.
“My pleasure.” He squeezes your shoulder before he begins making his way out of the room. His footsteps stop after a few moments, and you hear whispering, though you can't quite catch what's being said. Then, the gentle tap of his shoes resume until they're out of earshot.
You suddenly feel incredibly awkward without Alfred by your side. You can feel Bruce’s eyes burning into the back of your skull like lasers in the mist, cutting right through you. Your palms are sweaty, you can practically hear your heartbeat, feel it pounding through your entire body. “Why don't… why don't you come and sit down?” You ask, patting the backrest of the seat next to you. Nothing. “Please?”
He moves then, slowly circling the table, though he walks right past the seat you gestured to. Instead, he sits himself down two seats away from you. You can't help but scoff at how petty he's being. “Really?” You shove your tongue into your cheek in annoyance. He doesn't respond. Instead, he turns his attention to the window, seemingly taking in the scenery in the bright light of morning. Which is funny, really, because he never cared for the view.
You're getting a good look at him now, and he looks like shit, to be quite frank. Like he hasn't slept, showered or even been out of the literal cave underneath the mansion in days. All of those things are probably true. In fact, you know they're true. Except for that last one, you're sure you saw Batman on the news yesterday. Either way, he looks like he hasn't seen the light of day in, well, days. There's dark circles under his eyes, and he's squinting against the natural light flooding in through the window. He looks tired. You're starting to feel bad for what you're about to spring on him.
You're staring at him, and he's staring out of the window. You're trapped in some kind of deadlock. Neither of you know what to say or do, how to break the silence or cut through the tension. You figure out pretty quickly that he has no intention of cracking first, so you decide that it's up to you. You'll take the fall, happily. Anything to feel like you can breathe again. “Look, I know it's been a while—"
“Two months.” It's quiet, barely above a whisper, but you hear it loud and clear.
You nod your head, “Yeah. Two months.”
Two. Whole months. Fuck. The last time you saw him was at the hospital when Alfred was hurt. You remember that not much was said between the two of you. You just sat next to him quietly, holding his hand in yours and hoping for the best.
“Listen, you know as well as I do that things just got really crazy. We've both been busy, and—”
You almost jump when he snaps his head to you, but you have no plans to back down under his intense gaze. “We have?”
“Yes, we have.” You say through gritted teeth. “And you know that.”
“Do I?” His voice is soft, quiet, yet there's a certain degree of animosity in his tone.
You huff out a laugh, though there's no humour in it. You're smiling, but you're far from amused. “Can you just let me fucking finish?” One more snide remark, one more interruption, and you would be walking out. Judging by the slight nod of his head, he knows that too. “Look, I know it's been a while, okay? I know that. Two months is… it's crazy. And I'm sorry, okay? I am sorry. I just... I needed some time to think. I felt like I was losing my mind here. The sleepless nights, the worrying... The isolation. It just… it got a little too much for me. Two weeks. That's all I wanted. But then shit got so crazy. I think—… I think both of us just lost track.”
He drops his head, focusing his gaze on the table and the intricate patterns in the wood. “Yeah.” He mumbles under his breath, but you hear him loud and clear.
You've known Bruce your entire life. Family friends, as cliché as that may be. You're not sure when your little affair started, but you remember the moment you found yourself in his bed as clear as day. It was an unspoken thing, as far as you knew. Neither of you mentioned relationships, becoming something more wasn't a topic either of you wanted to broach. It kind of happened naturally, though. He sought you out after spending his nights on the streets, and sometimes you'd make the trip to the mansion to be there for him when he got back. You'd have sex, and then you'd have breakfast together, sometimes dinner, and then he'd drive you back to the city in the evening. It was… nice. Really fucking nice. You might've called it love. But it didn't come without its fair share of grievances. Evidently. You just needed to be away from him for a while, to clear your head. Things had gotten really intense, and you needed some time. But then the Riddler happened, and the flood. You'd managed to get on with life for a while, doing what needed to be done before dealing with personal matters. But a part of you felt— feels empty, like you're missing something. There's a huge, obvious hole in your heart in the shape of Bruce Wayne, and you can only hope that it's able to be fixed at some point.
“What's that?” He asks quietly, gesturing to the envelope on the table.
You're thrown off by that, yet it's so typical of him. He never did like to talk about his feelings, or give you anything deeper than an 'I'm fine’, even when he clearly wasn't fine. Whatever. You know him well enough to know that he'll come around at some point, that he'll talk when he's ready. You shake your head quickly, pulling yourself together. “That would be your invitation to tomorrow night’s charity ball. We're raising money for people who lost their homes in the flood.” You tell him, sliding it across the table slowly.
“Why do you have it?” He questions, picking up the invitation, pulling the seal gently.
“Because I told the mayor I'd personally deliver it to you. She's getting tired of being ignored and sent to voicemail, Bruce. She wants to talk to you.” You lean back in your seat, your shoulders finally relaxing as you let out the breath you didn't realise you were holding in.
“So that's why you're here.” He says, unfolding the invitation, his eyes scanning over it quickly. You know he isn't reading it, that he has no interest in reading it.
“That's part of the reason why I'm here.” You shrug.
He huffs, raising his eyebrows at you and dropping the invitation back on to the table, “There's another reason?”
You shove your tongue into your cheek for the second time, suddenly understanding why Alfred was so quick to leave. You forgot that dealing with Bruce sometimes feels like dealing with a moody teenager. “I heard Batman dabbles in detective work now.” That gets his full attention. “Y’know, I always thought you to be a little more… What's the word?” You pause for a moment. “Hm. Intuitive.”
No response. Just his eyes staring straight through you.
You sigh, “Yes, I'm here on behalf of the mayor. I told her I had a personal connection to you, and that I'd deliver the invitation myself.” You pause, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth. “But… I'm also here because I wanted to see you, Bruce.” You admit.
“You needed an excuse.” He says, finally catching on.
You drop your head, huffing out an awkward laugh, “Yeah. Sounds kinda pathetic, now that you're saying it out loud. I mean I could have just called, or… stopped by. I don't—”
“It's not.” You glance up at him. He clears his throat, repeating, “It's not pathetic. I'm… I'm glad you're here.” He doesn't meet your eyes, but it's okay. You don't feel uncomfortable or awkward anymore. You feel relieved. You're certain there's no way he'll want to talk about… anything. That you're better off just moving past it, at least for the time being. You are glad to see him, and he is glad to see you. Middle ground.
“I'm glad you're here.” He repeats, and you brace yourself. “But—” there's always a fucking ‘but’. “I'm not going to the charity ball.”
“No. I'll make a donation, but..” He shakes his head.
“Look, I know going out isn't really your thing. But the mayor wants you to step up—”
He cuts you off, “I am stepping up. I'm already playing my part.” There's a certain bite in his tone.
That's true. There's no denying that it's true. Almost everyday you see that familiar cowl on the news or in the papers. Everyday you see headlines about the Batman, about how he's doing the right thing for Gotham, protecting the people and the streets. But that's Batman. Not Bruce Wayne. Well, it is Bruce Wayne. But it also isn't, as far as the people and the mayor are concerned.
“Batman is playing his part.” You say gently, leaning forwards and resting your hands on the table. “I know what you do for this city, I've seen everything. You're working so hard and I feel so guilty being here, asking for more. But as far as the mayor is concerned Bruce Wayne is living outside of the city, sitting in his ivory tower and doing nothing.” He seems to straighten up. “You— Bruce Wayne, were mentioned by name. He had a whole— I don't know even know what to call it, a… a whole presentation dedicated to you and your family. Whether you like it or not Bruce Wayne played a part in what went down.”
“That's not— It's not—… I didn't know. I had no idea about—…” He tries to argue but voice breaks.
You push your chair back and stand up, plopping yourself down in the seat next to him. The one you asked him to sit in earlier. You take his hand, feeling him tense up for a moment before relaxing into your touch. “I know. I know it's not your fault. I can't—… The people know it's not your fault, too. They just… they just want to see you. He tried to ruin you, but I promise you that the people are still on your side. You just… you need to make an appearance.”
He's silent for a moment. More than a moment, actually, and you hope that he's considering you. Or he's thinking of a way to let you down gently. Yes, definitely that. “I'm not accepting the invitation.” He mumbles, pushing the invite away. Ouch. Okay. That wasn't gentle.
You were quite convincing just then, you think. It didn't seem to be enough, though. It's okay. Because you came prepared. You anticipated this from the moment you agreed to give him the invitation yourself. “Oh, well that's perfect.”
He narrows his eyes at you. “Why's that?” He asks slowly. He knows. Oh, he knows you have something up your sleeve.
“Because I kind of, sort of, maybe… already have you down as my plus one.” His stare is blank, but it says everything. He's less than impressed. “And my driver might have the night off.” You add, placing the cherry neatly on top of the already-pissed-off-Bruce-Wayne-Sundae.
“I suggest you fix that.”
You shake your head. “Uh-uh. No. I don't think so. It's his daughter’s birthday so… special occasion. I wouldn't want to ruin any plans.” You shrug.
“Well you're ruining my plans.” He comments, sitting back. He hasn't dropped your hand, though.
“And what are your plans for tomorrow?” You ask. He glances away, and you can practically see the cogs in his head grinding against each other as he tries to think of something— anything that he could possibly be doing tomorrow night.
“Gordon needs me.” He answers, finally.
“That's a lie.” Blatant, actually. You're offended that he thinks you're stupid enough to fall for that.
“It’s not a lie.”
“You're lying. Your nostrils flare when you lie.” You can't help but smile at him. You know him, and you've always known him. You know when he's lying, when he's being truthful, when he's happy, when something’s bothering him. You know him like the back of your hand. Like you know the alphabet. “And even if Gordon did need you, the event starts at six. So I was thinking we get there at six thirty, leave for eight. You show face, and it leaves you plenty of time.”
He's staring at you. You're staring at him. He's silent, you're waiting for a response. He sighs quietly, “I'm not getting out of this, am I?”
You shake your head, “I don't think so. I think I've backed you into a corner enough. But I have more excuses and reasons if you wanna hear those, too.”
His lips twitch, and soon enough he's breaking out into a smile. It's not a big grin, but you can see his teeth and that makes you grin right at him. He drops his head for a moment, shoulders shaking as he laughs quietly. “You're unbelievable.”
You squeeze his hand gently. “So are you.” You really mean that, too. Maybe not in the way he means it. “So, I expect to see you parked up outside of my house at five thirty tomorrow. It's black tie, so do what you will with that.”
“Fine.” He mumbles, though his smile still hasn't dropped, and he's staring down at your intertwined fingers.
The two of you sit there in silence for a minute, finally comfortable in each other’s company. Without the tension, the awkwardness, the uncomfortable elephant in the room. It feels nice, you think, to just sit there for a moment and be. It makes you realise how much you've missed him. How much you've missed just sitting at his table in a comfortable silence, eating breakfast together in the late afternoon while Alfred scolds you for being lazy. You hope this is the first step to fixing things, getting things back to how they used to be. Maybe you would become more.
You don't want to go. You want to stay right there with him. But you have to go.
You chew on your bottom lip for a moment. “I hope you don't mind but… I have to leave. I have a meeting soon.”
Bruce shakes his head, “No. No, of course. You—… Do you need a ride back to the city?” He asks.
You shake your head, “No, I'm good. Patrick’s waiting for me.”
“He's been out there the whole time?” He asks, his eyes widening in surprise and… probably guilt. It did take him an hour to bring himself to leave the cave.
“Uh-huh. Even more reason for me to give him the night off.” You stand up, and he doesn't let go of your hand. In fact, his grip seems to tighten. You feel guilty for leaving already. You really don't want to fucking go. You want to sit with him, kiss him, wrap your arms around him and tell him how much you've missed him and how you think about him every single day. But you have to go. “I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay.” He mumbles.
You start to walk away, and he still has your hand in his. Right up to the moment you're no longer in reach, his arm is outstretched. You swear you see him lean his body back, so you're fingertips can graze against each other for just a moment longer. You drop your hand down by your side slowly, the ghost of his touch lingering on your skin. Fuck, you miss it already. “If you stand me up tomorrow, I'm telling every magazine and newspaper in Gotham.” You tease.
“I wouldn't dare.” He reassures.
And then you're gone, your footsteps fading as you make your way down the hall.
Bruce doesn't disappoint. You didn't think he would, anyway. He was parked outside at exactly five thirty, looking far from impressed, but his frown dissipated as soon as his eyes landed on you. You smiled at him, and he managed to smile right back. He's wearing a simple black suit and tie, that long coat of his over the top. You remember it's the one he wore to the memorial service, too.
Now, you're sitting in his car, dressed to the nines, waiting in the traffic. You feel like you've been here for two hours already, but really it's only been ten minutes. It's quiet in the car, which doesn't surprise you. He's nervous. So, so nervous. You can see it in his furrowed brows, his tense jaw. In the way his eyes flick between you, the road and his own hand on the steering wheel. You do feel guilty for dragging him out, for making him leave the comfort of his own home, the comfort of his armour and cowl. Tonight, the eyes of Gotham would be on Bruce Wayne, not Batman. People would talk, because that's what people do, and they'd talk for a while. But at least he'd only have to do it once. One public appearance is enough to cause a stir, you think.
“How are you feeling?” You ask gently, glancing over at him.
“M’fine.” He mumbles in response, nostrils flaring every so slightly. You know he tried so hard to hide that. His eyes are focused on the road now, the traffic moving along just a little. There's only five or six cars in front of you now. They'll know it's him immediately, just from the model of the car. You swear he's the only person in Gotham who drives himself to events.
“Okay. That's cool. Now tell me the truth?” He looks at you, then, almost incredulously. You shrug, “Why do you always forget that I know exactly when you're lying?”
He sighs. You're right and he knows it. “I'm feeling okay. Just… Just a little nervous.” There's more truth to it. Not the full truth. You know he's shitting bricks, to put it quite plainly. But you'll let him have that. You figure that's the most honest answer you're going to get.
“You'll be okay.” You reassure, but he doesn't look so convinced. “It's just for tonight. You don't have to answer any questions, if you don't want to. We'll go right in there, talk to whoever you need to talk to— definitely the mayor, and then we'll get out of there. Sound good?”
Soon five or six cars turn into two or three, and before you know it, you're right in front of the steps. You turn to look at him, to make sure that he's okay one last time before you step out, but he's already opening the car door, getting out quickly and slamming it shut behind him. Never mind then. You watch him walk around the front of the car, keeping his head down the whole time as all eyes and all cameras are pointed directly at him. He opens the door for you and offers you his hand, which you gladly take, mumbling a quiet ‘thank you’. And then you're in the thick of it, too.
Cameras flashing in your face, reporters shoving microphones in front of you, everyone’s so desperate to get anything from either you or Bruce. He has his back turned to the press, handing his keys to the valet while you try and offer your best smile. It's pointless though, all attention is focused on the prince of the city, as they like to call him. You don't even register that he's turned his attention to you until he's tugging on your arm, pulling you gently towards the steps.
The ball is being held at some fancy hotel just outside of the city. It's big and bright and lavish, lit up from top to bottom, totally opposite to everything else in the city. It looks so out of place, honestly, compared to the monochromatic nature of Gotham. Oh well. You'd have plenty of time to complain about the ugly venue later.
You loop your arm around his, pulling him close to you, and immediately you feel him relax against you. The two of you ascend the white, marble staircase arm in arm. You smile and occasionally wave, answering any questions directed to you as quickly as you can. Bruce, on the other hand, ignores all of them. He doesn't even smile, you don't think. He just keeps his head down, blocking out the screams of his name.
“Mr Wayne! It's so good to see you!”
“Mr Wayne, why are you here tonight!?”
“Mr Wayne, how are you contributing to the effort to rebuild Gotham?!”
“Mr Wayne, are you dating (Y/N)?!”
“Mr Wayne, you're the only one mentioned by name that survived the attacks. Is it true that you were working with Edward Nashton?!”
You feel him tense up.
“Mr Wayne, how does it feel knowing your father’s a murderer?!”
That one gets to him.
He stops dead in his tracks, and you stop too. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. You don't know what to do. He's frozen in place, breathing heavily, cheeks turning red with anger, giving the reporter who asked that question the deadliest glare. Seriously, if looks could kill, this guy would be dead one million times over. He'd be six feet fucking under. The only thing that comforts you is the fact that Bruce makes a conscious effort to not kill. You still fear that he'll lunge over the barriers, though. Give the reporter a piece of his mind with his fists instead. Warranted, though not entirely ideal, and you know he has enough sense to not go through with any acts of violence running through his head right now.
It’s your soft voice, the gentle tug on his arm that snaps him out of it, that quells his rage for just a moment. “Hey, let's get inside.” He looks between you and the reporter for a brief moment, then nods his head. You sigh quietly in relief as the two of climb the last few steps, making your way into the building quickly.
He's shaking. You can feel him shaking against you. You assume it's because he's angry, but then you see his eyes, red and glassy, and you realise he's on the verge of tears. You're not sure whether he's upset, or whether he's just really fucking wound up. Or both.
“So much for ‘the people are on your side’.” He mumbles under his breath, but you hear him. Oh, he's pissed off. Rightly so, but you don't appreciate his snide comment. He tries to pull away from you, but you don't let him. You keep your arm firmly locked around his, wrapping your hand around his bicep and squeezing gently. The moment you allow him to let go of you will be the moment you lose him. You don't trust him to not bolt straight out of the doors, to fly back down the steps, get back into his car and drive home. You've only just got him back, and you'd like to keep him for good this time.
You're in the fancy lobby, now. Bright red carpets, golden wallpaper and large paintings in golden frames hanging on the walls. It's ugly even on the inside, you think, but it's far nicer in here than it is out there. In here, you're surrounded by ugly decor, politicians, socialites and pretty much anyone who's anyone in Gotham. But you're safe. Out there… you're like pieces of meat to a pack of wild dogs. They're hungry, desperate for anything they can get from you. At least inside you're away from the flashing lights, the microphones being shoved under your noses and the screaming of your names.
The large, wooden doors that lead to the hall where the event is being held are just up ahead, but you pull him to the side before you even think about going right in. “Hey…” You whisper, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Don't.” He warns, refusing to meet your eyes.
“You just have to ignore them, Bruce. I know it's hard—”
“You don't know.” He's trying to be cutting, actively trying to ward you off. The same way he does with Alfred. But just like how it doesn't work with Alfred, it doesn't work with you, either. You know that deep down he's desperate for some kind of reassurance, but he only knows how to fight against it.
You bring your hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks with your palms. “You're right. I don't know. But what I do know is that not everyone thinks like that.”
“But some people do.” He sounds genuinely hurt. Bruce spent his entire life idolising his father. He started the Gotham Project for his father, to continue his family's legacy. He knows the truth about what went down with his father and Falcone and the reporter who had dirt on his mother, and that should be enough. But it isn't, and you can understand why it isn't enough. It has to be, though.
You nod. “Yeah. Some people do. They'll believe the gossip and the lies and the fucked up shit they hear over the truth, as long as it lines up with their ideals. You know the truth, and the majority of the city knows the truth, too. And they're on your side, I promise you.” You take his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, squeezing gently.
The two of you stand there in silence for a moment. He seems to be calming down, which is more than a relief to you. His cheeks are returning to their normal, pasty colour and he's breathing deep and slow now. He's okay. He's going to be okay. He's going to get through the next hour, at least, and then you'd be free to leave.
You bring his hand up to your lips and press a soft kiss against his knuckle, “Are you good, Bruce?” You ask gently. You don't want to push him if he's not ready yet.
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Are you sure? Because—”
“(Y/N).” He speaks your name so softly, and it commands your full attention. “I'm okay.” He brings your hand up to his lips now, pressing a kiss against your knuckle just like you'd done only seconds ago.
You almost melt.
God. Just being with him, touching him and talking to him, makes you wonder why you ever spent so long away from him. Two fucking months. You can't even comprehend it, but you know it's never going to happen again. You're never going to spend that long away from him ever again. It's Bruce, it always has been and it always will be. You're certain of that. You'll never miss anyone like you miss him, crave anyone’s attention like you crave his, buckle under anyone’s touch like you buckle under his. You're not sure if the same can he said for him, but he's here with you, and that's all that matters.
“Okay. Do you wanna head in?” He nods his head, and this time he moves to take hold of your arm first. You smile up at him, and you see his lips twitch upwards. That's enough for you.
The two of you make your way towards the wooden doors. Most, if not all, guests are already in there, you assume, since the lobby is almost barren. “Are you ready?” You ask. He nods and without a second of hesitation you're pushing open the doors. It feels like there's a spotlight shining directly on you, or maybe that's just the effect of the bright lights and golden walls meshing together to create some kind of optical phenomena that has you blinded for just a moment. Fuck, if you thought it was light out there, you have no idea how to describe this. Though, it's prettier in here than in the lobby, you think.
People are staring, and he's incredibly tense, unsure of what to do. So, you just pull him along, out of the doorway and into the crowd. “People will talk, and they'll stare, but it's because they probably weren't expecting to see you here tonight. So you're gonna say hello, you're gonna say 'I'm doing fine thank you, how are you?’ and then we're gonna move along. Okay?”
And that's exactly what he does. He's still quiet and mildly awkward, but there's a charming edge to him, too. One that doesn't come out so often in public but it's there and tonight, as he chats to politicians and friends of his father, with you by his side for comfort, you see it. You know he wants to leave, to be out of there as soon as possible, you can see it in his eyes, but he's pulling it off. He's playing the part and he's playing it well. He's latched on to you, his eyes never seem to leave you, but you're more than happy to be his safety net. Though that won't last much longer.
“(Y/N), you must work miracles.” An oh-so-familiar voice calls from behind you. You turn around, dragging Bruce with you, and you're met with the eyes of the mayor, Bella Reál. She's beaming, smiling brightly at the two of you, but you can't help but notice she's eyeing Bruce from head to toe. Almost in shock. “Look who it is. Mr. Wayne himself.”
“In the flesh. I thought I'd never get him out of that tower.” You tease, a grin on your lips as you squeeze him closer to you. You can feel his unimpressed stare, but you're not intimidated.
“I always had faith in you.” She reassures. “Do you mind if I steal him from you? I've been dying to speak with him.”
“Oh, no. Of course not. He's all yours.” You try to pull your arm away from him, but his grip tightens. He won't let go, he doesn't want to let go. But he has to. You give his bicep one last squeeze before you yank your arm away from him, careful to keep your elbows to yourself. “You'll be fine. I'll talk to you later.” You mumble. He isn't happy, his tongue is pushed against the inside of his cheek in annoyance, but there's nothing you can do.
“I promise I'll bring him straight back.” She jokes, giving you one last smile before she turns and starts walking away, with Bruce reluctantly in tow.
You're not so sure what to do now that you're on your own, so you pick up a flute of champagne from a waiter and make your way through the crowds of people. You talk to family friends, introduce yourself to unfamiliar faces and chat about any new plans or projects you have in the works to aid the city. You keep a smile plastered on your lips and a glass in your hand at all times, ready to greet anyone and everyone. It's exhausting, you have to admit that, but it's what you do. Occasionally, you feel Bruce’s eyes on you. When he's not in conversation, and even when he is, you feel him staring right at you from across the room. You're surprised he can even find you amongst the crowd of black suits and dresses, but he does. Every single time. You always look back, give him a reassuring smile and watch as he visibly relaxes. You're glad he's making an effort, that he's finally giving the mayor a chance to speak to him and discuss how he's going to help the city (though if she knew even half of what Bruce had done for Gotham, you're sure there's no way she'd be on his case about it). You can't wait for him to be back by your side, though. He's a comfort to you just as much as you're a comfort to him.
You're at a small table in the corner that's covered with champagne flutes, your back turned, when you feel hands grab on to your waist from behind. You gasp and jolt backwards, bumping against a firm chest. You're about to swing your elbow back when you hear a familiar huff in your ear, the fingers on your waist digging into your flesh lightly, forcing a quiet giggle out of you and making you squirm in his grasp. You curse the day he realised you're ticklish. “You're an asshole.” You mumble, but there's no real anger or annoyance in your tone. “How'd it go?” You ask, picking up a flute and bringing it to your lips.
“Terribly.” He says simply, though there's amusement laced in there somewhere and you know he's messing around.
“Hm. I'm sure it was awful. I bet she had you talking about all sorts of diabolical shit. Like going outside, making more public appearances, attending meetings, doing inter—”
Bruce squeezes your waist gently, cutting you off, “Yeah, yeah. I get it.” A pause. “Can we leave now?”
You pry his hands from your waist and turn around, your eyebrows raised in amusement. It's not a shock to you that he's already so eager to leave. “You wanna go? Already?”
He nods his head once. “I did what you asked me to do. I spoke with the mayor. You said we could leave early, so let's go.” He tries to tug on your arm, but you stay firmly in place.
God, you've only had two or three glasses to drink but you're already feeling slightly fuzzy. You give him your best pout, “You wanna get rid of me already?”
A beat of silence. His brows furrow, “That's not— I didn't—”
“We should dance.” You tell him. There's an orchestra playing in the background, certainly not anything yourself or Bruce would typically listen to, but that's not a problem to you. There's other couples dancing in the middle of the room, stiff and looking far from happy. Probably talking about some important matter or another that would be too intense to discuss without the distraction of dance.
“I can't dance.” A lie, for sure.
You scoff, shaking your head, “Do not disrespect Alfred like that ever again. I know he's taught you how to dance.”
He sighs, fully aware that you're right. Alfred would scold him for that. “Fine, then I don't dance.”
“You could.” You retort.
“I don't like dancing.” He says.
“Do you like anything?” You ask playfully.
His mouth opens and closes for a moment, as if there's something he want to say, but he's just not quite sure how to say it, or if he can at all. “I just don't want to.” He says, as if it's final, but you know he'll cave.
“I think it'd be fun. Just one dance.” You hold up your index finger, as proof that you truly mean just one dance.
He's silent for a moment, and you hope he's considering you. “People will talk.” He mumbles. About him, about you, about your maybe, sort of, kind of relationship. About your outfit, his hair. About why he's here tonight, why he came with you on his arm. You can understand why taking your hand and allowing you to lead him into the middle of the room, to have him wrap his arms around you and pull you close in front of so many people would be so daunting, but—
“Fuck it.” You say confidently. “People are always gonna talk. They're talking right now and we're just standing here.” You bring your hands up and cup his cheeks, looking up at him. “Let them.” You grab his hand suddenly and begin leading him to the dance floor. He tries to pull against you, to tug you backwards, but you don't care, you know he'll give up eventually. And he does. He reluctantly lets you guide him around small crowds of people and couples dancing together until you're right in the middle of… everything. The room, the dance floor, the crowd. The song that's playing is something classical. You think you recognise it, though you can't quite put a name to it. You don't really care to. You're more focused on Bruce. He looks so fucking awkward, and you can't help but feel guilty. But then you remember that if he really didn't want to dance, he would have said so. He's a big boy, and you're sure he can make his own decisions.
So, you wrap your arms around his neck, and after a moment of hesitation and a barely audible sigh, his hands find their way to your waist. You're quiet, just watching him and his facial expressions. His eyes are flickering around the room, his lips pressed into a thin line, and there's a slight tinge of pink in his cheeks. Completely different to the angry red you saw earlier. You can feel the stares, the whispers and the conversations, and you're sure not all of them are about you but you know he probably thinks otherwise. You know he wants nothing more than to sink into the floor. “Hey…” you whisper, catching his attention. “It's okay. Forget about them. It's just us. We're alone. Just me and you.”
He doesn't respond, but he sways when you sway, he moves when you move, breathes when you breathe, until the pressure releases from his shoulders and he relaxes into the dance. He still looks anxious, and slightly uncomfortable, but you're just grateful he's still entertaining you. He never did know how to say no to you, after all.
“I'm sorry.” His quiet voice cuts through the silence between the two of you. It's so sudden, and it almost makes you jump.
You're confused, though. “You're sorry… for what?” You ask slowly. You're not trying to make him admit anything, you're genuinely baffled. He hasn't made any sudden moves to leave, he hasn't left you stranded, or done anything wrong at all.
“Yesterday… when you said you were sorry for leaving for so long. I never said sorry. So I'm saying it now.” He's not looking at you, instead choosing to look straight over your shoulder, but you know he's being sincere. “I missed you.” He breathes out.
You screw your eyes shut for a moment, shaking your head. “No— You don't— Please don't be— We're both at fault.”
“I guess we are.” He looks at you, finally. Wanting you to know that he really, truly means every word. “I thought about you every day.”
You glance up at him, slightly taken aback by that admission. “Y-you did?” You curse yourself internally for stuttering over your words. God, you must sound so pathetic.
“Yeah. I did.”
“Well… you could have called.” You shrug. “I don't bite.”
“I wouldn't say that.” He's teasing you, and he's trying so hard to stop himself from grinning at his own joke.
“Wow, your comedy career’s really coming along, huh?” You bite back (fitting), but there's no malice. You take note of the fact that he doesn't even entertain the idea that you could have called him. He's somewhat self aware, at least.
“Hm. It could use some work.” A beat of silence. “I'm sorry, though. Truly. I—” He stops himself, because he knows you're about to cut him off. The look he gives you is stern, and you back down instantly, deciding to stay quiet. “I'm sorry for driving you away. It shouldn't ever be that complicated.”
“I don't mind complicated. I just— I just needed a little time. I was always gonna come back because— Fuck. Because I can't stay away from you. I'd go through forty sleepless nights in a row for you.” It's all coming out now. You're just talking and talking and you can't stop it, you're not even sure that you want to stop it.
“You shouldn't have to—”
“But I want to. I just— I want you. And everything that comes with having you.” You admit quietly, barely above a whisper. It occurs to you then that you've become the couple on the dance floor having an intense discussion. But it's not about finances or divorce or whatever the hell else, it's more along the lines of love. “I want you.” You repeat, reaffirming it to yourself and to him.
He's silent, and you fall silent too. You're not sure what to do, what he wants you to do. You're just staring at each other, and you only realise now that you stopped swaying along to the music a long time ago. You feel his hands move to your hips, pulling your body closer to his, and you take the opportunity to slide your hands from the back of his neck to his cheeks. He's leaning down, and you’re standing up on your tiptoes to meet him in the middle. Everything's so fucking loud, now. You can hear every word of every conversation around you, your heart thumping in your ears, though you can't hear your own breathing. Are you even breathing? Fuck. You don't know. Fuck. Are you breathing? It's all too much. You feel like you're going insane. You can't think or do anything. It's getting louder and louder, to the point where even quite exchanges seem deafening.
Until your lips meet his, and then the room falls quiet. Well, not really. But it feels like it does. You can't hear anything now, you're so focused on him and his lips and how they mesh perfectly with yours. It feels like the first time. It's not. It's far from the first time you've kissed the prince of the city, actually. But those sparks you felt in your stomach the first time, the ones that sent tingles through your entire body and made your legs feel like jelly are back in full force. You don't want to pull away, to be reminded that you're in a room full of people you don't know and probably don't like, to be reminded that people are watching. You want to stay in this little world that you've created forever, where it's just the two of you alone together.
He pulls away first, and you almost whine in protest as you pull him back in for another. And another. And another. Just one more. One more. His shoulders are shaking in silent laughter as you refuse to let him go, to let your lips part from his just yet. When you eventually pull back, you grin at him. It's lazy and love-drunk, and you're sure he's looking at you in the same way. “I want you.” You tell him again.
He doesn't need to say it back, and he probably won't. At least, not here. It's okay, though. You don't need him to. You know he feels the same way. You can see it in the way he looks at you. He's smiling. Like, actually smiling. In public. And that's enough for you to know that he feels the same way. He wants you too.
“Hey, do you wanna get out of here?” You ask, smiling to yourself because just ten minutes ago you were practically begging him to stay. Now, you just want to be alone with him.
“Yeah. I do.” He breathes out, and within a second he's grabbing your hand gently. He leads the way this time, weaving you through the crowd, ignoring everyone's stares and calls of his name or yours, dead set on making it to and through the wooden doors without interruption. You're giggling the whole time, and from the few glimpses you catch of his face, you think he's smiling.
When you make it outside, still hand in hand, you're not exactly thrilled to see that the press are still there, camera men and journalists focusing all of their attention on the doors, ready to capture any and all swift exits. You notice that the guy from earlier, the one who called Bruce’s father a murderer, has gone, and you thank your lucky stars for that. The attention is on you immediately, from the moment you step foot through the doors. They're shouting his name, snapping pictures, vying for any trickle of attention they can get from him, for anything to talk about in their gossip columns or front pages. He's intent on leaving, but you're more than happy to give them something to talk about.
You stop right in the middle of the marble staircase, and he stops too when you tug his arm back. “What are you doing? What's wrong?” He asks, his brows furrowed.
“Come here.” He doesn't move. “Just come here, Bruce.” You encourage.
Slowly, he makes his way up the few steps between you, and you waste no time in flinging your arms around his neck and planting a kiss on his lips. You can hear the cameras snapping photos, and even with your eyes closed you can still see the faintest flash of white light.
You know he won't be happy when he wakes up the next morning and reads the headlines, when he sees the photos plastered in every newspaper and magazine, but you can't really bring yourself to care. You're his, and he's yours, and you don't care who knows it anymore. It's your world, and you're alone together. People will talk, so let them talk.
into the abyss - b.w.
summary: Bruce should've known that nothing in Gotham City ever is smooth sailing. But when the one person in his life who means most to him gets kidnapped, he feels the darkness descending on him.
pairing: fem!reader x bruce wayne (pattinson)
tw: kidnapping, canon violence, injuries, blood, established relationship, kinda grumpy x sunshine, mentions of guns, fluff, happy ending (let me know if i missed anything!)
a/n: hi hello! of course i had to write about another emotionally damaged man, what did you think?! i hope i got the characterization right, i've only seen the movie once so let me know! hope you enjoy this piece, because i loved writing it! smalltown boy by bronski beat was on repeat when I wrote this. make of this what you want xo.
p.s. i now have a library blog! follow @aeristhotle to get notified when i update!
reblogs and feedback are appreciated ✨💗
bruce wayne masterlist | all masterlists
Gotham city had always been a dark place. During winters, it was cold and icy. Snow would heap in the streets and the sounds of the city would be muffled, though there was always an eerie quietness that left any tourist just a little unsettled. Even some of the natives of Gotham weren’t quite used yet to how the city always felt on edge, ready for a violent event to happen.
Even during spring, when the world would come out of its hibernation, Gotham remained engulfed in the darkness. It was a combination of the stormy clouds, the relentless rain and the cold gusts of air that made many scarfs disappear in the sky.
That day was no different.
However, when Bruce’s arms snuck around your waist under the warm weight of the comforter, Gotham city couldn’t feel more like paradise.
The clock read 5:13 A.M., and Bruce was a little bit earlier than you were used to. You didn’t mind the extra hour of warm body-heat that wrapped around you as he pressed his face against the back of your neck and breathed in your scent. It was a reminder to him that, even when the city was at its worst, you’d still be there in all your glory and softness - a perfect contradiction.
Bruce pressed a soft kiss against the supple skin of your neck and tightened his hold on your waist as the slumber pulled him into another world filled with darkness.
The hour of silent comfort you had with Bruce quickly passed.
At 6:15 A.M., you softly turned in his embrace and pressed a kiss against his temple. There was still a bit of dark eyeshadow left-over, forgotten in the hurry to pull off the suit and join you in his bed.
You softly rubbed the black away under his eyes, your thumb ever so gently passing over the delicate skin as Bruce inhaled deeply.
“You forgot a bit, mister,” you softly whispered as his eyes remained closed. His thumb rubbing circles over the exposed flesh of your hip revealed that he was awake.
“I’m gonna get some coffee from Roberto’s,” you whispered again, trying to peel away from his embrace that had you locked in place. Morning always came too soon for Bruce, no matter how he tried to shy away from the light.
“Why do you insist on getting coffee from Roberto’s when Alfred makes a perfectly fine cup?” He muttered, his voice still a bit hoarse from running through the cold all night long.
“Because,” you grinned, pressing a kiss against his bicep and finally untangling yourself. “It’s only a block away and I’ve been going there since I was 15.”
“Hnng,” he groaned, burying his face in the pillows. His eyes were so well-adjusted to the dark that the first rays of the sun, however faint they were, felt like stings and made his head throb. “Come back soon, I’ve barely seen you this week.”
You pulled on a dark jumper of his and laced your boots, ready to defy the rain that was pounding down on Gotham city.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” you bent down to press another kiss to his temple. You would never stop showering the man in physical affection, for as long as your heart beat in your chest.
You pulled on a long trench-coat over your jumper and closed the door to the bedroom behind you.
Bruce was back to snoring again, already lost in a slumber and blissfully unaware of the upcoming events.
When Bruce awoke again, it was a little past 8 A.M. For some reason, his dreams had been filled with scenarios of your death. He often had nightmares where he relived the night his parents got murdered or scenarios where he himself was the target of some sort of violent crime. But those all paled next to the horrors of your passing, an event he wished to never experience.
Bruce had grown immensely attached to you over the past 15 years.
You were like a warm blanket that wrapped around him when he needed it most. A warm blanket that drove away the cold that had settled in his bones ever since his parents passed. The moment that made him the sole survivor of a horrible crime gone wrong.
The warmness of your personality made him feel again. It made him susceptible again to caring what happened. You might be the only reason why he returned to being Bruce again, when being his dark alter ego seemed like the only solution to battle his demons.
So why didn’t he feel your warm presence in his embrace again? Where was your scent that usually calmed him down after another nightmare? Where were you?
Bruce shot up from his bed.
His heart was battering in his chest. You could’ve been held up in Roberto’s. People are so drawn to you, it often happens that you are stopped in the street and asked for something.
It’s because you’re a household name in the city, known for your father’s media-empire and for the philanthropy department you ran. People seemed to know where you were at any given moment, so much so that they bothered you all the time. Well, it bothered Bruce. He knew you liked looking over all the proposals and helping out people wherever you could. It was yet again a testament to how different you two were.
Bruce pushed his sunglasses on his nose and sauntered over to the living room where Alfred was doing some paperwork. He knew he shouldn’t have been worried, yet he couldn’t think of anything else, especially after that horrific nightmare.
“Where’s the miss?” Alfred asked, taking a sip of his coffee as he looked down at the paperwork again. Apparently he wasn’t worried either.
“She went out to Roberto’s a few hours ago,” Bruce muttered, still an edge of unease in his tone. “Did she leave a note or say something to the maid?”
Alfred shook his head, “can’t blame the woman for not leaving a note, she’s been going for years.”
“She’ll turn up, don’t worry, sir,” Alfred added as he spotted the pained look on Bruce’s face. He slid a cup of coffee Bruce’s way and continued his reading.
After a few minutes of enduring the silence, the doorbell rang in the distance.
“There she is,” Alfred said, a hint of a smile hidden in his voice as he turned the page. Alfred was happy there was another person in his life that cared as much about Bruce as he did. Bruce needed all the love in the world he could get, and he was glad you were able to provide that. The fact that Bruce was so anxious to see you again, was like music to Alfred’s ears.
But then the maid entered the living room, her eyes wide-open and her hands wringing in one another.
A second pair of steps quickly followed the maid’s and that’s when Bruce realized it weren’t your boots that were stomping down on the floor, but a standard issue of the Gotham city police department.
Bruce had been watching the news all morning.
His adrenaline was peaking, just like when he was out at night trying to stop criminals.
But he couldn’t go out just yet.
His dark alter ego only left when the night was at its peak darkness, when the last rays of sun had left the city and were replaced by the cold glare of the moon.
“Breaking news: the heiress to the Quantico-media empire was kidnapped in broad daylight this morning. Bruce Wayne’s partner was last seen this morning as she left Roberto’s. Our sources confirm that the heiress has been frequenting the coffee shop weekly since her teenage years. Afterwards, she was captured around 7:05 A.M. and pulled into a blacked-out van. Right now, police are doing everything they can do bring the woman back to safety. Police asks witnesses to come forward with any information they might have -“
He couldn’t listen to the woman anymore. Bruce didn’t feel like himself anymore. The only thing he felt was this inner rage. The same rage he felt when his parents were murdered.
Bruce tried to storm off, but Alfred quickly stopped him. Alfred eyed the liaison that the police had sent over to keep Bruce up to date. He couldn’t say anything to reveal the nature of Bruce’s… after hours job, but he could try to imply that his alter ego had to wait until the night fell over the city.
“Bruce, you can’t do anything.”
His nostrils flared, but aside from that, he couldn’t do anything.
Bruce couldn’t do anything and he never despised himself more.
So he did the only thing he could do, as a rich heir to Wayne Enterprises. Bruce paced around his apartment, his eyes glued to the screen and his hearing focused on the police liaison that got updates every half hour.
The little bit of light was just disappearing when the liaison got the call that the abductors had reached out with a message.
“Mr. Wayne?” The woman asked, a bit hesitant as she saw his fearful face. “They’re demanding a huge ransom.”
“How much, I’ll pay it. I’ll pay it all,” Bruce cut her off. He’d gladly give all his money if it meant that you’d be home by the end of the day.
“That’s not the only thing they want.”
The woman’s brown eyes were pulled a bit downwards, as if she was perpetually sad. Who wouldn’t be in this godforsaken city?
“They want 15 million dollars from you, 15 million from her father and…” the woman trailed off. Goddamnit, couldn’t she get to the point instead of dancing around the truth? Whatever news she would tell could not be worse than you not being safe in his arms right this moment.
Alfred noticed the distress on Bruce’s face. He noticed how his brows were pulled together, how his jaw was just a bit sharper than usual. He saw the darkness that was swirling in his eyes.
“What else do they want?” He asked, standing in between Bruce and the liaison.
“They want Quantico-media to shut down. They want to get rid of the independent news and install a media-outlet that is biased and, well-“
The liaison trailed off once more, but this time Bruce couldn’t think straight anymore. “What? Just spit it out for once!”
“Her father was fine with paying the money, but shutting down Quantico-media is off the table. There’s no deal. We have 24 hours to come up with something new or they kill her.”
It was as if something exploded in his mind. But it wasn’t like the type of fireworks that went off in his mind as when he kissed you, or when you laced your fingers through his when the media was once again hounding him.
It was more like a time-bomb that finally ticked to zero. A bomb that caused a chain reaction which made his critical thinking fly out the window.
Bruce looked outside. The sun had set and was replaced by the eerie darkness that engulfed Gotham City. It was time.
He turned to Alfred. “I’m going out. I can’t just sit here.”
Alfred nodded and turned towards the liaison, asking about what the next steps were.
To anyone else, it looked like the whole ordeal had become too much for Bruce, like he had to go outside to think, to not feel like a helpless creature that was stuck inside his high-rise apartment.
To two people however, it was clear what was going to happen.
It was clear that, whoever exited the underground garage next wouldn’t be a young heir, pained by the disappearance of his love. The one who exited the garage would be the kidnappers biggest nightmare.
It took Bruce the whole night and the first few hours of daylight to get some information about your whereabouts.
Gordon had also activated the signal, meaning that the police had just as much trouble in finding you as he had encountered through the night.
Bruce had gone through any kind of criminal that could be affiliated with a crime lord who wanted control of the media.
He was covered in grime and blood, remnants of the fights he had endured and would continue to endure until he knew where you were. He didn’t even know whose blood was on his hands anymore. It was a mixture of his and probably 20 other men’s blood. His knuckles were split open under his gloves. His chest hurt from all the punches he had endured and his head felt like it might split open any second from all the bullets that bounced off his helmet.
But he finally got a location. It was on the outskirts of the city. An abandoned building that once was a printing house. The irony wasn’t lost on Bruce.
Gordon had ordered him to wait for the police force to get there, so that there was back-up and some sort of official authority, but Bruce felt like he might jump out of his skin the longer he waited.
So he went in on his own. He’d deal with the ramifications later.
The building was dark and quiet. A musty scent clung to the air. A mix of gunpowder and cigarette smoke.
Bruce’s senses were dialed to the max and though exhaustion was settling in his bones, the idea that you were somewhere in this building reinvigorated him.
The thought that he’d sleep for a whole week in his own bed, your soft skin against his once again made him push through the one of the hardest nights of his life.
Bruce was no longer alone in the building though.
A man shot out from the shadows, a gun that was pointed at him.
Bruce heard the click of the safety switch being switched off, followed by the loud clatter of gunshots and bullets that were bouncing off his suit. Bruce quickly kicked the feet from under the man’s body, not caring how much he hurt the captors that kidnapped you.
A few other men reacted to the sounds of guns going off, and soon enough there was a group of men crowding around Bruce, hitting him everywhere.
He felt as if he was losing the fight. There were just too many men and guns attacking him all at once.
Bruce fell down on his knees. His whole body hurt and searching for you had exhausted him to no end.
The men continued pouncing on him and he felt the integrity of his suit wearing down with every bullet that hit it.
Bruce was so close. He was so close to finding you again. To getting you out of this hellhole and back into the safety of his home. His home that hadn’t felt like a home since his parents passed, but ever since you stayed over it was more a home than ever before.
He was now totally knocked on the ground, he was losing a fight for the very first time he started as the Batman. He was losing the one fight he wasn’t supposed to lose. The fight that would ensure your safe return.
So Bruce did what any sane person would do. He thought of you. He thought of the simpler times. The times were it was just you and him. The times where you went to sleep smiling at him and where you woke up a few hours later, a smile still present. He thought of how beautiful you looked when he first met you. He thought about the first time you dragged him to a gala he didn’t want to go to, yet you were the last to leave the party, just because you were both glued to the dance floor. He thought of you.
It was thinking of you, thinking of all those memories that made him realize how many more memories you could still make in the future. Of how many more stupid gala’s he’d go to just because you asked him. Or how many more times he’d see you smile. It was all those things combined that seemed to give him an extra shot of adrenaline. A boost that made him stand up again.
The group of men didn’t know what he had in store for them.
After fighting them off for another 45 minutes, he was finally able to knock them all out.
Bodies were spread over the whole first floor and he didn’t hear anyone else approaching.
His whole body ached, but he ignored the burning in every limb and ran to the stairs.
Apparently they had hidden you in the basement.
The basement was possibly even darker than the upper floor of the building. It was quiet too, aside from the squeaking of a few rats in the distance.
Was luck finally on his side? Were there no more guys that he needed to defeat to get to you?
It really felt like luck as the next thing he heard was a soft muffled whimper, a few feet in front of him.
“I’m here, I got you, I’m here,” he repeated as he saw your frame hunched over in the corner. Your mouth was taped shut and a tight rope shackled you to a pillar in the musty basement. There was some blood on your hands, but aside from that, you looked physically as okay as you could. Bruce couldn’t spot any other injuries, so he deducted that you’d probably tried to fight your way out.
It still caused Bruce to want to let loose all the rage that was coursing through his veins.
But when he saw the look in your eyes. That glassy look where your eyes are filling with tears, all that rage was packed up and stored somewhere in the back of his mind.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he softly pulled the tape from your mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, it’s okay,” you whispered back hoarsely, your voice still hurting from screaming your lungs out. “They’re after my father, not you B.”
“I-I still should’ve protected you,” he breathed out, eyes focussed on untying the rope. Bruce was struggling, his fingers wouldn’t cooperate and seeing the loving look in your eyes made everything hurt even more. “I protect the city but can’t protect the one thing that’s worth more to me than anything I’ve ever loved.”
At this point, Bruce didn’t even care anymore who heard him confessing his love for you. He’d gladly give up the anonymity to save you.
“Oh, my love,” you said, your hands finally free. You placed your palms against his face, the cool leather of his mask in stark contrast to his skin that felt feverish. “You couldn’t have done anything more, but yet, you found me.”
Bruce felt like he was stuck. He had knocked out all the kidnappers, anyone who was involved with hurting and abducting you. The only thing he could do now, as the Batman, was to get you to the safety of the police. How he wished he could just drive off and take care of you himself in the safety of his apartment. Of his home that was a now again a home.
His conflicted nature quickly was overtaken by the need to make sure you would be physically and mentally okay.
“I’m going to lift you up,” he said. His voice still had a pained edge. He was afraid of hurting you, even though his body was on the edge of breaking down. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
You could only nod.
The shock finally started to register. It started somewhere deep in your bones, an ache that could only be explained by the horrible way you had been treated the last 36 hours. The ache travelled from your bones into your veins. It was transported through your veins, just like the blood platelets and nutrients and entered your heart in less than a minute.
You couldn’t stop the sobs that left your throat. Somewhere deep down you knew you were safe, safe in the arms of the man you loved most, but the reptile part of your brain just now realized what horrors you had been through.
“I’m so sorry,” Bruce repeated again. It seemed like the only thing he could say. His vocabulary had been exhausted as was he after running himself ragged around the city in search of you.
Bruce had carefully lifted you in his arms. He could feel the shivers that were running through you, the sobs that made your whole body violently shake. He heard your lungs struggling to pull oxygen from the air, the air that was feeling thinner for him too, the effects of your distress taking a toll on him.
When he finally got you out of that wretched basement, the night had reached its darkest time in Gotham City. Instead of the white moonlight shining down on him, there was now the red-blue flickering of approaching police cars painting the walls.
Gordon stepped out of the first car, his face immediately contorting from a pained look to a more relieved one. “You got her out.”
Bruce held on to your body, refusing to let you go. You were safe in his arms, and he didn’t think he could ever let you go again.
The ambulance pulled up just a few seconds after, parking right in front of him. The doctor and paramedics tried to pry you out of his grasp, but he insisted on carefully placing you in the ambulance himself.
“Be careful,” he quietly said as he put you on the stretcher and the paramedics got to work.
You looked so small all of a sudden. Usually your confidence almost made you look like a giant goddess, but now you looked like a small little animal, hurt in a trap that some evil entity had placed.
Your eyes were still locked onto his, even when the paramedics shone a light in them to check for brain injuries.
“We’re gonna take you to the hospital for some extra testing, but physically you look okay,” one of the paramedics told you. You nodded and a sad smile overtook your face as you looked at Bruce.
The man who saved you looked a little broken. His black eye-make up had faded a bit due to the tears and the sweat, but you still recognized his vibrant eyes. The eyes that always looked at you with so much love. A love that burned brighter than the biggest star in the universe.
“Thank you,” you told him before the doors closed and the ambulance drove off. He still saw your tear-stricken face through the little windows. For the outside world, it seemed like just like you were grateful for your saviour, but Bruce knew it was so much more than that.
Gordon quickly asked for a debrief, but once the detective had all information he needed, Bruce speeded off towards his workshop.
The Batsuit was quickly stripped off and replaced by a pair of normal pants and a jumper. The only thing he wanted, was to see you again, surrounded by the best doctors of Gotham City.
Bruce remembered the day you found out he was the nut job running around Gotham city in a suit with a cape. You’d been pissed, unable to understand why he chose to put his life in danger to save others. But then after arguing for a bit, you also realized he tried to protect those the city wanted to harm. The same city that murdered his parents.
He needed to find a way to protect you from this city. He couldn’t let the same fate be bestowed on you, the fate that took his parents. He needed to do more. He couldn’t let the most important person in his life get hurt again.
Bruce was glad he had this dark alter ego. Because without him, you would never have been saved.
You were laying in between his sheets, not a trace of blood or a hint of distress to be spotted on your face. Bruce felt compelled to stay in your vicinity, even though you had been out of the hospital for a week already.
You were still fast asleep, soft snores leaving your lips as the sun finally revealed itself to the city again. The sunlight was filtering through his windows and straight onto your frame. Bruce couldn’t think of another word than ethereal.
The trauma of being taken had translated itself into exhaustion, meaning you slept almost 12 hours every night. Alfred and the maid were also at your beck and call, just like Bruce when he wasn’t out during the night. Your father had been remark fully absent.
Though he was tired from being out all night, the sight of you felt like a shot of pure adrenaline, reawakening him. Bruce couldn’t imagine spending his days any other way.
“Hi you,” you whispered, pulling him away from his daydreams. You hand came up to cup his cheek. You had loved Bruce for so long, you couldn’t imagine waking up without him present anymore.
“Hi,” he whispered back, a rare smile present on his face. His smiles were rare, but when he was in your presence, he couldn’t wipe them off. “How are you feeling?”
“In need of coffee,” you grinned. The few bruises you did have were fading. The one on your neck had almost completely disappeared. The more the bruises faded, the less Bruce was reminded of the horrific event.
“I’ll get the maid to bring some, you stay here,” he said, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead.
Bruce wanted to stand up, but you gripped his wrist, a silly smile plastered on your face. “Please stay just a bit B, let’s enjoy this morning together.”
And how could he resist you? How could he resist the love of his life? The one who made him feel more like himself, day after day?
Bruce crawled under the comforter and once again wrapped himself around you, his limbs tangling with yours. God, how he longed to touch you after a night out.
“You know,” he started, fixating on how your fingers perfectly fit between his. “Without you, I don’t think Bruce would still exist.”
And though most people would look at him as if he grew a second head, it all made sense to you.
You knew how much the murder of his parents changed him. How much Bruce retreated into a shell and how it fundamentally changed his core. So much so that he had this primal need to mask up and fight for this city to get safer.
“I’m glad you’re still in there somewhere,” you whispered back, caressing the side of his face and swiping away the dark hair that hid his beautiful eyes. “Because without Bruce, I wouldn’t be here either.”
Bruce shook his head lightly, disagreeing with your statement, but not wanting you to remove your warm hands from his face. “No, no, you’ve always been stronger, you have always been a guiding light for me.”
“Oh Bruce,” you said, looking at the man who had risked his own life just to save yours. “I’ve said it time and time again, but I love you.”
You tilted your head closer to his so your foreheads touched, a gesture that started when you were just teenagers, too anxious to try anything else.
“I’ll love you forever,” he whispered back, still unbelieving of how he had gotten you back after his nightmare turned reality. “I’m never letting you go again.”
You tilted your head a bit forward, just so your lips could touch his in a deliciously soft kiss.
The kiss was interrupted by a knock on the door, and the maid entered with two to-go cups on a silver platter. Talk about service.
“Got you some coffee from Roberto’s miss,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes as she was so happy to see you back again. “Roberto sends you his regards.”
Bruce took ahold of both of the cups as you thanked her. Both Alfred and her had been so careful and helpful, even more so since your return.
She left the room again and Bruce handed you your cup. Roberto had written a small welcome back message, missing your weekly visits but totally understanding that you needed some time.
“Happy?” Bruce asked.
“Couldn’t be happier,” you replied, biting your lip as you leaned in again for another kiss.
I won't drown, Batman - Bruce Wayne
Summary: After a hard and tiring day, Bruce finds you taking a relaxing bath.
Warnings: No Spoilers! Sleepy and exhausted Bruce. Mentions of being naked in front of your significant other, and showering together (very brief).
It has become a routine. Every Friday, to end your week on a good note, you try to relax as much as you can. You do a little bit of everything that you enjoy doing throughout your day. A little bit of reading here and a little baking over there. Anything, really, to get your mood at its highest before the weekend even starts.
Sadly, you don't happen to have much time to spend with your boyfriend these days since Fridays tend to be harder for Bruce. It's where the nights are the busiest. No one wants to go home right after their week's worth of work is done. And a little bit of alcohol later, a group of assholes can become the absolute shitholes of the city.
And, Bruce also doesn't really have an exact time where he gets back to the tower. There are nights where he might come home hours earlier than usual but stay at the cave for the rest of the night, or, sometimes, he might just come up the elevator after the sun rises. Nobody really knows when he's going to be back.
You began to wait for him awake around the time your relationship became more serious, but that only really left you with a really messed up sleep schedule.
And, that might be the reason why you're taking a bath at 2:30 in the morning.
The warm water around you surrounds your body in the coziest of embraces as the foam above the surface hides your body in its entirety from your own eyes. The soft and not-to-fragrant smell of your favorite candle reaches your nose even when it burns away at the top of the counter.
There's no way to be more relaxed than this. Your eyes are closed and you have just your shoulders and face out of the water. The bathroom is naturally warm and your breathing is calm.
But that’s when you hear the soft noise of footsteps in the hallway above all the silence.
It could truly be anyone that shares the ceiling of the tower with you and Bruce, but you highly doubt that either Alfred or Dory would be awake at this time and not trying to walk on their tippy-toes.
Only one person doesn’t care enough to not lift off their heavy boots off the floor when walking.
The absence of noise of the steps just by your bedroom, reassures you more of your assumption, as the room is one that just so happens to have carpeted floors, and who else would get themselves inside it?
There's a soft knock on the door of the bathroom and with a small grin stretched over your lips, you open an eye only to check to see the door slowly opening.
A messy head of dark hair appears before the familiar tall and broad figure of Bruce's body does. His eyes are on the ground but his head is still held high.
You can tell, as he tries to re-close the door and not make too much noise, that his face doesn't have that much of the usual dark paint around his eyes. He must have already washed his face before making his way up.
You open your eyes fully at the same time the door clicks closed. Bruce leans back tiredly to the door for a second, hand behind his back as he holds the doorknob, and then finally leans back forward and starts making his way to you.
His eyes lift from the ground finally and he watches you for a bit. Your head still leaning back on the white porcelain bathtub and gracefully resting under the bubbles of your beloved Friday-late-night bath. You don't look in any way alarmed, already very much used to the way he intrudes himself into your relaxing moments in seek of his own.
Even though he tries to hide it, you notice Bruce favoriting his right side over his left while he walks. You don't say anything, though, not yet at least.
He comes closer to the tub and then he stops a simple step away, to your left. You hide your smile as he, in his still fitted and dark clothing, slowly crouches down to your height in the tub and sits right by you.
"You don't want to get in?" You ask him in a whisper.
He shakes his head. His eyes feel heavy but his body is tense and it aches with every movement that he does. The side of the tub is pretty high so it’s easily comfortable for Bruce to rest his arms over it.
As he holds onto it, his eyes come back, right after he stared at the floor for a little bit.
"You're back early." You tell him, keeping your voice soft but now above a whisper.
"I got too tired." He answers you, and a small smile creases your lips. It's rare to hear Bruce ever admit that, and it never seems to not surprise you when he does it.
Bruce can feel the heat of the water slowly come up and touch his forearms, and he stays silent for a little bit. Enjoying the calmness that surrounds him.
He has a crease over his forehead as he seems to think about something, and you watch him as he squints since his eyes looked too close to a harsher light of the bathroom. He highly regrets looking and for that, he brings his eyes back to you all over again.
You move a bit closer to him, making the warm water around you move and collide slightly over the sides, and you turn your head a bit to the side to look at him better. He stares back at you with ease.
You can totally see a bit of paint still at some spots of his face, and you bring your hand up from under the water.
Bruce watches as your hand appears in front of him and your wet fingers smooth over his face. Just by the side of his head, close to his hairline, you scrub softly and the paint comes off effortlessly.
You bring your hand back to the water and scrub away the paint from your own fingers.
"Are you hurt anywhere?" You ask, this time, in a whisper.
You nod at him and Bruce quietly studies every inch of your face. He has his arms folded as one hand rests over the other. You look away from your hands, just in time to watch him lay his head over his arms.
His hair, which was already freely cascading down his head, falls over from the top and left side of his head towards the water, and its tips gently touch the bubbles.
You bring your hand up again and try and get the rest of the paint from this side of his face.
When done and with your hand is clean again, you notice how tense his shoulders still look under the fitted shirt. He is now sitting on his knees, much closer to you, and his eyes blink from time to time, possibly dry and tired from all the hours he's been awake.
Your hand lays over his head and your warm and wet fingers work through the messy strands of hair. As your nails softly touch his scalp, you watch as Bruce fights to keep his eyes open.
Your soft digits caress over his forehead and smooth down the skin over his eyebrow, and slowly down to his cheek. Right as your hand lays over the side of his face entirely, you notice how Bruce closes his eyes.
As you pull your hand away, his eyes reopen from this rather long blink and his eyes stare back into yours. You move a bit and lean your head down over his arms as well, just by his right arm while he lays over his left.
You stare back at each other for a little bit and then your hand comes back to the top of his head, working tenderly over his scalp. Bruce closes his eyes and feels his body finally relax as pain doesn't reach him at every shift of his limbs.
"You need to go to bed, Bruce." You whisper to him while snuggling your cheek closer to his arm.
He doesn't answer, but he does reopen his eyes. He stays still for a good few seconds.
"Don't make me have to carry you there." You playfully add.
A soft curve of his lips appears and your heart swells at the sight of a familiar sleepy face. He lifts his head and leans down, closer to you. He lays a simple kiss over your lips, one not too long. When he pulls away, your hand comes down to his cheek as he stares down at you.
"I can wait for you until you're done." He tells you, voice low and soft.
"There's no need."
He doesn't move nor say anything back.
"I won't drown, Batman." You tease him, "You can go sleep."
You lift your head from his arm and take your hand off his cheek. You sit straight as he looks back at you, giving a look over at the shower just a few steps away from you. He still has to shower before going to bed. Even if the night wasn't the busiest, Bruce really didn't want to go to sleep while still smelling like all the smoke and usual smells from Gotham's streets.
His body feels so tired and heavy that he struggles a bit to force himself to even get back into a crouch and stand back up.
"I got to shower, first." He tells you simply.
After you give him a short answer in return, he drags his boots slightly over the tile of the bathroom and walks up to the shower to turn on the water.
It doesn't take him long to get undressed or get into the shower. You, using the foam as a random excuse to get into the spraying water as well, hop out of your tub. You know you wouldn't enjoy the rest of the bath as much now that you finally got his company, so, you unplug the tub and go into the shower.
The shower is quick and not really where you two shared many words. And, after that, it took you almost no time to get Bruce to walk back to the bedroom, and even as he was half dry, yet tired enough, he got himself into the covers with no hesitation.
You joined him not too long after.
As both of you lay on the bed, the silence sets comfortably over you. Bruce stares, as he always does, while you seem to feel tired just by laying on the comfortable bed. His eyelids are heavy and his bruised body is hurtful as he lays on his side and has his arm under your pillow. You face each other as sleep gets the best of the two of you by the second.
Right as your eyes are about to close for a final time for the night, you feel a pair of soft lips press a small kiss over your forehead. Bruce pulls away and lays his head back on his pillow, watching you slowly fall asleep. You snuggle your face closer to his chest and his vacant arm lays over your back, caressing it with his palm.
Your breathing softens and so does Bruce's, as both of you fall peacefully asleep.
I'm not leaving any character soak in their dirtiness, so, yes, I made Bruce take a shower over a bath.
Hope you enjoyed this!! I didn't have much time to correct it, so I hope it's not too bad!